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“Of course. And you know the stakes are going to rise since your Elliot didn’t show. You didn’t sleep with her, did you?”
“No, I did not.”
“That unattractive?”
My hand curls into a fist and my brother’s gaze drops to it and he grins.
“Oh, God,” I say. “You have a side bet on that, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “Come on. It’s fucking you. And while she doesn’t come across all flash and tits and sex, she’s passable.”
“Elliot has something you don’t understand. Class. I mean, sure, you’re marrying class, but you’re an asshole and you don’t get it. I don’t know what Zoey sees in you.”
“My brilliance.”
“You lied to her.”
“Water under the bridge.” He waves a hand. “And we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. Namely, have you nailed her yet?”
“Don’t talk about Elliot that way, and I answered.”
“You talk about women like that all the time.”
I just shake my head and leave.
Seriously, me? Talk about women that way? I’m pretty sure I have more imagination than that.
I get in the car service I called. The night is mine, I realize. Mine to do with how I see fit and as I head home, I’m aware there are too many bars and clubs and places to be. And trouble to get into.
I’m tired but now I’m feeling restless. A drink somewhere dark and anonymous appeals and I can do it. Right? I’m sure I can.
But the closer we head to TriBeCa the more people are out and about and the more I begin to not trust myself.
It’s been a little bit since I’ve had sex. And more than a week is a hell of a long time. It’s like dying of thirst.
I’ve got too much riding on all this for me to slip up. I lean forward. “A change of plans,” I say to the driver. “Prince Street.”
Elliot buzzes me in. She looks soft and sweet, her hair pinned back but in a looser style, with red locks escaping. She’s in a pretty enough dress and has one low heel in a hand. “Don’t tell me you were tempted.”
As a greeting goes, it’s not the best, but it could be worse. I close the door and lean against it and fold my arms. I’m in jeans and a cashmere sweater, as it’s warmer tonight.
“Okay, I won’t.”
Thing is we’ve spent other nights together since those first two. The rest at my place where she had her own room. For some reason, I prefer this.
Elliot takes off her other shoe and sets them down. “Well, at least you came to the temptation-free temple.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
She just shakes her head and sits on the sofa, rubbing her feet. “You’re incorrigible.”
“How about I get us a drink and do that for you and you can tell me all about your day.” I don’t give her a chance to argue. Instead, I go to the kitchen—I know my way about the small space by now—and pour some whiskeys. Then I hand one to her, take a sip of mine, then set it on the coffee table and sit.
I ease her feet into my lap and start to massage them. She makes a surprisingly erotic sound in her throat as I do so.
Elliot has surprisingly pretty feet. They’re long, elegant, delicate, and there’s something intimate about what I’m doing. I look up and she’s got her lip caught between her teeth, eyes closed as she leans back, one hand clasped about her glass, the other gripping the sofa.
Fuck. My cock stirs and I make sure her feet are nowhere in that vicinity.
