Hurt the One You Love Read online

  Instead, she'd walked away before she could give in to that desire. He didn't deserve it. Or her. And she wasn't going to lose her shit in front of him, not in public or in private.

  Now here she was on the balcony, looking out over the cityscape and envying the view. She had a drink in one hand and a plate of hors d'oeuvres in the other. Booze, food, and a view. What more could a girl ask for?

  Company, of course. And there he was. Elliott fucking Anderson, looking sharp and immaculate and delicious in a suit that made her want to climb him like a tree. He had a drink in each hand and he gave her one like he thought she'd actually take it.

  So of course, she did. White wine, not her normal drink, but she put down the one she had and sipped the one he’d offered. She waited for him to say something. Anything. But instead he leaned on the railing and looked out across the buildings.

  A hint of music wafted from the party inside. Simone sipped her wine and waited for someone to come out and interrupt them, but nobody did. She leaned on the railing, too, not touching him, but close enough that he could have taken her hand if he wanted to.

  "I like you," Elliott said finally. "I wish I didn't, but I do."

  Simone sighed. "Ugh. Really? That's what you lead with?"

  He looked at her, his expression serious. "Would you like it better if I lied and told you I liked you when it wasn't true?"

  "I'd like it," she said, "if you just said you liked me without any sort of qualifier."

  "Fair enough."

  She waited, but he didn't say it. "I like you, too, Elliott, even though I don't think I should. Because you're kind of a dick."

  "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

  "That's better." Simone sipped her wine and looked out again at the city so she didn't have to look at him. "Thank you."

  "I've been thinking a lot about what you said to me in my office that day."

  Simone swallowed hard, but kept her gaze on the buildings and the lights and the darkness, and anything except his face. It was her nature to run her mouth. She'd heard it often enough. From her mother. From Aidan. But now she waited to give him time to speak.

  He didn't. Not for long, long minutes. She could stop herself from making words, but she couldn't stop her heart from beating faster. Or her breath from catching in her throat. All she could do was wait. And wait. And wait some more, until it drove her crazy.

  "I do like it," he said finally in a low voice.

  Simone let out the breath she'd been holding. She closed her eyes, feeling the floor tilt underneath her. Too much wine. Not enough air. Her throat closed, any words she'd meant to say tucking themselves under her tongue and staying hidden behind her teeth.

  "I like that you like it," Elliott murmured. "I fucking love it, as a matter of fact. It makes me lose my fucking mind."

  She had a clue, now, why he was so against it. "And you don't like that."

  "No. That's insane. Who likes losing their mind?"

  "'We're all mad here,'" Simone said, quoting the Cheshire Cat.

  She felt the weight of his gaze on her, and there was more silence until, at last, she turned to look at him. He moved a little closer and set his glass down on the small wrought-iron table near them. The clink of it on the metal was like the snap of teeth.

  "You don't mind being crazy," Elliott said.

  Irritated, because fuck, everything about him infuriated and aroused her, Simone swiveled to stare him down. "No. Actually, I don't. Crazy is a state of mind usually interpreted by other people."

  "Nobody ever knows they're crazy, is that what you're saying?" He moved a little closer.

  Simone didn't move away. She looked him in the eye. "If you think you're crazy, you're probably sane."

  He huffed soft laughter. "What about if you think you're sane?"

  "Probably mad as a hatter." She laughed, too, and leaned back against the railing, propping her elbows against the metal. She tilted her head to look at him. "You know, earlier tonight, I was so angry at you I wanted to spit. All of that stuff you said in your office, it really got to me. You really hurt my feelings. It's not that I thought I was special to you or anything---"

  "You are special to me," Elliott said.

  Simone shivered.

  When he kissed her, she opened her mouth for him. Took his tongue. His hands on her ass pulled her closer. Then one slid to cup the back of her neck.

  "You're special," he said into her mouth as his fingers tightened on her skin. "And you make me crazy. And I hate it."

  She meant to laugh, but it turned into a moan.

  "I don't want to see you," Elliott said.

  Simone slid a hand between them to cup his thickening erection. "Liar."

  He pressed her against the railing. The metal hit her between the shoulder blades. His mouth moved from hers to her throat, where he nipped lightly at first. Then harder, until the pressure of his teeth sent shimmering spears of sensation straight to her clit.

  "Touch me," Simone said.

  "I am touching you."

  She took his hand and slid it under the hem of her dress. "Touch me here."

  The French doors behind them opened. At this angle, whoever was there would only see them in an embrace, not where his hand was. He didn't move away. Didn't take his hand away. All he did was turn his head.

  "Trent," Elliott said smoothly. "Hi."

  His fingers moved, slowly, slowly against her, before he finally pulled away. Simone shifted to let her dress fall down around her thighs. They both moved away from each other at the same time.

  "Don't let me interrupt," Trent Boudreaux said. "I was looking for Barry."

  "Nobody out here but us chickens," Simone said.

  His gaze traveled over Simone's face. Her cleavage, such as it was. He gave Elliott a thumbs up, grinned, and ducked back inside the room.

  "Do you want to stay at this party?" Simone asked.

  Elliott shook his head.

  "Good," she said. "Then take me home."

  Chapter 20

  "There are things we should talk about," Elliott said as Simone looked around his living room.

  Hardwood floors. Leather couch. He had a fireplace that didn't look as though it had ever been used, and that somehow didn't surprise her. Nor did the coasters on the end table. The doilies on the arms and back of the chair did. So did the flowered curtains.

  "How long have you lived here?"

  "Can I get you something to drink?"

  "I had enough, thanks. But you . . . you go ahead." He'd driven her here, but she could take a cab home if she had to.

  Not that she planned on going home tonight. Not until after breakfast, at least, and she had no plans on that happening at six-thirty in the morning. And if she had her way, no matter his habit, Elliott wouldn't be up that early either.

  Elliott put the lid back on the crystal bottle of liquor without pouring anything. He took off his jacket, then looked around as though he wasn't sure where to hang it, before moving to the stairs across from the front door and hanging it over the railing. He turned and caught her staring.

  "It doesn't belong there," he said unnecessarily.

  Simone looked around the room, noting all the details before focusing again on him. "So . . . put it where it belongs."

  "It belongs in the closet upstairs."

  "So," Simone said with a small smile, crossing to him, "let's go upstairs."

  "We have to talk about some things first."

  She hadn't forgotten the kiss on the balcony, or anything else about him. If she kissed him now, would he let her? Or would he pull away? Simone ran a finger along his tie, tugging it a little.

  "You have rules, Elliott?"

  "More like . . . guidelines."

  She laughed low and slid her hands up the front of his shirt to squeeze his shoulders gently. "Okay."

  He put his hands on her hips, easing her closer. "I thought you'd have some trouble with guidelines."

  "Did you, now?" Sh