The Kiss Plot by Nicole French

Fifteen

Zola and I meandered back down Houston and split a pastrami sandwich at Katz’s—I couldn’t resist—before he took the train back to Brooklyn. I got a cab back uptown and considered the best way to sneak back into my room, sight unseen. My rage had faded, and now I just felt full and tired. I wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower, curl up in my bed, and try to forget the other, much more comfortable bed where I had spent most of the last six months happier than I’d ever been.

That was the real loss. It wasn’t a ring on my finger or millions of dollars. It was that in the darkness with him, when I had watched the moon cast its blue light over his smooth skin, I had felt for the first time in my life that I wasn’t just a black sheep, rebel daughter, quirky friend. With him, I had found my niche, like a crooked jigsaw piece snapping into its place. I had belonged. Until he cast me out.

I entered the dark apartment with heavy feet. Eric was out, I realized with an even heavier heart. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had thrown my date-that-wasn’t-a-date in his face, and he had already been half drunk when I left. It would have been completely in character for him to finish the bottle and find someone else to temper his frustration. Probably on her knees.

I hated that I knew that’s what he would do.

Maybe Zola was right after all. Maybe I was just a pathetic, jealous ex.

“Did you have a nice time?”

“Ahhh!”

I jumped at the sudden sound of Eric’s deep voice reverberating through the darkness. I dropped my purse and whirled around. As my eyes adjusted, I spotted him in one of the Danish chairs by the big bay window. The moonlight cast his face with that bluish glow I’d just been remembering, making the tips of his blond hair appear almost metallic and the rest of him—half-clothed in nothing but his slacks from earlier—look like a carved statue.

A work of art.

I pressed my hand to my racing heart. “What are you doing here?”

Eric slouched further and toyed with something in his hand. His necklace dangled from his fingers, the streetlight reflecting off the gold coin as it twisted and turned on its chain.

“I live here,” he said acerbically.

I rolled my eyes, then hung my coat in the closet and set my clutch on the foyer table. “I know that. I just mean, what are you doing here, sitting in the dark? You look like you’re ten seconds from shoving your head in the oven.”

Eric snorted. “Don’t tempt me.”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t like the serious undercurrent in that suggestion, and suddenly I felt guilty for even joking about suicide.

“I was just sitting here thinking about our little situation,” he said, his tone almost dangerous. “Torturing myself. Coming to terms with the fact that I just might be a bit of a masochist.” He blinked, his eyes two bright, angry stars. “I always choose women I can’t have. First Penny. Now you. It’s like a sick fetish.”

I stared at him, unsure of what to make of this. Eric wasn’t usually the type for drama—that was my card.

“But,” he continued, “if I’m going to be a glutton for punishment, I might as well finish the job.”

I blinked. “What does that mean?”

Eric rose slowly from the chair and padded across the dark room. He looked a mess—rumpled hair, shadowed eyes—but an absolutely gorgeous, shirtless mess as he stalked toward me.

“I’ve been trying to make this easy on you,” he said with every careful, if slightly wobbly step. “But you are fucking determined to make it as hard as you can, aren’t you?”

“You asked for this,” I replied, taking a step back. “I would have just walked away.”

Eric tipped his head back, causing a few rumpled blond locks to fall back, and emitted a harsh laugh at the ceiling. “I suppose that’s what you’re good at, right? Just walking away?”

My rage returned. “I’m sorry, but I was the one who was jilted at the altar, asshole. Not you.”

Eric’s head jerked upright like it was attached to a rubber band. “You will never understand what that cost me, Jane. What you cost me.”

“You’re right. Not if you don’t tell me.”

He stared at me for a long time, quivering a bit, whether from anger or drink, I couldn’t tell.

“Do you have any idea what I went through when I was…gone?” he growled. “For you? Do you?”

I stilled. This was the first time he’d said more than a few words about what had happened to him during those ten days. Apparently, he’d had enough vodka that it turned into truth serum, but only with vague, ambivalent bullshit.

“How much?” I dared him. Tell me. Don’t tell me. Tell me something.

“They wanted me to forget about you,” he said before taking another long swig from the bottle. “And they were willing to hurt me to make sure I would. And they did. A lot.”

I remained quiet, waiting for him to tell me more. As an ADA, I had seen more evidence of physical crimes than most ever would, but the idea of someone hurting Eric made me feel sick. And violent. And furious. So much more than I felt toward him.

“It hurt so much. But not as much as knowing you were fucking some other man tonight.” His voice was like gravel, coarse and cruel. He took another step forward, caging me against the counter. “Knowing some other asshole was right where only I am supposed to be. Fucking. Killed.”

I scrambled onto a stool. Eric moved between my legs, but still didn’t touch me. He just…hovered.

Desire sliced through me. I wanted to shove him away and yank him close at the same time. Kiss him and slap him all at once. And Eric, ever the statue, didn’t move a single tensed muscle.

“Pain,” he whispered. “Pain is all I feel. Except when I’m with you. But now, that hurts too.”

One by one, my defenses fell.

“What if…what if I told you we did nothing?” I asked

Eric’s hot gaze carved a path up and down my body. “Is that the truth? Don’t lie to me.”

I nodded. “It’s the truth.”

“Did you want to?”

I wanted to say no, but my voice was frozen by the harsh hold of his eyes. Eric sucked in a breath, then brought the vodka bottle to his mouth and slowly licked around the edge before tipping it up and emptying it completely. His full lips wrapped around the thick glass, and I stared enviously at the sight of his tongue, small and pink, slipping inside the bottle. Twirling. Teasing.

Fuck.

Eric floated his other hand over my body, then reached over my shoulder and plucked a pussy willow branch from the bouquet on the counter. The soft nubs drifted over my neck, pressing just hard enough not to tickle, but light enough to elicit a trail of goose bumps. I remained silent as Eric brushed the branch over my shoulder and down my arm. Completely benign, perfectly unremarkable places. And yet, as the fronds pulled at my neckline and tickled the hollows under my jaw, I had never been more turned on.

“Eric,” I whispered, unable to move.

He just watched the progress of the soft buds as they floated down to my collarbone and back up my neck again.

“What about now?” he murmured, hypnotized by the path of the bud. “Do you want to now?”

I gulped. Then I nodded. I couldn’t lie.

His expression flashed with satisfaction.

“I can’t touch you,” he said. His eyes met mine, big and pleading, as if to say, but I wish I could.

I squirmed, both out of frustration and commiseration. I understood he was scared, even if I didn’t fully comprehend why. Just as I also understood the currents of desire flowing back and forth between us were unavoidable. Wanting this man was as natural as breathing.

Before I could stop myself, I unzipped my dress, then pulled my arms out of it, one at a time. I let the structured fabric drop, leaving me bare from the waist up.

Eric grunted and sucked on his lower lip as he looked me over. I moaned softly. I wanted to do that.

The pussy willow branch painted a path over my breasts, between their taut peaks, over their swollen nipples, through the shadow of their curves. I twisted slightly back and forth, begging wordlessly for a stronger touch, a pinch, a slap. When I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine it was his fingers, not a flower bud teasing my skin into a pebbled frenzy. I could almost pretend he was tracing kisses around the tip of one nipple, then the other.

I sucked in a breath. When I opened my eyes, Eric was biting his lip so hard the skin around his teeth had turned white. Like a magnet, his gaze met mine, and a low, guttural groan emerged from deep in his chest.

Slowly, almost like I was trying to touch a wild animal, I brought my hands up to clasp his cheeks, but he shook his head against the motion.

“We can’t,” he said. The growl was low. “You know that, Jane.”

We were inches from each other. It wouldn’t take much. All I had to do was lean forward, tap my lips to his, and he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing to stop me.

But I also knew I wouldn’t do anything without his consent, just like he’d never do anything without mine. No matter what, that was the one promise neither of us had ever broken. As mad as I was, I wouldn’t start now.

“Why?” I whispered, unable to keep the quake from my voice.

Eric’s entire body shook. “Please believe me,” he said, so quietly he almost mouthed it.

“But I can, right?”

His eyes opened again, newly sharpened. “You can…”

“Do it?”

I took the pussy willow and tossed it over my shoulder, onto the counter. Eric watched, transfixed, as I brought my hands to my breasts.

“Yesssss,” he hissed as I took each nipple between a forefinger and thumb, then pulled slightly, plucking on them like strings on a violin.

He set the empty vodka bottle on the counter. While I continued to torture myself in the way I wished to God he would, Eric unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. He reached into his boxers and pulled out his erection, which, in my expert opinion, looked painfully hard. He shuddered as he wrapped his hand around it, and his gaze quickly dropped between my legs. It was immediately evident what he wanted.

“Do it,” he whispered. “Show me, pretty girl.”

The name. That fucking name. It was so benign, so innocuous, I should have been even angrier that he used it whenever he wanted. He knew its Pavlovian effect. He knew I couldn’t say no when I heard its siren call.

Nor would I now. Because in truth, I wanted the release too. I wanted to feel someone’s touch—if not his, then mine—push my skirts up to my waist. I wanted to feel the tickle of hands on my inner thighs, the slight intrusion of a pair of fingers pulling aside my underwear.

So I did it. I peeled off my tights and underwear and let the dress fall to the floor. Then I sat back on the stool, feeling every bit the rebel and the work of art this man had always proclaimed me. I yearned for his touch, so I supplied it for myself, slipping one finger, then two over my clit while my other hand continued to pinch and pull at my breasts. I leaned back against the counter, deliciously on display as I worked on my own pleasure, entranced as much by the sight of Eric fisting his own sex in rhythm with my fingers.

“Oh!” I cried out.

But Eric paused his own ministrations—a pause that looked as painful as my own—held a finger to his mouth, and shook his head. And I knew without arguing that that was my choice. Do this silently, or not at all.

Wildly, I nodded. Yes, I understand.

His hand started to move again, this time faster. A few times, the tip of his cock just barely touched my thigh in a wet, dewy kiss of skin on skin that made Eric jerk and bite back a moan himself.

My fingers moved faster as well. I wanted this so badly, and that familiar precipice was approaching more rapidly than it ever had. My head was thrown back, eyes clenched shut as I braced myself for the fall into ecstasy. But just as I was about to topple over, another intrusion tugged me back into the present.

Something cold. Something hard. Rounded, but still blunt-edged.

I looked down to find Eric still massaging his cock, but with his other hand slipping the tapered end of the empty vodka bottle between my thighs. He held it at the end and stood between my legs.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, but made no move to stop him. Real talk: if I had been alone in my room, I would have already taken care of the job with my rabbit. Three times over. My legs were already splayed open through no movement I could recall—I was dying for something down there. No, I was dying for him down there. And he knew it.

But he wouldn’t break his word. Even now.

“Is this—is it okay?” he asked, his voice barely above a hum.

I stared harder. The bottle didn’t move, poised just at the juncture of my legs, but not actually invading that private space. But yes, he was really doing this. I looked at him. And then I nodded again.

“Do-do it,” I told him.

A hint of a smile lifted on one side of his face.

The bottle slid in maybe an inch. Maybe less. I rocked my hips into it. Eric pushed it in a little further. It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

Eric’s gray eyes met mine. “Don’t stop, pretty girl.”

Maybe it was the fact that I’d barely heard that name in weeks, and he’d already used it twice in the last few minutes. Maybe it was the fact that as hard as I tried not to think about Eric whenever I did pleasure myself, his face, his entire body, always appeared. As if attached to an electric current guided by those two words like light switches, my fingers started moving again, with the same rhythm as the cool glass sliding in and out of me, as the steady movement of Eric’s fist around his cock. The three of us moved together, almost as one—fingers, bottle, fingers, a crazy finger trap of a situation, until I was practically lying on the counter, open to whatever penetration he was willing to give.

Eric pushed the bottle in again. My fingers pressed harder. I exploded. And so did he.

Ahhhhhhhhh!I opened my mouth in a soundless scream, my entire body seized with pleasure, but also pain of this man’s absence. Eric shook over me, every beautiful muscle in his sculpted body on display as he emptied himself over my thighs, my stomach, even my breasts.

His mouth shivered too, hovering maybe a millimeter from mine as he braced himself on the counter’s edge, trying to catch his breath. His lips, soft and inviting, brushed mine so lightly, I wasn’t completely sure they actually did, or if it was just the heat of his breath. Eric shuddered, a full-body movement that seemed to move through mine like a wave. Then he closed his eyes and stood up. The bottle slipped out, and I collapsed against the counter.

“Bed,” he said hoarsely while he moved around to toss the bottle in the garbage.

Unable to move while he padded into his room to clean up, I sat there. I swallowed heavily, then reached around to grab a napkin off the counter—one of an expensive monogrammed set we’d received as wedding gifts from an Astor or a van Dusen cousin. I swiped the linen over my legs, almost rueful to clean off the evidence of Eric’s loss of control.

Pathetic. I was so pathetic.

Was this all we were anymore? Would we dance around each other in a tense tango for the next fortyish or so day until we couldn’t fucking take it? Give up to silent, tortured orgasms in vodka-infused darkness?

Whatever happened to real, functional relationships?

Have you ever had one of those, Jane Brain?

I shook my head. I did not want to think about my dad—either of them—at a moment like this.

The sound of Eric’s knuckles rapping on his doorframe pulled me out of my thoughts. I turned to find his tall, elegant body silhouetted in his bedroom door. He tipped his head, remaining silent, though his meaning was clear.

I finished cleaning myself off, then abandoned the wreckage of my dress and the napkin to follow the man wordlessly into his room—what was our room. I followed him onto the plush king bed, allowed him to wrap me in the duvet before sliding under it himself, lying on his side to face me.

He smiled, and the bittersweetness of it broke my heart and made it sing all at the same time.

“Thank you,” he mouthed without sound.

I just nodded. And together we lay, watching each other as sleep crept nearer.

But for some minutes more, after Eric had drifted off, I considered: how could I still love someone I hated this much? How could I hate someone I loved so intensely?

Both questions swam around my mind in circles for a long time as I watched him sleep. And by the time my eyelids drooped shut, I didn’t have any more answers than when I started thinking. I wasn’t sure I would ever know.