Rate a Date by Monica Murphy Page 0,66
so she can check out the empty spare bedroom, and the equally empty bathroom. I point at the hall closet door, and then we’re in my bedroom. I leave Eleanor’s suitcase by the wall and walk inside, opening the blinds on the window to let some light in.
“It’s roomy,” she says as she walks around the end of the bed. She turns to look at me. “You don’t have bedroom furniture?”
“Nope.” I shrug. “I’ve always just used the closet.”
“What about for your underwear and socks? You don’t fold anything?”
“Oh, I’ve got a couple of these.” I open the closet door and flick on the light, Eleanor following right behind me. I point at the three-drawer plastic cube storage thing I picked up at Walmart a couple of years ago. “They work just fine.”
The look she sends me is one of pure sympathy. I had no idea my lack of furniture would make me look like a poor man. It’s more like I’m a man with no time to shop for a dresser or bedside tables. I don’t need ’em.
Not now, at least.
“I like your place,” she tells me once we leave the closet. “You have a connecting bathroom?”
“Oh yeah.” She goes to check it out and now it’s my turn to follow her. The bathroom in this apartment is actually pretty spacious, and she looks impressed as she stares at the giant glass-walled shower.
“That’s nice.” She points at it.
“We could test it out later if you want,” I suggest, wagging my eyebrows at her when she meets my gaze.
A teasing smile curves her lips. “By the time our extended weekend is through, we’re going to be some of the cleanest people in Las Vegas.”
“You know it.” I approach her, settling my hands on her waist. She’s leaning against the counter, her head tilted back, her gaze meeting mine. “I like seeing you in here.”
I’m speaking the truth. Despite all the boxes and the fact that I’ve lived here all of a handful of days, it’s still nice to have her here. To see how well she fits in my apartment. How easy I could make this a habit.
Me and Eleanor. Eleanor and me.
Her cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink. I think what I just said pleased her. “You didn’t want me to come here at first.” I’m about to deny it, but she lifts her hand, her fingers resting on my lips, silencing me. “Don’t bother spinning some tale. I know you didn’t want me here.”
Parting my lips, I draw her fingers into my mouth, giving them a little nip. She starts to remove her hand, but I circle my fingers around her wrist, keeping her there. I bite each fingertip, putting enough pressure behind it that there’s probably a bit of a sting, but not too bad. Then I pull her hand away, lacing our fingers together.
“I never let women visit my place. This is mine. It doesn’t belong to anyone else. It feels—sacred,” I start, keeping my fingers firmly gripped in hers.
She says nothing. Just continues to watch me.
“It scared me when you suggested coming here,” I explain. Here, I can tell the truth. “But now here you are, and I’m so fucking glad.”
A smile blooms on her pretty face. “I’m glad too.”
Somehow, without even meaning to, I lift her up so she’s sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter. Her legs separate and I stand in between them, my hands resting on her waist once more. “Everything about you drives me out of my mind.”
Her eyes darken. She licks her lips. I let my hands slide up, rest them just beneath her perfect tits before I smooth them over her abundant flesh, my thumbs pressing into her skin. The fabric of her dress is thin, and the bra she’s wearing must be really thin too, because I can feel her nipples.
And they’re hard.
Without thought, I tug on the front of her dress. When nothing really happens, I reach for the thick straps on her shoulders, pushing one down, then the other. Now the fabric gives, and when I pull once more, it slips down, resting below her breasts, revealing that she’s wearing some thin, nude-colored tube top thing.
“What’s this thing?” I pluck at the edge of the stretchy fabric.
“A bandeau. It keeps everything in place.” She glances down at it for a moment before she lifts her head, her gaze once again meeting mine. “Why? You don’t like it?”
“It’s hiding my favorite part of you.”