Touching you made me all wet, Captain. Use it to slide inside.
Guilt trickles in, but in the unbelievably worked up state I’m in, my cock only swells under my heavy conscience. Shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be thinking of her like this.
No amount of self-loathing can keep me from coming, though, and I give a close-mouthed roar as white liquid fountains up into my hand and rolls down my knuckles, wrist and fingers. And still I keep going, falling to my left elbow while my right one works my flesh in rough jerks. It’s like my insides are relocating, my muscles snapping and growing under the strain. Easily the best orgasm I’ve had in…years. Longer. I can’t ever remember coming this fucking hard.
Moments later, I turn and sit on the bed, breathing like I just ran a marathon. “God, you’re a bastard.”
I’m late for work, because I have no choice but to launder the comforter, not to mention make a call to the head of security at City Hall. I wasn’t aware of Addison’s morning runs and I don’t like her out there alone. And when I go shopping for our dinner that night, I practically buy out the whole cereal aisle and stock her cabinets full of them before she knows I’ve arrived. Not the best sorry-I-jerked-off-while-thinking-of-you in the world, but a verbal one? In this case, it’s not an option. How would I begin to explain anyway?
I have a friend. A completely platonic, non-romantic one.
But occasionally I rub one out to her.
Cereal it is.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Addison
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Humming along to the Muzak version of “Take a Chance on Me,” I toss a box of ziti into my shopping cart, allowing myself to smile since I’m alone in the aisle. I prefer fusilli over ziti, so Elijah and I switch our noodle every week. Thursdays we do pasta. I buy the ingredients, he does the cooking. It’s my favorite night, because he overeats when we do Italian. While I clear the table, he lies on the couch and bemoans his lack of control, while loosening his belt. It’s all so…domestic.
I’m domestic. Look at me. I’m in the supermarket with a purse full of coupons, excited about adding fresh basil to the mix. I used to get excited about dressing up or adding a pink streak to my hair. Now I have Pasta Thursdays.
Should it terrify me that I wouldn’t trade it for the world?
Yeah. It should.
It has been a little over a month since Elijah became my nightly house guest, ducking in through my front door every evening wearing a low baseball cap and street clothes. Watching the tension leak from his huge shoulders, his sigh mingling with the sounds of Laura Marling…it has become an addiction. I’m his safe place. Or my apartment is, rather. But I’m a part of it, too.
We’re friends. Best friends, even.
A best friend he hides away.
Ignoring the snarky voice in my head, I throw a hunk of Parmesan cheese into my cart and leave the refrigerated aisle—
And I run smack into Elijah with my cart. “Oh.”
The moment is crackling with clarity, the edges of my surroundings sharp. I watch dread pass over Elijah’s features, notice the look he tosses over his shoulder. Girl. He’s with a girl. My stomach turns into a boiling pit of acid, inviting all of my organs to drop down into the brew and get destroyed along with the rest of me. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick.
“Addison?” He tugs at the knot of his tie. “You shop here?”
“Not usually. I wanted to…” My hands flop around like caught fish. How am I even saying words? “The other place didn’t h-have fresh basil…”
“Fresh, huh?” Surely I’m imagining the hint of a smile that tugs at his mouth. “That’s new.”
“Yeah.” Oh God, I’ve never felt like more of an idiot in my life. When we’re inside my apartment, talking about mundane things like basil and favorite movies and childhood memories it isn’t strange at all. But under the bright lights of the supermarket, talking about the new recipe I’m trying—for him—makes me feel like a teenager sending a love letter to Theo James. Pathetic. Especially if he’s with a girl. “Maybe we should take a rain check,” I mutter, circling my cart full of food, fully prepared to abandon it. “See you around.”
He takes hold of my arm. “Wait a second, Goose.”
I tug my limb free just in time to see the reporter following him. The man is older, wearing a bright blue windbreaker with a local news station logo over the breast. He’s trying to be inconspicuous, even going so far as to scrutinize the back of a pretzel bag. But he’s watching Elijah and me out of the corner of his eye. There’s no doubt.