“I was at the gym.” He leans against the doorjamb, broad shoulders slouching, hands in his pockets. Those big, capable man hands were on my body.
Every inch of it, just hours ago.
I peel my eyes away, sinking them down to my notebook, embarrassed, chest and cheeks turning red.
“How was it? Was it crowded?”
“Nah, not too bad. I think I beat the rush.”
“That’s good.”
“I was surprised to find the house almost dark when I walked in.”
“I was, uh…trying to save on electricity.”
“Trying to save on electricity,” he repeats, crossing his arms, clearly entertained. “Is that so?”
“You’re lucky I didn’t hide and try to scare the crap out of you.”
Elliot smiles then, biting down on his bottom lip the way I do when I’m being coy. On him, it’s even more endearing.
“I thought we’d eat together when I got home. Aren’t you starving? It’s almost six o’clock.”
My stomach turns, but not from hunger. It’s from nerves, thousands of them crackling to life in my lower abs. I place a hand there to quell them.
“I wouldn’t get mad if you fed me.”
“I threw that lasagna Linda dropped off Tuesday in the oven while you were at class.” Elliot enters my bedroom, sitting on my bed, legs spread. Hands clasped in his lap. “Sorry I haven’t texted you all day—I left my phone in my gym bag and it fell to the bottom. Was too lazy to dig it out.”
“You don’t have to tell me where you’re at—I’m not your gatekeeper.”
I’m also not his girlfriend.
“Maybe not, but still.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound coming from the earbuds I removed earlier, the tiny speakers blasting a song so old and outdated I should be ashamed of myself.
I have terrible taste in music; all my friends tell me so.
My bed is a twin, so Elliot reclining back takes half the space, his hands patting down the area around him, patting down my white comforter, feeling it up.
He shoots me a look. “We’ll never be able to sleep in here, this bed is way too small—you realize that, right?”
I lean forward so our noses touch. “Are you scoping out my bedroom, St. Charles?”
“I’m just stating facts in case you’re entertaining the notion of me crashing in here with you.”
Entertaining the notion. I love it when he uses big words.
“Last night wasn’t about just sex—do you understand that?”
“Last night and this morning.” I laugh nervously. “But who’s keeping track?”
“Answer the question, Anabelle.”
My shoulders rise and fall. “Maybe. Just a little?”
“You’ve been sleeping in my bed for at least a week—not that anyone is keeping track,” he jokes back. “Do you think I’d make you stop because we had sex last night?”
“I have not been sleeping with you for a week!” Have I? “I like my little bed—why would I want to leave?”
“Bullshit, you do not! We’ve done nothing but eat pizza and binge on Netflix for the past seven nights.”
“Well that’s because you have the only bedroom with a TV—duh.”
His arms go around my waist, dragging me onto his lap, knocking half my crap off the bed in the process. I’m kissed soundly on the lips as highlighters, pens, and notebooks go crashing to the ground.
“You like my big TV,” he murmurs into my mouth. “Don’t lie, Donnelly.”
“I do.” I shiver. “It gets me all excited just thinking about it.”
“I’ll be honest. I thought about TV all goddamn day.” His hand is making slow circles along my spine and he pats my rear.
“Really…did you now? TV with anyone in particular?”
“Wait, we are still talking about actually watching television, aren’t we?” Elliot laughs, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek, scooting me off his lap so he can stand. Stretch. “I’m going to take a shower—I stink.”
“Wow, sexy. If you’re lucky, I’ll even be here when you get back.”
“You’re cute.”
“So are you.”
“Check the oven for me?”
“Are you cooking for me now, St. Charles?” I can already smell the pasta and Italian aromas wafting from the kitchen, my mouth watering, stomach growling.
“Sure am.”
We eat standing at the counter when he’s out of the shower, forgoing the table, lasagna on paper plates. We already dug into the pan the night Linda kindly dropped it off, so it’s half gone.
I poke at one of the noodles, folding it with my fork and shove it in my mouth, feeling self-conscious when some of it slips out and I have to grab it with my fingers to prevent it from falling on the floor. Sauce drips from my chin, fingers, and the collar of my shirt.
Shit.
Elliot catches me, a secretive smile playing at his lips; he’s a gentleman and hides it, turning his head and burying it in his shoulder.
Ugh.
Cleanup is easy; we just toss our plates, quickly draw some suds in the sink to wash the utensils, both of us dipping our hands beneath the water at the same time, grasping for the silverware to scrub them clean.
I bump his hip playfully, flirting, and he removes his hands from the sudsy water, drying them on a nearby towel, moves to stand behind me. Skims those glorious hands down to my waist, nose buried in the crook of my neck.
“I wasn’t just thinking about TV all day, I was thinking about this.” His lips find the pulse in my neck, kissing it. “About you.”
In reply, my lids slide closed, hands still submerged in the water. “You were thinking about me?”
“Of course. Going to the gym killed me—I knew you were home and I wanted to be home, too.”
I swallow. “That’s nice to hear.”
When he chuckles in my ear, it sends a delightful shot of electricity down my spine, warming my entire body with pleasure.
He has the best laugh.
The best hands.
Elliot St. Charles is one of the sexiest, smartest, and most irresistible men I’ve ever met—and he’s got me by the hips, in our kitchen, mouth exploring the long column of my throat.
“You smell good,” he croons, spooning me from behind. “I could eat you up.”
“Okay,” I say as I exhale, completely out of breath.
His hands slide up the back of my shirt, unclasping my bra, palms gliding over my ribcage, cupping my bare breasts.
Kneading them gently, thumbs stroking the undersides while his teeth nip at my neck.
It’s bliss.
Pure nirvana.
I raise my hands out of the water, wrapping them behind Elliot’s bowed neck. Bubbly fingers plowing through his thick hair while his hands rub down my boobs.
I turn my head and our lips meet. Tongues connect.
Then, I’m facing him and Elliot is hefting me up by the ass, setting me on the Formica countertop, fingers tugging at the waistband of my pants. I work the button on his jeans, frantically unsuccessful until he relieves me and finishes the task.
Anxious, I eagerly watch as he tugs down his zipper. Shoves those dark denim jeans down his lean hips, boxers shed along with them.
I lift my hips, pulling my leggings as far down as they’ll go, bare ass on the cold counter. Elliot hauls me toward the end of it. Lines up his stiff cock. Together we watch as he slips his dick into my pussy, both our heads tipping back when he’s buried to the hilt.
“Oh God.”
For a few seconds he doesn’t move, just stands there inside me, staring down at our joined bodies.
“I swear to God, Elliot, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to lose my mind.”
He pulls out.
Pushes in.
We groan in tandem.
“Say that again.”
“I swear to God, Elliot, if you don’t fuck me right now…” My breath hitches when he pumps faster, over and over, my lower half quivering. He’s the perfect height to screw me on the counter. We’re effortlessly lined up, pelvises grinding.
He grabs my hips, tugging me forward into him, thrusting in and out, my legs wrapped around his waist.
“Not so fast—slow down,” I moan. “Make it last.”
“Take your top off,” he says between pants. “I wanna see your tits.”
“You take my top off.”
We’re getting rough, and I like it.
Hard and gentle.
Fast and slow.
I’ve been on the verge of coming twice now, a third time when he lifts my shirt off, letting it fall to the floor, my nipples sensitive to the cold. Even more sensitive to his tongue sucking on them.
I plunge my fingers into his hair when our mouths finally connect, tongues twirling. We’re louder than we were in bed, the moans long and drawn out, panting, grunts guttural.
“Anabelle,” Elliot chants, kissing me. “Anabelle.”
Anabelle.
I’ll never forget the way he says my name in that moment.
Never.
“It’s probably a terrible idea for us to continue living together—we need a chaperone.”
“Should we get another roommate?”
“Fuck no.”
We’re in bed now—his bed—having cleaned up the kitchen, put away my homework, and shut off all the lights. His hand reaches for mine beneath the covers, lacing his fingers through mine.
“Elliot?”