Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills
Chapter 5
ELENA
I look around the room, a penthouse on the top floor inside the Breton Hotel, a posh place near the restaurant. I glance over at Greg, who’s at the minibar, making us drinks. I don’t need another drink, obviously, because I’ve had enough already, and I’m buzzing, and What the hell am I doing?
I was ready to cut the date off early because he grew quiet on me, and I knew I was rambling too much about exotic pigs, stray cats, and Preston. Jeez. I need a dating class.
But was it ever worth it to walk out of Milano’s on his arm, with Preston and Giselle gaping at me. Greg tossed his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close to him as we waltzed past them. Then he phoned a town car he said he had on call and whisked us over to the hotel.
The ride over was quiet. He kept darting me little glances, his eyes on my face, but when I’d look back, he’d drop his eyes and stare straight ahead. He looked as if he wanted to say something, and I chalked it up to him being as nervous as I was.
We walked inside the lobby, and he whispered for me to ignore anyone I might see. There wasn’t anyone around, except for the security guard who stood sentinel outside the double doors of the penthouse the elevator took us to on the twentieth floor.
His back is to me, and my gaze eats up those impossibly broad shoulders, the way his mahogany-colored hair has highlights, as if he spends a lot of time outdoors. He’s wearing expensive gray slacks that have to be tailor made, the fabric clinging to his powerful thighs, tapering down to a narrow leg opening.
He slides around the bar, adding tonic to my gin, the movement lithe and precise, like a tiger in the jungle. Greg may walk and talk like a man, but he’s pure animal underneath.
I lick my lips, one side of me ready to bolt, but the other side has had a slow flame burning inside my body since the moment he stood up to Preston, using that low husky voice of his—
He turns, and I start.
He walks—no, stalks—toward me.
You don’t even know him and . . .
I need this,I counter. Plus, he’s Topher Approved. I’ve been sitting on my butt at home for months, and I need something, just something, to knock me out of this funk and get me on with my life.
You are only confined by the rules you set for yourself. Live your life,Nana says in my head. She told me that when I dropped the bomb on my family that I wasn’t going to medical school. She wanted me to be true to myself. I think she would have approved of the weatherman.
He hands me my drink and takes a sip of his, his eyes at half mast, a hint of wildness there. I suck down my G and T, holding his gaze. I want to be wild. I want to be wild with him.
No you don’t,the rational side of me counters.
“Is this where you live?” I set my glass down on the table. Dumb question, Elena.
He pauses for a moment. “I own an apartment nearby, but the penthouse is close to work.”
A restaurant and two residences? Greg is wealthy.
“I see.”
I eye the king-size bed in a bedroom I can see down the hall, the opulent white down comforter, the millions of fluffy pillows. I’ve been with two men in my life. One was Tad, my college sweetheart, who moved to Silicon Valley after graduation. He didn’t ask me to move with him—he needed to get a foothold on his new job and find a place to live—and I didn’t press him. We parted ways with promises of keeping in touch and flying out to see each other, but for some reason, neither of us ever did. We had a benign, comfortable relationship, and after a few months of him being gone, I found that I hardly thought of him at all. About a year ago, I looked him up online and saw that he’d recently gotten married. Then came Preston, and look how that turned out. Men keep leaving me, and I wonder if it’s something missing in me.
“You look nervous, Elena. Don’t be.”
Right. That’s like telling my pet pig to not eat cucumbers.
“If you’d rather me call you a car to take you home, I will. I just thought you and I . . . we seem to . . . have . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s not quite sure what to say.
“No, I want to be here.”
“Good.” We look at each other for several moments, and I fidget, moving from one foot to the next.
He comes closer, setting his glass down on the end table where mine is. “May I take down your hair?” His voice is hesitant, and it comforts me to think that he really is nervous.
“Okay.”
He tugs at the upswept hair I carefully arranged before work this morning.
He sighs when it’s down, running his hands through the long strands as they fall to the middle of my back. My hair is my treasure, long and thick and lustrous, a coppery color with gold highlights. Topher is always telling me to wear it down, that it’s my best attribute, but it’s easier up or pulled back with a headband.
“Beautiful. I didn’t realize it was so long,” he murmurs.
His hand massages my scalp in a way that makes me step closer to him, my body loose and melting under the intensity of his golden eyes.
“I need you to sign some papers. Are you okay with that?”
Papers?
I blink.
His thumb tugs at my bottom lip, brushing against it softly like he did at Milano’s. “It’s just basic stuff about confidentiality, an NDA form. Because of who I am and what my ex did, I don’t take any chances. Cool?”
“You aren’t that big of a deal.”
He stills and takes a step back from me, and I immediately want him back.
“Elena, there’s something I should tell you . . .” He rubs at his face. “Shit.”
He’s wavering.
I exhale. Preston’s taking Giselle home, and even though he’ll be in his full set of pajamas and smelly socks, I’ll be the one alone tonight.
“Are you married?” I ask.
“No!”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Serial killer?”
“No, but would I admit that if I was?” He smirks.
“Do you have an STD?”
He scoffs. “Hell no. I just got my physical. Plus, I never have unprotected sex.”
Then why does he look so conflicted? Maybe it’s me. I’m not his usual.
“Then we’re good. This is what it is, right? Just sex between two lonely people.”
He releases a sigh and gives me a lingering glance. “You should never be lonely, Elena.”
My entire body softens at the sincerity—and heat—in his voice. I like his growly tone. Masculine and nothing like Preston’s. He takes my glasses off, and I stare at his lips. They’re insanely lush, full, and totally bitable, a deep indentation on the bottom. No man should have such a wicked mouth.
“Which is why we’re going to do this,” I murmur.
He seems to come to a decision and guides me to a huge modern kitchen, where he pulls a few pieces of paper out of a drawer and lays them down on the white marble countertop.
I do my best to focus on the papers, but it’s difficult when he moves behind me, his body pressed against mine as he lifts my hair to the side and brushes his lips lightly over the sensitive skin on the back of my neck.
Fire licks at me, rising higher and higher, from the brief contact. We haven’t even kissed for real yet, and I’m already incinerating from the outside in.
With a shuddering inhale, I give the papers a cursory look. A nondisclosure agreement. Gross. I’m a trustworthy person. I’d never share my dalliances with anyone. Good grief, I have my own secrets to keep! Hello, sexy lingerie.
His hands are undoing the clasp on my pearls, the soft graze of his hands against my skin making my legs weak.
“Hurry up, Elena.”
The soft words shoot straight to my core, heat pooling as I shiver. I grab the pen and scribble in a name and address.
I turn to face him, chewing on my lip. “All done.”
He wears that wild look in his eyes again when I face him, his chest rising rapidly as he takes me in from head to toe. I don’t know what he sees except that my hair spills around my shoulders, and I’m pretty sure my nipples stand at attention.
I put my hand on his chest. “First, tell me three things about you.”
His fingers unbutton the top button of my shirt. “Let me see. My middle name is Eugene, and coupled with the fact that I didn’t hit my growth spurt until sixteen, it got me beat up a lot in middle school.” He undoes the second button. “Secondly, I’m absolutely terrified of water. You’ll never see me swimming or on a beach vacation.”
He’s so athletic looking. “Why?” I breathe as he goes for the next pearl button.
He puts his face in my neck, inhaling. His lips brush at my ear. “Not telling you. Fuck, you smell good. What kind of perfume is that?”
I let out a ragged breath. Something Topher gave me. “I can’t recall, and third?”
He fingers the last button on my shirt, not quite undoing it. “You really need to know?”
I nod, my body tingling when his hand pulls at my hair, the hold making me arch my neck up. It’s a little commanding and sharp, that motion, but it only sends sizzles of electricity down my spine.
“I like my sex hard and dirty. Does that scare you?”
“As long as you don’t pull out the handcuffs.” I must be drunk because I might not mind those one little bit.
He kisses my collarbone. Barely. “And you didn’t ask for a fourth, but the truth is I may have to jack off in the bathroom before I fuck you, Elena.”
A long breath comes out of me. “Greg . . .”
He winces and drops his hands. “Don’t call me Greg.”
“Okay, Eugene.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Tell me about you.”
“My middle name is Michelle.”
He gives me a long look, his eyes darkening as I undo the last button on my shirt, picking up where he left off. I’m doing this. And the freedom of it, knowing that this man wants me, makes me bold.
“Tell me more,” he murmurs, eyes low, watching me like a wolf might watch its prey.
“I love books—the smell of them, the weight of them in my hands. Before I was a librarian, I used to edit romance books in New York.”
He holds my gaze, his mouth deliciously close to mine. “Nice. What else?”
“When I’m nervous, I spell words.” I blush.
“I make you nervous. Filing that away. What else?” he growls.
“I’ve never had an orgasm with a man.”
His eyes go to half mast. “Sweet Elena, I’m gonna take care of that first thing.”
A long exhalation leaves my chest, part exhilaration, part excitement that licks over me at the way he’s looking at me, as if he’s going to devour me bit by bit. That feeling of confidence roars. With a skilled motion, he slides my blouse off, and it falls to the floor.
He swallows, his throat bobbing as his eyes burn over every inch of me. He takes a step back, his eyes hot flames.
I might be a librarian, but my lingerie screams sex kitten.
I unzip my skirt and step out of it, kicking it to the side. It lands near the kitchen table.
And I know exactly what he sees—a three-piece pink sequin set, a bra and panties with garters featuring handmade Italian lace on the straps.
His chest rises. “Fuck me.”
Oh, I will.
I cup my full C cups, sliding my hands over the material, showing him how the sequins change from pink to silver. “There are little unicorns on my breasts when you move the fabric.” I drift my fingers over the waistband of the panties, feeling brave, oh so brave, by what I see on his face. I touch the top of my mound. “And here, when I move the sequins”—I slide the fabric resting on my small bundle of nerves—“is a little heart.” It’s funny how easy this is with him when I was never able to model for Preston any of my designs. He took one look at the mannequins and dress forms in my sewing room and left the room, chagrined, his face livid. He yelled at me and said I was going to ruin my entire family with my proclivities. I should have seen then that we weren’t the same. That he wasn’t the one.
Because the one is supposed to get you, accept you.
But the man in front of me is not looking at me with distaste at all. He rubs at the scruff on his jawline, a flush on his cheekbones. “Elena, you are not what I expected. Or maybe you are. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Can’t really think straight right now.”
I dance my fingers down to my thighs, to the scraps of lace there, unsnapping the clasp and letting the garter fall.
“More,” he pushes out, palming his slacks.
I unclasp the tiny triangle bra, twirl it for a moment before letting it fall from my fingers and drift to the kitchen tile.
He bites his lip, eyes skating over me before coming back to my face.
I shimmy, and my panties fall to the floor.
Who am I right now? Who is this crazy girl? I don’t know, but I like it.
“Elena.” He says my name with a groan and drops to his knees right there in the kitchen. His hands encircle my waist as he presses an openmouthed kiss to my hip bone, sucking and nipping at my skin as he works his way down to my apex. A finger brushes my nipple, skating from one to the other as his tongue paints me with ownership, with scalding heat and dark promises. My body ripples with desire, clenching, nerves quivering as I shudder and arch into him.
All coherent thought vanishes.
A delicious frenzy spirals inside me, wet and slick, passion wrapped in the feel of his lips and tongue. Every groan he makes, every touch of his hands, every lick is amplified, expanding into an unrestrained ache until I’m lost in this reckless universe that is me and him. He flicks his tongue and moves his fingers in a wicked way inside me, and a star explodes in a bright light somewhere overhead, drenching me with the fallout, glowing sparks and embers bursting around me. Throwing back my head, I cry out, gasping as my entire body undulates, surging and swelling, my skin reveling in this beautiful release.
Moments pass as I grapple with the aftereffects. The room spins as he sweeps me into his arms, then carries me away from the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. We don’t speak, or maybe he does, but I’m not tracking, limp and loose in his warm embrace. The wolf has caught me, and I couldn’t be happier.
I may not recognize this daring part of myself, but he is what I want right now. This moment. This bliss. This one night.
I’ll worry about tomorrow later.
