Page 12 of Lessons with the Mothman (Monster Smash Agency)

CHAPTER 12

Victoria

I nearly came .

Elias's hands were gentling, soothing over my shoulders and the back of my legs as he slowly pulled out of me.

I didn't want to move yet, the wood of the desk still cool under my cheek, my body still thrumming, mind reeling.

"Do you mind a bit of a cuddle after?"

I blinked at the question, the sound of an elastic snap—Elias tying off the condom—and then considered my answer.

"That sounds nice," I admitted, surprised to be telling the truth.

I braced my hands on the desk to move, then stiffened as a stronger than predicted pair of arms easily hefted me up, rearranging me as the room spun. We settled with me on Elias's lap, the pair of us leaning back in the chair.

He sighed, relaxing under me, head tilting away, eyes shut, but his hands were busy smoothing my skirt and hair. I remained still for a moment, still dazed by what had happened, how fucking incredibly good it had been, and also by the picture of Elias at ease in front of me. My arms found their way around his shoulders and he hummed, smiling slightly. I softened into him, and he stroked my hip over my skirt.

"Thank you," we said at the same time.

One of his eyes opened. "It was good?" he asked.

I nearly fucking came , I almost said, but I didn't want him to spoil the moment by offering to try and finish me off. I knew some women found it frustrating to get that close and then not orgasm, but in all honesty, it had been a couple years since I'd been so far outside my own head with someone else, and that was its own thrill.

"It was exactly what I wanted," I said, and then hoped I wasn't crossing a boundary by drawing him closer.

I wasn't. Elias let out a pleased sound, something low and almost as hungry as his growls as he came, and then our mouths met. I grinned at first, realizing we hadn't kissed before now, and his lips pulled at my lower one, soft and plush and perfect. And then it was too easy, too good—a kiss so familiar I wondered if I'd forgotten one we already shared. Elias's mouth glided and caressed and enclosed over mine, warm and almost caramel in flavor.

My breasts ached and my core throbbed and I moaned into the kiss, his tongue licking in, more tentative than his cock had been as he'd first entered me, teasing and flicking before meeting mine for long strokes. His hands roamed over my back and hip, and he lifted me when I shifted, moving me to straddle over his lap, legs dangling down on either side.

When I was young, when Brett and I were in high school, we had kissed like this and I'd loved it. I'd loved grinding on his lap, getting close to coming, the build slow and sometimes futile depending on what we'd been wearing, how much it muffled the sensation. At some point, when it had been a long relationship, and Brett's friends and my friends were all starting to have sex, sex between us had seemed like a necessary step to take. Afterwards, we'd kissed and humped and fondled less, like knowing the destination had made a longer trip there not worth as much.

Elias chuckled as I started to squirm on his lap, but he didn't stop kissing me, petting up and down my back. He'd already come, I supposed. He didn't need to rush there again. And then he pulled away slightly, pressing a kiss to my lobe.

"You did this for me?" I asked, and he blinked before I gestured over my shoulder to the room.

"Oh, yes. For us. For fun." He shrugged.

"Like the room we used with Atlas and Cyril," I said. He had shades of amber in his fur, and glints of white gold, all shifting warm tones that belonged in some kind of fantastical treasure chest.

Elias nodded, and I suspected he was studying me as much as I had him. I'd meant for this to be impersonal. To end when he finished. And then he'd let me kiss him.

"Would you like a tour?" he asked.

"The desk is a Gothic revival, marked 1848. I found it wallowing in a basement in Logan Square during an estate sale. It is hideous," Elias said, tipping his head and glaring at the piece of furniture, his arms crossed over his chest.

Hours had passed. My head was spinning. After I'd cleaned up and changed, we had wandered from room to room, Elias eagerly describing the dragon's hoard of antiques and art he'd so meticulously arranged throughout his house. A house that now seemed more like a cross between a museum and a stage dressed for a performance.

The room we stood in now was an early Victorian styled office, complete with an inkwell on the indeed gaudily carved desk and an enormous ten-point buck head looming out over the mantle. There was a tea set waiting on a low table between two stuffed armchairs by the fireplace, and brandy in the cut crystal bottles on the sideboard. "Not era accurate, unfortunately," Elias admitted in a cheeky whisper.

I turned slowly in place, still absorbing the full scope. Not simply the wealth it took to amass this collection—he had a pop art pantry off the kitchen that included a set of Andy Warhol polaroids of bananas—but the time, the thought. And the… who .

Who would do this? Every room was its own character in a disjointed novel of a home, and the author was…

Watching me, I realized. The room—no, I had been quiet too long, and Elias was now standing, staring back at me, posture too straight and chin a little high.

I opened my mouth to offer some kind of platitude. How beautiful the room was? No, beauty wasn't the point of any of the rooms, even when they were beautiful, like the sunroom where Elias had pulled covers off of watered silk chaises as massive monstera fronds hung over our heads like umbrellas.

"This is fascinating," I said, because that was true. Elias's snorted dismissively, but he looked slightly less aloof. "You don't really…live in any of these rooms, do you?"

There was no sign of him. No mail on the desk in his "office," and no actual bananas in the banana pantry.

Elias shook his head. "It's the process of arranging them that I enjoy. I like to create environments."

"They're all incredible. The classroom was?—"

"I only had a week," he said quickly. "I just put it together from what was on hand in the basement, really."

My eyebrows rose. "In the basement?"

He shrugged and waved his hands around the room. "I go through phases, rearranging a room. But I don't get rid of my pieces."

"You're a collector," I said.

"I suppose." His hands slid into his pockets. "I'm certainly an acquirer."

I crossed past him to a bookshelf full of leather and fabric spines, gilt titles faded. I didn't doubt for a moment that there was a single book printed later than the eighteen hundreds. Elias was…meticulous.

"Do your clients for the Agency come here?" I asked.

"No. But sometimes, I take things to the Agency if I think they'll suit an appointment," he said. "Are you…bothered by my hobby?"

I startled and spun to face him. "No! No, not at all. But I am trying to puzzle you out, I think."

Surprisingly, Elias smiled at that. "Fair enough." Which probably meant he was trying to puzzle me out too. His hand reached out in offering to me. "Come, let me show you the rococo parlor. It's ghastly. I haven't decided what to do next with it."

His hand was warm and smooth, and I suddenly itched to be pressed up against him once more, combing my fingers through his hair, peeling off his tidy button-down shirt. He was so soft in the places I'd touched or the parts that had touched me so far, and I wanted to feel him everywhere, learn all his textures.

"I can improve on the classroom if we'd like to use it again. Or change it altogether. Whatever you prefer," Elias said, his clasp on my hand firm and guiding.

I considered the offer. Playing teacher student with Elias had been fun, but it made me wonder what other roles he might invent for us. It was like visiting the bar and finding a drink waiting on the counter for me, something delicious and unfamiliar and designed just for me.

"I think I like when you choose," I said softly.

Elias's hand just squeezed gently around mine.

"Oh, there you are, Vicky. We thought you'd never show up."

I should've known this was a trap , I thought, my hands clenched around my messenger bag strap as I stood in front of the restaurant booth where my mother, father, and an as yet unknown man too close to my own age for comfort waited. If Elias hadn't fucked me silly earlier, leaving me quite light and cheerful, I might've seen her text this afternoon for what it was.

The man slid out of the booth, smiling nervously, but my mother refused to budge and let my father out.

"Ben Stone," the stranger greeted, offering his hand. He was tall, lanky, and to be honest, fairly cute. And I was too well trained to be rude, even if this was clearly a setup.

Because of course my mother wouldn't simply offer to take me out to my favorite restaurant on an otherwise meaningless evening. Not without motive.

"Victoria Dempsey," I offered, shaking his hand, giving into a cursory, skittish sweep of study.

Dark hair, with a bit of gray in the mix. Well dressed, but not quite up to Mom's usual standard, and wearing thick framed glasses that at least hinted at a personal sense of style. Ben Stone had Clark Kent vibes, but without Superman's beefy build.

"Ben's the son of an old college friend. He just moved to Chicago and I promised I would give him a little orientation, but really, you know the city better these days," my mother rattled as Ben took his seat once more, leaving me the spot next to him. "I figured the bribe of dinner would lure you out."

Ben's expression was slightly stricken and awkward at that. He hadn't realized the scheme, at least.

"No bribe necessary, of course," I said smoothly. The bribe was necessary. If she'd given him my number or vice versa, I would absolutely have ignored or deflected any attempts at connection.

A fucking setup . I should've known. I should've been on my guard. I was suddenly surprised she hadn't attempted something sooner. She must've really believed I was mourning the loss of Brett before now.

Resisting the urge to sigh, drawing up the smile that had been instilled in me that came easier than my own honest expressions, I settled down into the booth. "So what brings you to Chicago?"

I hoped my mother could read the irritation in my glance. I was going to order an outrageous amount of food and take it all home in boxes and feast on fine dining for the rest of the week. It would be her penance.

"Work, of course," Ben admitted with a sheepish shrug and a charming smile. "But I've always loved Chicago."

"He's at the museum, darling, isn't that fascinating? Oh, we'll have to call that waiter back to get you a drink, Vicky. Where did he go?"

I braced myself for the evening ahead.