“It hurt. But you’ve got to be honest with me.”
She presses her eyes shut tight at my words. “I’m selfish. It’s just sometimes I lie in bed and imagine us together. I remember how turned on I was when we kissed that one night and how perfect it was when you held my breasts in your hands. And then I fantasize about how it would feel with you inside of me . . .”
My heart is thumping. Why is she doing this to me?
“Elle,” I gasp.
“I don’t even read my erotic books anymore, I just think about you.”
I run my hand down her back and it takes everything I have not to slide my hand down to her ass and tug her against me.
She leans farther into me and the heat between us is overwhelming. I’ve never wanted anything more than to pull her into the house and make love to her all night. The undercurrent of my passion for her is off the charts. Surely she can sense it burning through me.
I can feel everything so acutely—her breasts against my chest, her leg sliding between mine and pressing in all the ways I want her to.
She skims her lips against my neck. “I can feel you, Paul. I can tell that you want me . . . or at least your body does.”
I swallow thickly as she rubs against where I’m already so hard for her. “Is just sex enough for you?” I ask in a low voice.
She looks up at me with a hopeful expression. She’s misread the tone behind my question. “Enough? Sure it’s enough. That’s all I want.”
I shouldn’t be broadsided but I am, and I can’t make sense of any of this. The one thing I know is that sex with Elle without the rest would never be enough for me. I gaze at her, hoping to get a glimpse of anything more.
She pulls away. “Damn. I’m so selfish. You said you needed some space and I throw myself on you. I’m sorry.”
It hurts like hell to agree but I nod. “Just a little time. Okay?”
She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Okay.”
After the door closes behind her I walk slowly back to my car. I’m so damn pent up. In the old days I would have gone directly to a club I used to frequent on Sunset Boulevard where my choice of hook-ups was a given.
Instead I head home for the longest shower of my life.
Chapter Eighteen
PLEASE AND THANK YOU
It’s a long weekend and I try everything to get a grip. I even go to church Sunday afternoon and sit in a pew for almost an hour hoping to get answers that I can’t figure out on my own.
By Monday I’ve got to face the fact that I still have nothing. We’ve flipped the traditional man/woman paradigm. Elle wants the sex with friendship, I want the love and complete relationship. How the hell did I end up being the needy one?
Tuesday, Elle texts me a picture of a horrific puffy, purple dress with ruffles and rhinestones. I can’t help but laugh at the accompanying message.
This is what I won’t be wearing Saturday. Thank God I’m not a bridesmaid.
Why do they want a bridesmaid to look like a sparkly bunch of grapes? I respond.
I have my theories.
Well, good thing you aren’t wearing that. It’d be a deal-breaker for me.
Oh, you’re not getting out of this wedding mister. Remember you promised.
And I always keep my promises.
She replies with a smiley face.
Wednesday morning—after a night of almost no sleep due to thinking about Elle—I consider going back to my Abstinence Until Love meeting, but then I realize I don’t even belong in that group anymore. I must be cured of my obsession with sex. Like Elle said, I’ve turned down three women recently that most men would be thrilled to screw. No, that apparently isn’t my problem anymore.
Instead what I need is EA—Elle Anonymous, since she’s become my obsession. She’s my constant craving, the cool water for my unquenchable thirst. I don’t know why I thought a self-imposed break from her was a good idea. It’s making me fucking crazy.
I literally have to grip the steering wheel extra-hard when I pull out of my garage so that I don’t turn my car in the direction of her house. In my weakest times, which are upwards of a dozen times a day, I pick up my phone and bring up her number just to see the picture of her I loaded there. This is followed by a battle of wills not to press the call button.
Yeah, I’ve become one of those guys.
Of course her little teasing texts only make things worse. Wednesday’s late-night text features a picture of what appears to be a wicker trash can shaped like a frog. She hasn’t attached an explanation.
What the hell is this? I text.
We’ve been drinking and voting on the tackiest wedding gifts Stella and Brandon have gotten so far. She has some distant relatives that apparently have a sense of humor.
So is this the winner?
It gets my vote, she replies.
Damn, I need to find my receipt. I got them the same thing. Do you think they could use two?
She doesn’t reply immediately, but when she does her response is golden.
Bwahaha! I just read your text to the girls and Stella spit up her Cosmo.
I grin as I text back.
Girls that I can make laugh and spit up Cosmos are my kind of girls. This wedding is going to be a blast.
Another minute passes and a picture shows up on my phone of a group of women laughing and holding up martini glasses like they’re toasting me. The blonde in the middle holding the wicker frog must be the bride, Stella. I scan the faces until I see Elle and she’s blowing me a kiss.
Damn, I love that girl.
But then Thursday night she provokes me by sending a picture with the group of them in front of one of those male stripper shows on Santa Monica Boulevard. It’s followed by a shot of her grinning and holding up a bunch of crisp five dollar bills.
Waiting to go in! she texts.
I grind my teeth for a minute before I can calm down enough to respond. If she’s going to provoke me, I’m giving it back.
Okay. See you inside.
Oh yeah?
Didn’t I tell you? I’m part of the show.
Then I’ll make sure and save some fives for you.
Okay, but don’t expect special treatment or anything. I’ll be working all sides of the stage.
Is that so? I bet you’re popular.
Well I don’t want to brag or anything.
You know what? I don’t want all these horny women crawling all over you.
Really? I promise to keep my G-string on.
Oh hell no. Put your loose jeans on and get your butt home.
I love that she sounds jealous.
All right, but you don’t know what you’re missing.
That’s the thing, I do.
It’s radio silence Friday and I try not to let my stupid imagination go wild. Saturday morning she texts asking me to pick her up at 5:30 for the wedding, and I’m amped to know I’ll be seeing her within hours.
I can’t believe it’s been over a week. I surrender to the fact that I didn’t figure anything out in our time apart, and I’m giving up trying. I’m as lost as I was the first time I set my eyes on her.
I take my run in the early afternoon and come home to shower and figure out the tux. It’s a long time since I’ve worn one but I have to admit, my last glance in the mirror before I set out to get Elle is pretty satisfying. I look damn good if I do say so myself.