The Dirty Truth, page 18
A shiver runs through her, and I trace a trail of gooseflesh along her arm.
Gliding a satin bra strap down her left shoulder, I press another kiss against her hot flesh before unhooking the clasp. She lets it fall to the floor before reaching for my fly and sliding her hand inside my boxers. Pumping my length, she presses her naked torso against me, her wanton mouth silently begging to be claimed.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” I need to hear her say it. If she’s stroking my cock, she might as well stroke my ego too. There’s nothing hotter than knowing the sexiest woman I’ve ever known wants me deep inside of her.
Besides, I’ve never heard her so quiet before.
A million thoughts must be running through that pretty little head of hers.
Slipping her fingers through my hair, she bites her lip and nods.
This woman wants me.
She doesn’t want my money. She has no interest in my power. She doesn’t care about the doors I could open for her, the places I could fly her, or the luxuries I could gift her.
She doesn’t want a damn thing.
Just me.
“Yes,” she says. “You’ve got me so worked up; I couldn’t walk out of here even if I tried.”
She pumps me faster, rising on her toes to steal another kiss.
Guiding her to the center of my bed, I lay her down before tugging her leggings and panties down her thighs. Undressing, I examine her in the sliver of moonlight that trickles across my bed.
“You’re so damn sexy,” I say under my breath. “You know that?”
Climbing over her, I run a finger down her wet slit before sliding it inside of her, my thumb circling her swollen clit. Her hips buck, a silent urge for more. And as if my body has known hers a hundred times before, I glide another finger inside, stretching her wetness before lowering my mouth between her thighs to taste her arousal, to consume every damn ounce of her.
Digging her fingers into my back as I devour her, she writhes and sighs until she utters the hottest dirty truth I’ve ever heard: “I want you inside of me.”
Reaching over her, I tug a nightstand drawer open and retrieve a gold foil packet, ripping it with my teeth before sheathing my swollen cock. A second later, her thighs are wrapped around my hips, and I’m pressed against her slick entrance.
Our eyes hold for an eternity. We’ve come too far to turn back—not that I’d ever dream of that. But what comes next is anyone’s guess.
“What are you waiting for?” she whispers, slipping her arms around my neck. “Having second thoughts?”
“Never.”
Plunging deep inside of her, I bury my face in the warmth of her neck as she rocks against me, accepting every inch of my need for her until our mutual satisfaction leaves me drained and her breathless in a way that transcends the physical.
Elle Napier isn’t just some woman, and this wasn’t just sex.
Collapsing beside her, I’m washed in a warm euphoria like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and I steal a glimpse of her perfect peach-shaped ass as she saunters to the en suite to clean up—a quiet parting gift to fill the emptiness on the bed. And that’s exactly what it is when she isn’t with me—a void. One that only she can fill with her radiant warmth and that unapologetic illumination in her eyes when she looks at me.
“Top drawer on the left.” I point to the dresser in the corner when she emerges from the bathroom. “Grab a T-shirt. You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”
I don’t normally extend overnight invitations, but in Elle’s case, I’m willing to make an exception.
This entire woman is one giant exception.
And I’m here for it.
CHAPTER THIRTY
ELLE
“Hey, stranger,” Indie greets me in our apartment Monday morning. “Wondered when you’d be rolling in here. Sex hair is on point, by the way.”
After ten years of best friendship, I should know by now that nothing gets past her.
Nothing.
I wheel my bag inside and lock the door behind me, casually dragging my fingers through my bedhead.
“So?” She pours an overflowing bowl of apple-cinnamon Cheerios. “Was it worth it?”
I haven’t even had a chance to ask myself that, let alone prepare an answer for someone else. Everything happened so fast last night. The tension was ripe, palpable almost, and suddenly the wicked glint in his familiar blue-green irises was sending shock waves through my body.
It’s the strangest thing—swinging from one extreme to another. While West is unnervingly gorgeous and a powerhouse of a man, I’d never let myself so much as consider him as a romantic option. But as he stood there, telling me he’d thought about kissing me before, that he wanted to kiss me, that he thought the world of me—it changed something inside of me.
“Why are you so quiet?” she asks before I have a chance to gather my thoughts. “This is weird. You’re weirding me out. Say something.”
West was gone when I woke this morning, but he’d left a note on his pillow telling me to dial three on his bedside phone and Bettina would bring me breakfast in bed. He also asked that I wait until eight to leave so I wouldn’t run into Scarlett. My mind instantly flashed to my suitcase, since I’d left it in the foyer before he’d invited me up for a drink. But when I sat up in bed, I noticed it resting beside the door, as if he were one step ahead of me.
“We got caught up,” I say. “It just sort of . . . happened.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.” The second the words leave my lips, they burn like lies. So much for living my truth. I, Elle Napier, am officially a certified hypocrite. I don’t know what it meant last night—just that it meant something.
“Would you hook up with him again?”
“I don’t want to complicate things. With Scarlett being in such a fragile state right now . . .”
“Is that how you really feel, or is that what you’re telling yourself?” She points her spoon at me, giving me side-eye.
“It doesn’t matter how I feel—all that matters is how it should be. We got carried away, and it can’t happen again; that’s all.”
“Okay, wait, wait, wait.” Indie plunks her spoon against her bowl, shoving herself up from the kitchen table before diving for a stack of magazines on the living room coffee table. A moment later, she fans through an old issue of Made Man I didn’t know was there. “I literally just read this one the other day. Yes! Here it is. ‘The Dirty Truth about One-Night Stands.’”
Carrying it back, she places it in my hands.
“Convenient,” I say.
“Poignant.” Indie shrugs. “Anyway, read it.”
“I wrote it; I don’t need to read it.”
Looking me up and down, she sniffs. “Yeah, no. I think you do.”
THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT ONE-NIGHT STANDS
by Elle Napier
That girl you took home the other night? The one with the witty comebacks and stunning hazel eyes? The one who flirted with you for two straight hours at the bar while somehow playing hard to get? The one who tossed back a shot of liquid cocaine before debating whether or not to bite the bullet and have a good time with you? The girl whose kisses made your head spin and whose body got you harder than you’ve ever been? The girl who casually cleaned up and let herself out when it was all over because God forbid a woman in this day and age suggest seeing you again after the two of you shared an intensely intimate night together?
Yeah, her.
You felt it too, didn’t you?
You felt the sparks.
You thought about asking for her number—until you realized you’d forgotten her name.
Or maybe you never asked for it in the first place.
So instead, you watched her go. You thought about all the humblebrags you were going to share with your buddies the next time you saw them—about the hot chick who couldn’t take her hands off you. You proudly added another tally mark to your “number.” And then you promptly tucked her into the back of your mind with the intention of telling yourself she was nothing special.
But the truth is, one-night stands are overrated.
And if you ignored a spark, you’re an idiot. (I say that with love, by the way. You guys know I love you.)
The thing about sparks is that if you don’t blow on them, if you don’t keep them lit and kindled, they extinguish. And once they’re snuffed out, maybe you can light them again someday, but it’s never the same. That’s why I’ve never been a believer in second-chance romances: because they never hold a candle (pun definitely intended) to the first time around.
That girl who made you feel alive that night? Chances are you made her feel alive too. And while she slipped out in the early-morning hours, odds are she thought about you on the walk home. She probably thought about you again when she grabbed a coffee, washed you out of her hair, and folded a load of laundry that night. Maybe she thought about you the next day, wondering what you were up to or if you were thinking about her too. I bet she thought about you a week later, completely out of the blue. Maybe she was reading a clever line in a book, and a word reminded her of something you said that night, and she paused, looked up, and pictured your face.
And then there’s that question.
That glaring, never-to-be-answered question.
“What if?”
She’ll think about you again someday. A week, a month, even a year or so later. Maybe when she’s on the phone with a chatty aunt or watching a sappy movie on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
And you’ll think about her too, when you pass the bar where you first spotted her chatting up some stranger about her love for the Mets—the very thing that caught your attention long before you lost yourself in her captivating whiskey-hued gaze.
You’ll think about her again, when you take someone else home—someone who lacks the blazing-hot connection you first felt with the girl whose name you’ll never know and whose number you’ll never have, all because she was a one-night stand.
Yours in truth—
Elle Napier
I fold the magazine and toss it on the counter.
“So tell me, Elle—is there a spark?” she asks before adding, “And don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
A tickling flutter spreads through my chest before settling in my middle at the mere thought of seeing West again.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. “I wish there wasn’t.”
“How much of that article was supposed bullshit, and how much of it was you?” Indie asks.
Twisting my mouth to the side, I slink onto a barstool and rest my elbows on the counter.
“That one was . . . pretty solid,” I say. I wrote it before meeting Matt, after I’d gone through a phase of embracing my young, single, city-girl persona and convincing myself everyone else enjoyed one-night stands, so why shouldn’t I?
But at the end of the night, I’d always feel empty.
And I’d be haunted by those what-if guys. The ones I sparked with, the ones I could close my eyes and picture something more with. Those guys were rare, but when it happened, it would always be like a punch to the gut. Nothing stings like wasted potential of the amorous variety.
“So West makes you feel alive?” she asks.
“He makes me feel a lot of things.”
“Good things?”
“Confusing things.”
Indie chews a mouthful of cereal, nodding as if in silent agreement with her own thoughts. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I think it’d be weird if you didn’t take your own advice.”
Gripping the handle of my suitcase, I wheel it down the hall. “Going to grab a shower.”
As I strip out of last night’s clothes and step into the streaming hot water, I think of West.
I think of him again when I’m warming a bowl of soup for lunch. And later, when I’m washing my sheets. I think of him that afternoon as I take a stroll around the block. And at night, when I mindlessly page through a chapter of the new book I started over the weekend, I stop to think about West then.
I think about him in a whole new light.
And I ask myself that million-dollar question: What if?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
WEST
“HR lined up a few interviews to fill Elle Napier’s position,” Miranda says over speakerphone Wednesday afternoon. “I’ll add them to your iCal if you want to listen in. I think there are a few promising candidates we’re absorbing from the City Gent merger, though. Tom’s been speaking with a couple of them. One in particular captures a lot of Elle’s conversational, approachable style. I think you might like her.”
Elle.
It’s been a hellish week so far, and despite the fact that I haven’t taken my mind off that woman since I left her in my bed Monday morning, I’ve yet to reach out to her.
It isn’t that I haven’t thought about it a hundred times.
It’s just that there’s no need to rush any of this.
And there’s nothing more repellent than a man coming on too strong.
“Thank you, Miranda. Send the writing samples my way, and I’ll give them a look,” I say before ending the call and heading to the foyer. Any minute now, Elle will be ringing the doorbell to take Scarlett to some art exhibit in Tribeca, and I’d be remiss to waste an opportunity to see her, even in passing.
A minute later, I step off the elevator just in time to catch Elle trotting up the front steps, a floral sundress flouncing behind her as fresh curls bounce over her bare shoulders.
“Elle.” I get the door, showing her in.
She checks her watch. “A little early for you to be off work, isn’t it?”
It’s half past four, and she isn’t wrong.
“Taking a break,” I say. “I wanted to see you.”
Tucking her pointed chin, she says, “Really? Because my phone’s been pretty silent the last few days.”
“I’ve been absolutely swamped with this merger.”
She blows a puff of air through her cherry blossom lips. “Come on, West. You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make excuses.” She shrugs like this is no big deal, but the disappointment laced through her tone begs to differ. “It was just a hookup. We don’t have to make it into a whole thing.”
“What makes you think it was ‘just a hookup’?”
She lifts a hand before letting it clap against her side. “Oh gosh. I don’t know. You said all the right things and used all the right moves, and then I didn’t hear from you . . .”
“Right—because I’ve been swamped.” I emphasize each syllable in case she missed it the first time around.
I didn’t take Elle for the type to need extra reassurance, but obviously something’s gotten under her skin. Stepping toward her, I begin to say more until Scarlett steps off the elevator.
“You ready?” Elle changes her tune, perking up for my niece’s sake.
“Yep!” Scarlett flicks her hair over her shoulder before shooting me a quizzical look. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working or something?”
Elle’s gaze drifts to mine, as if she has the same question.
“We should get going if we’re going to beat the crowd,” Elle says before I have a chance to answer.
Just like that, the conversation is over.
But only for now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ELLE
“So now no one wants to talk to Piper.” Scarlett is filling me in on the latest high school drama on the way home from the exhibit. “And one of her old friends invited me to hang out this weekend. Can you believe that?”
“Crazy,” I say, half listening. I can’t stop thinking about West—particularly his propensity for being hot, cold, or confusingly lukewarm at his convenience. I’d have expected a true one-night stand to seduce me and go radio silent. Our situation is different. Or so I thought.
“Maybe you could put in a good word for me with Uncle West?” she asks.
For the last two days, my thoughts have been a dizzying roller coaster of emotion. One minute I’m analyzing my night with West, and the next minute I’m convincing myself I had it all wrong, that I misinterpreted all the kind things he said, the tenderness in his touch, and the unapologetic hunger in his kiss.
Anyone can pretend they like someone else.
People do it every day.
I lost track of how many times I checked my text messages yesterday, hoping for a smart-mouthed, flirty quip from West to magically appear . . . only to get nothing. By the time today rolled around, my hope had deflated faster than a dollar store helium balloon.
Sunday night, I felt special.
Today I feel like a fool.
I should’ve known better than to fall for a single word out of his mouth. He’s a skilled salesman. A professional liar. That’s how he made his millions—by selling the illusion of hope.
“Yeah,” I say to Scarlett. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
But that’s all I’m saying.
From now on, we’re getting back on track and making Scarlett our main focus.
Our only focus.
No more detours.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
WEST
“Hey, I’m back.” Scarlett raps on the door of my study at a quarter past seven.
“You’re home early. Where’s Elle?” I glance up from my book—an advance copy of some inspirational self-help tome I’m thinking of pushing in July’s issue.
Scarlett squints. “Walking home . . . why?”
I imagine her halfway down the block by now.
“No reason.” I play it off with a shrug, given the fact that chasing after her isn’t an option. It would only beg questions from my niece that I’m not prepared to answer, and given the fact that Elle is currently upset with me, I don’t know that there’s an answer to give at the moment.
I should have called her.
But I’m not used to having to do that, nor am I used to sleeping with women who represent more than a means to a sexual end.
