We watch the band play for the next hour. She finishes one glass of wine but turns down the waitress’s offer for a second glass. The dead wife topic always leads to nowhere. It’s the ultimate conversation killer. Tonight is no exception.
“Let’s go.” She slides out of the booth.
I toss cash onto the table and follow her out the door, feeling guilty for the lack of any conversation over the past hour. “I’m sorry for not saying much—”
She whips around and grabs the lapels to my jacket, pulling me around the corner to the alley. She kisses me. Her hands take mine, and she guides them to her waist. “Touch me,” she whispers over my mouth.
“Where?” I take a step forward until her back presses to the side of the brick building.
“Anywhere …” Her breath is labored and desperate as she licks and sucks the skin between my ear and the collar of my jacket. “Everywhere … just … touch me.” The pain in her voice bleeds all around us as if she’s dying and my hands are the only thing that can save her.
I touch her everywhere, making her moan into my mouth, making her clench my arms to stay upright, making her beg, making her fall apart under my touch—in a dark alley just after midnight. Anyone who could see us would think we were simply making out. Her coat hides my hand up her sweater and the other down the front of her jeans.
“Jesus, Flint …” My name rips from her chest as she tugs my tie to bring my mouth to hers. She hums like I’m the most delectable thing she’s ever tasted. Her hips jerk and circle as I rub her off.
She sucks in a sharp breath, holds it, and releases it in small staccatos while my fingers slow down with her release. Her eyes blink open, searching my face. “Thank you,” she whispers, resting her forehead against my shoulder as I zip and button her jeans before we draw attention to us.
I kiss the top of her head. “Let’s go.” She hugs my arm as I lead her to my car and open the door like the gentleman I’m clearly not after what I just did to her in the alley—what she asked me to do to her. Why? I’m not sure.
She drifts off to sleep on the way to her apartment. I try to figure out what just happened and what comes next.
“Ellen? We’re here. Do you need me to carry you up?”
She stirs and rubs her eyes. “What? No.” She shakes her head. “I’m good. Let me just get my keys out.”
I go around and open her door.
“Thank you,” she says in a sleepy voice.
“I’ll walk you up to your door.”
“Okay.”
I follow her to the second floor and the door at the very end of the hallway. “This is me.” She unlocks the door but doesn’t open it. It’s the first time I’ve sensed actual nerves on her part. “Do you want to come in for …”
“No. I should get home.”
Her shoulders sag with what looks like relief. I don’t know what to take from that. And it’s too late for my brain to make a good attempt at figuring her out.
Looking at her watch, she sighs. “It’s late. Thank you for the call. It was definitely … unexpected.”
“Unexpected,” I echo her. The word feels hollow and misplaced at the moment. Unplanned? Regrettable? I don’t know how I feel.
“Goodnight.” A small smile makes an attempt to stick to her face.
“Goodnight.” Before I can even think about kissing her again, she cracks open her door, slides inside, and shuts it behind her.
When I hear her locks click, I take my blue balls, eternal erection, and completely fucked-up mind home for a cold shower and some much needed sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ellen
Thoughts of an impending eviction notice, no Plan B, and talented fingers giving me an alley orgasm bring me out of a restless sleep at four o’clock Sunday morning. Instead of wallowing around in bed, fighting sleep that I know will elude me for the rest of the day, I slip on old clothes and clean my apartment with The London Philharmonic Orchestra’s “50 Greatest Pieces of Classical Music” floating through the air.
Two hours later I have nothing left to clean, but my mind still won’t submit to sleep, so I power walk to my favorite coffee and bagel shop. Armed with caffeine and carbs, I head home to shower and look online for a new office space.
“It’s not even seven. Your caffeine addiction must be worse than mine.” Just as I reach for the door to my apartment building, Flint’s uncharacteristically cheery voice calls from behind me.
I turn, not expecting or wanting to see anyone I know when I’m in desperate need of a shower. I have the hood to my sweatshirt pulled over my head.
“Hey …” I smile. “I’m incognito. How did you recognize me?”
“Ass and legs. They’re unmistakable.”
“Pervert.”
“Sometimes.” He saunters toward me holding two hot cups, no suit this morning, just jeans and a sweater.
“Did your parents give you permission to sneak out this morning? Or did you not go home? Was I not your only female companion last night?”
“Jealous?” His head cocks to the side.
“Nope.” I open the door and head toward the stairs. “I risk feeding your ego by saying this, but you’re what some women might call sex on a stick. As you know, I call you Sex in a Suit, but anyway, it would be a shame not to share you, so I hope whoever came after me enjoyed you as much as I did.”
“I feel cheap.”
I unlock my door and open it up to my clean apartment. “No.” Shooting him a flirty look over my shoulder, I walk down my entry hall. “I’ve seen your suits, your car, and your house, Mr. Hopkins. You’re far from cheap.”
His gaze lands on the bucket of cleaning supplies by the door to the deck. “You cleaned up for me. It’s like you knew I was coming.”
I set my coffee on the kitchen counter and fish my bagel from its bag. “Ha! No … you are quite the surprise this morning.”
He removes the lid to his coffee cup, smirking while bringing it to his mouth. He sips it while keeping his eyes on me.
“Did you stop by just to bring me coffee? Early morning bootie call? Or to remind me that I need to find a new place to rent?”
Flint’s smile fades as his eyes divert to everywhere in the room but me. “It’s not person—”
“I know, I know … it’s business, not personal.”
“Would you let me finish?” He gives me a stern look.
I blow out a slow breath and nod.
“I know you’re pissed off that I didn’t fully understand your job before signing our rental agreement, but the truth is I can’t focus on my job when you’re banging on drums and singing all afternoon. It’s not personal. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be vindictive. When we met, I liked you and thought you would be a good renter. And whether you choose to believe it or not, I do need to concentrate to do my job properly.”
I weigh his words, but they don’t solve my problem. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
His chin dips as he shakes his head.
“Sex? You can say it. I won’t judge you. Let me take a quick shower and we’ll have sex.”