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When a knock rattled the door, I physically jolted, so lost in his eyes, in my own brain, that I forgot the outside world existed.
“How long was I crying?” I could’ve sworn that it had only been a handful of minutes since Elliot had made the phone call and I’d dissolved into hysterics.
He grinned, soft and warm. “Long enough for them to cook everything on the menu.” There was no judgment or malice in his tone. There never was.
He kissed the underside of my jaw before he stood to open the door, taking the trolley of food with a murmur of voices signifying the interaction between him and the waiter.
He must’ve tipped quickly because by the time I stood up, he was wheeling the food in himself. And it was a ridiculous amount. When the scent wafted toward me, my mouth watered in response, suddenly feeling more starving than I’d been in my life.
Elliot set the trolley beside the dining area. “Come eat, Calliope. I won’t be satisfied until at least one of these plates is cleaned.” He nodded his head at the trolley laden with food. His tone had unmistakably morphed into one that curled my toes and pebbled my nipples. It was an order.
“Once you’ve eaten, had some water, digested, I’ll fuck you like you’re begging to be fucked,” he continued, voice thick. “Bent over, against that window.” He nodded his head again. “But not before. So come here and eat.”
I didn’t hesitate to heed his order.
And once I’d eaten, after convincing Elliot that it had digested, he stayed true to his promise. Then I passed out in his arms, barely able to feel my limbs or remember a time in my entire life when my appetite had been so completely quenched physically, sexually, and mentally.
Nineteen
Maine — Noah Kahan
I’d woken up in some swanky hotels in my adult life. Some of the best in the world. With sheets that cost more than a car payment, the room rate more than a modest used car. In destinations with some of the world’s best views. Yet nothing in the world beat waking up tangled in Elliot’s arms, the low morning light shining through the windows. We’d failed to close the blinds, so my bleary eyes were greeted by the rugged Maine coastline I’d come to love. Obscuring the view were my smeared handprints, evidence of what had happened last night.
That was not the only evidence. There was the room service cart, pushed off to the side, the overturned chair that had obviously fallen at some point, though I couldn’t remember when or how.
My replete body, the subtle flutter in between my legs, hair that smelled of hotel shampoo and Elliot—since we’d moved to the shower after the episode against the windows. Elliot had taken me to the shower, mindfully washing every inch ofme with unhurried strokes then moving to my hair, fingertips working at my scalp better than the top stylists in New York City.
He’d changed my bandage, taking care to inspect how it was healing, redressing it as if I were a bird with a broken wing.
There had been nothing sexual about his touch, and we hadn’t had sex once we’d dried from the shower either. Why would you need to after all of that? Granted, I found that I was sufficiently addicted to Elliot and would not have refused if he had even hinted at wanting another round.
But the toll of the last few days—fuck, the last ten years—had sat heavy on my shoulders, exhaustion weighing down my bones with every step I took toward the bed. The full belly, the sex, the trauma. Elliot’s tenderness, my growing feelings for the man amidst the shitshow that was my life. It worked better than Ambien. I was asleep before I even realized it.
And I’d slept like a log. Not once did I wake up to check my phone, respond to emails, fire up my laptop to look for new evidence to save my fate.
No. I’d closed my eyes that night, waking up in the morning, wrapped up in Elliot’s arms.
I didn’t check my phone before my eyes had truly opened, as was my routine. Didn’t jump out of bed for a workout class, coffee, whatever thing I had convinced myself was pressing at 6:00 in the morning.
As of late, I hadn’t had morning meetings, but Jupiter did have a decent set of workout classes at 6:00 in the morning, and I had a bunch of friends and family with babies who didn’t sleep through the night. So if I found myself without a workout class or without the resolve to continue in my task of bringing down criminals the federal government had been unable to prosecute for decades, I went and picked up a baby from its weary parents and entertained them, fed them, put them down for a nap while their parents got the rest they needed.
On those nights, the ones without Elliot and with a full roster starting at sunrise, I woke often. Despite pharmaceuticals or the help of alcohol. I woke up frequently, in a cold sweat, an overloading, gut-wrenching panic on my chest, fearing that I wouldn’t be able to get myself out of my mess.
On the nights with Elliot, not once did I wake. Unless he woke me. With his mouth. Or his cock. And on those nights, I dove right back into dreamland when he finished with me.
“Coffee,” Elliot murmured against my neck, his stubble brushing against my bare skin.
“Coffee,” I hummed. My head had a slight throb to it thanks to those martinis, but nothing caffeine wouldn’t nip in the bud.
Elliot pulled my naked body back into his, his hand brushing over my navel before plunging right between my legs.
I threw my head back into the crook of his neck, inhaling in rapture at the way his fingers worked me.
“Not before I make you come,” he growled in my ear.
“You’ll hear no argument from me,” I rasped, tumbling into the addictive limbo that was Elliot’s touch.
Nothing else in the world existed.