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One year, separate rooms. Functionally separate lives. A box full of
sexy things I wanted to see her in before I shredded each one. Why was she
packing it if she wasn’t going to wear it?
“If you’re not fucking me, Ella, you’re not fucking anyone.”
“That goes both ways.”
I ran my fingers under my nose. Her scent was already gone, but the
memory of getting inside her lingered. One year of hard-ons. Great. This
was going to be tougher than I’d thought. As if reading my mind, she tossed
a handful of underwear in the box and put her hands on her hips.
“Do you want to get caught cheating on your wife?” She threw open a
purple-painted armoire and picked some hangers from the pole. “How’s that
gonna go down in Crowne Town?”
The rhyme made me smile, as did the fact that she was right. I was a
grown man, and cheating was an unnecessary risk for me.
“No other women,” I said, looking her over. The warehouse’s draft had
hardened her nipples enough to dent the T-shirt through her bra. I hadn’t
spent enough time with her tits. Hadn’t discovered the limits of what she
liked.
“Deal.” She turned to flick through the hangers in the closet.
It was a crime to not fuck her, but I didn’t have much of a choice.
Hours later, her El Camino pulled into the driveway of my house in
Hancock Park, next to my black BMW. The boxes and duffel bags of
clothes she’d brought took up only a corner of the rear bed.
She yanked out a duffel, and I grabbed it before she had to bear the full
burden. I slung the bag over one shoulder. She took a box by the flap,
ripping it.
“I have people to help with that.”
“I got it.” She gathered the box in her arms. It was full of hardcovers.
Putting my free arm under the weight, I lifted it. “One less trip.”
She let me have the box and took another.
My place was modest by Crowne standards, but the way she stopped
and looked around made me aware of how big it was. How high the
ceilings. How pristine and professionally designed.