Wet

In that moment I wanted to go sweep her out of her chair, and pull her tight in my arms. With her pressed against my chest, I’d carry her away to a quiet place where we could find our peace again.

I glance over at her patiently waiting on the bench for me and I want to yell in frustration for all the words I can’t say. Does she really mean it when she says she’s done with relationships? I’ve never even come close to having crazy intense feelings like this about anyone . . . what else could it be but love?

Does a love like this break you, or put you back together again?

I finally stop pacing and approach her. She looks up at me with wide eyes.

“Elle, I’m sorry.”

The corners of her lips turn down. “Why?”

“I can’t talk about this right now. I need some time to figure stuff out.”

She tips her head as she looks at me. “Can I help you? I’d do anything to help you.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Thank you. I think I just need some time to get my head on straight.”

“Alone time?” Her brows knit together.

“Yeah, that would be best.”

She casts her eyes down at the ground and I notice her hands tighten on edge of the bench. “Does this mean you won’t come to Stella’s wedding with me?”

I slip my fingers under her chin and lift up so she’s looking at me.

“I’m taking you to the wedding. I promise.”

Her eyes have a gray tint, like the blue color has faded along with her spirit. “Thank you.”

I sit down on the bench next to her. “Look, you’ve got a crazy week ahead with all the wedding stuff. Just focus on that and a week from Saturday I’ll pick you up and I promise we’ll have a great time.”

Standing up, I reach for her hand. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

She joins me and takes a step toward the door but then turns and puts her arms around me. I hug her back, and from that gesture she sinks into me and runs her hand down my neck until it rests on my chest.

“I’m so sorry if what I said hurt you. You’re the last person in the world that I would want to hurt,” she whispers.

“It hurt. But you’ve got to be honest with me.”

She presses her eyes shut tight at my words. “I’m selfish. It’s just sometimes I lie in bed and imagine us together. I remember how turned on I was when we kissed that one night and how perfect it was when you held my breasts in your hands. And then I fantasize about how it would feel with you inside of me . . .”

My heart is thumping. Why is she doing this to me?

“Elle,” I gasp.

“I don’t even read my erotic books anymore, I just think about you.”

I run my hand down her back and it takes everything I have not to slide my hand down to her ass and tug her against me.

She leans farther into me and the heat between us is overwhelming. I’ve never wanted anything more than to pull her into the house and make love to her all night. The undercurrent of my passion for her is off the charts. Surely she can sense it burning through me.

I can feel everything so acutely—her breasts against my chest, her leg sliding between mine and pressing in all the ways I want her to.

She skims her lips against my neck. “I can feel you, Paul. I can tell that you want me . . . or at least your body does.”

I swallow thickly as she rubs against where I’m already so hard for her. “Is just sex enough for you?” I ask in a low voice.

She looks up at me with a hopeful expression. She’s misread the tone behind my question. “Enough? Sure it’s enough. That’s all I want.”

I shouldn’t be broadsided but I am, and I can’t make sense of any of this. The one thing I know is that sex with Elle without the rest would never be enough for me. I gaze at her, hoping to get a glimpse of anything more.

She pulls away. “Damn. I’m so selfish. You said you needed some space and I throw myself on you. I’m sorry.”

It hurts like hell to agree but I nod. “Just a little time. Okay?”

She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Okay.”

After the door closes behind her I walk slowly back to my car. I’m so damn pent up. In the old days I would have gone directly to a club I used to frequent on Sunset Boulevard where my choice of hook-ups was a given.

Instead I head home for the longest shower of my life.

Chapter Eighteen

PLEASE AND THANK YOU

It’s a long weekend and I try everything to get a grip. I even go to church Sunday afternoon and sit in a pew for almost an hour hoping to get answers that I can’t figure out on my own.

By Monday I’ve got to face the fact that I still have nothing. We’ve flipped the traditional man/woman paradigm. Elle wants the sex with friendship, I want the love and complete relationship. How the hell did I end up being the needy one?

Tuesday, Elle texts me a picture of a horrific puffy, purple dress with ruffles and rhinestones. I can’t help but laugh at the accompanying message.

This is what I won’t be wearing Saturday. Thank God I’m not a bridesmaid.

Why do they want a bridesmaid to look like a sparkly bunch of grapes? I respond.

I have my theories.

Well, good thing you aren’t wearing that. It’d be a deal-breaker for me.

Oh, you’re not getting out of this wedding mister. Remember you promised.

And I always keep my promises.

She replies with a smiley face.

Wednesday morning—after a night of almost no sleep due to thinking about Elle—I consider going back to my Abstinence Until Love meeting, but then I realize I don’t even belong in that group anymore. I must be cured of my obsession with sex. Like Elle said, I’ve turned down three women recently that most men would be thrilled to screw. No, that apparently isn’t my problem anymore.

Instead what I need is EA—Elle Anonymous, since she’s become my obsession. She’s my constant craving, the cool water for my unquenchable thirst. I don’t know why I thought a self-imposed break from her was a good idea. It’s making me fucking crazy.

I literally have to grip the steering wheel extra-hard when I pull out of my garage so that I don’t turn my car in the direction of her house. In my weakest times, which are upwards of a dozen times a day, I pick up my phone and bring up her number just to see the picture of her I loaded there. This is followed by a battle of wills not to press the call button.

Yeah, I’ve become one of those guys.

Of course her little teasing texts only make things worse. Wednesday’s late-night text features a picture of what appears to be a wicker trash can shaped like a frog. She hasn’t attached an explanation.

What the hell is this? I text.

We’ve been drinking and voting on the tackiest wedding gifts Stella and Brandon have gotten so far. She has some distant relatives that apparently have a sense of humor.

So is this the wi