The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(31)
Eloise moaned and shoved against him. “Please, wait,” she gasped. “Not here.”
“Here’s good, baby,” he murmured, his voice muffled against the tender skin of her breast. “I can’t wait. Eloise, I’ve wanted you since I first saw you with your hand wrapped around the cellophane bag. Are you going to make me beg? I’m not above it, you know.” His hand slid to the waistband of her leggings, one finger slipping underneath and tugging downward. Clearly, Cole Fiorino was used to getting what he wanted, the moment he wanted it.
Instinctively, she bucked up and grabbed his hand. “Please, Cole. I want our first time to be special, not in the back seat of a car. No matter how luxurious said car may be. My place isn’t far.”
He halted his ministrations, clasping her fingers instead. Lacing his huge ones through her tapered ones. Weaving together and making them one. “Okay. I’ll wait, but it won’t be easy. Because it’s really hard.”
Eloise suppressed one final shudder, recalling Trevor’s words from so long ago. This is not that night. Put it behind you, for God’s sake. Let it go. She refused to let the past ruin this moment. One that might never be repeated because it was dipped in perfection.
“It’s not far,” she repeated. “You’ll love my condo. It has great views.”
His eyes narrowed in passion. “El, nothing could be more magnificent than the view inside this car.”
After the town car pulled up to her building, they hurried inside, laughing and running like kids. Cole tugged her arm so hard it cracked in protest. In the elevator, he caged her body against one wall with his own, kissing her neck, her cheeks, her forehead. Eloise sank back and relished the moment, fully aware the security cameras were getting an eyeful. Not caring. She felt weak, drunk on his kisses and the tantalizing scent of his cologne. She fought her way to the doors as they slid open on her floor.
“This is me,” she said, leading him to her corner suite at the end of the hall.
Unlocking the door, Cole let out a long whistle at her copious collection of plants. “Holy cow. This is some grow-op. Don’t suppose you’re incubating any of the Devil’s lettuce?” A waggle of his eyebrows accompanied his question. “If there is, I’m going to be pissed you held out. That would have been the perfect accessory to my Rastafarian costume tonight.”
“There most certainly is not,” she said, his comment taking her by surprise as she shrugged out of her jacket and removed her tall boots. “Please tell me that’s a joke? Or, that you only toked up once in college on a lark. Professional athletes cannot partake in the drug scene. It’s bad enough that you ingest alcohol.”
Weed had been virtually everywhere in the college campuses she’d attended, but she was always too deep in her studies, too much the sheltered Midwest girl to even consider partaking.
“Hmm, too bad,” he said, gathering her in his arms again. “It could significantly enhance the experience.”
“Am I not enough of an experience for you?” she asked in mock insult.
He bent his head close to her ear. “I’ll let you know,” he said, his sexy voice sending shivers down her spine and to other private places. “Which way to the bedroom?”
“Take your coat and shoes off and I’ll show you.”
His signature grin flashed, the killer dimple creasing his cheek. “Lead on, milady,” he said, prying his woven leather loafers off each foot with the toes of the other and dropping his jacket to the expensive hardwood floor.
“Don’t you hang your things up?”
“My ‘thing’ is already hung up big time right now,” he said, grabbing her around her waist and hoisting her onto his shoulder. “This way?” He pivoted, carrying her Shrek-style as he started in the direction of the hallway. It wasn’t hard to guess the location of the bedroom.
Ordinarily, she’d be horrified at his guerilla tactics – her attitude toward Ryder springing to mind. But tonight she only wanted to block out the past, focus on the here and now and just feel – really feel an emotional connection to a man that totally turned her on. The first one ever.
“That way,” she said, gesturing straight ahead as her head and arms flopped in rhythm to his steps, her long brown locks swaying in a pendulum-like rhythm.
He laid her on her silk-covered duvet, the bed giving way with a squeak as he flopped next to her. “Let me get the light,” she said, rolling over and reaching for the touch-control on a sleek chrome bedside lamp. Its soft, muted light cast a surreal glow across the room.
“Are you sure,” his handsome face became touched with a poignant vulnerability. A look she’d never seen before. It made her fall even harder. So hard she feared she might never recover from the impact. “I’d be willing to bet a Benjamin that you’ve never taken someone like me home with you.”
“Someone like you,” Eloise parroted, lost in confusion.
“A hockey thug.”
She caught her breath and shook her head. “Hardly. Most likely, you’ll end up in the Hall of Fame one day. Besides, didn’t Murphy spring for mirrors in the locker room? Have you seen yourself lately? Women in a coma would want you.”
He chuckled at her words and puffed his chest out, drawing her eyes to his perfectly sculpted torso, itching to run her fingers over the indentations of his abs. “You find me hot? Sounds like a public relations nightmare. Shh… if you don’t tell Michelle Batiste, then I won’t.”