Singe Read online

  “Ignore the mess,” Addie tells him, dropping her heels on a denim-covered beanbag chair and padding over to the kitchen in her stocking feet, opening the Reagan-era freezer and cracking some ice out of a tray. “Here.” She fills two glasses from the tap and hands him one of them, hopping up on the Formica countertop. Eli watches her throat work as he gulps, not entirely able to help it.

  “Hi,” Addie says when she’s finished, looking at him expectantly. Her mouth is very wet.

  “Hi,” Eli echoes. Slowly, he puts both hands on her thighs. The fabric of her dress is like an oven, all this heat radiating off her like she’s a human hot water bottle. Her hair would be warm to the touch too, he bets, inky-brown and sun baked.

  “Hi,” Addie repeats, quieter now that he’s close. She’s looking for a kiss, Eli can tell. It’s a way girls have of holding their faces.

  Shit where you eat, he thinks. David Manzella’s daughter.

  “We all good here?” he asks, leaning forward into her neck so he won’t be tempted by that wide mouth. He has to clear his throat twice to speak.

  Addie laughs, loud and jangly in his ear. “I’m good,” she declares, legs opening. She’s fidgety, wiggling on the Formica. “I should probably go re-apply deodorant before I let you any closer though.”

  Eli shakes his head, feeling the beer swim along with him. “No fair.” She smells good actually, that rosy perfume sweating off her and getting mixed up in the salt. He wants to strip her down and investigate all the damp places. “If I can’t, you can’t.”

  “Mmm.” Addie turns, nose smushing up against his cheekbone. Her breath is just slightly stuttery. “Okay then,” she says, soft. Eli is rubbing higher and higher up her thighs with each pass. “S’a deal.”

  Oh, fuck it. Fuck the arson, fuck the bad memories. Eli has both hands underneath her dress. “Deal,” he agrees and turns his head to kiss her.

  Chapter Two

  He’s good at this, Addie thinks vaguely, winding her fingers through the slightly damp hair at the back of Eli’s neck. There’s none of the first-makeout awkwardness. The last guy Addie dated, this grocery-store manager named Anthony whose mother is a friend of her mom’s, was kind of unbearably spitty. Eli—shit, Addie thinks, tilting her head back so he’ll press his mouth against her jawline, the faintest scrape of his teeth along the bone—Eli knows how to kiss.

  She lets herself sink into it, one leg hooked around the back of his knee and the warm weight of his hands on her thighs. They’re far enough away from her noisy AC unit that she can hear the zipping sound his short nails make as they run across her nylons, hear how his breathing’s gotten faster. When he bites at her neck, Addie lets out a quiet gasp.

  That makes him smile, the curve of it just as distinct against her skin as his teeth were. When he pulls back his eyes are warm and friendly, dark dark dark just like hers. “That okay?”

  “Umm,” Addie says, sounding noticeably breathless. God, she can’t believe she’s doing this. She’s definitely never just brought some random guy back to her apartment before—she’s never even had an apartment before, how she lived at home with her freaking parents until this past spring. Not to mention that this is Eli Grant of all possible randoms, arguably the sluttiest guy at Eleven and maybe even all of Berkshire County. Addie doesn’t know what’s gotten into her—the heat, maybe, or the tequila, or the morning spent kneeling in a pew at St. Bonaventure’s saying goodbye to a twenty-seven-year-old fireman. “Yeah.”

  Eli grins like she said something smart. He fits both hands around her calves and tugs, dragging her across the countertop. Addie’s hose are the only thing that keeps her from sticking. “Right,” he says, planting a kiss on her lower lip that is somehow both silly and businesslike. “Let’s try for better than okay, how ’bout?”

  “’Kay,” Addie agrees nonsensically. The yank forward has him pressing her hips open, not quite his belt but his stomach, the weight of it all against her inner thighs. Her dress is hiked now, Mary Mother. For no reason at all Addie thinks of The Friendly Giant, every morning on her grandparents’ rabbit-ears set before church, “Look up, my friends, waaaaaaaaaay up.” Screwing around in mourning clothes, Jesus Christ. Probably that’ll be an extra rosary.

  “You taste good,” Eli tells her, mouth opening against her collarbone. He has to hunch a bit to do it, how absurdly tall he is—Addie doesn’t know how she never noticed that before, Eli Grant’s tall, good body. Maybe she just wasn’t looking.

  She puts a tentative hand on his back, on top and then underneath his jacket, sliding her palm down to feel where the sweat has gathered at the base of his spine. The fabric of his dress shirt is limp. When she scritches, Eli hums like a cat.

  Suddenly Addie is impatient, a pinching ache in the cradle of her hips. “Let’s—” She pushes at his chest, trying to get him to move so she can jump down. “The futon, how about?” It’s underneath the AC unit, for one thing. Addie feels like alcohol is coming out her pores.

  “Futon works,” Eli mumbles, but then instead of getting out of her way he leans in closer, scooping her up right off the counter like she weighs even less than her little cousin, Paulina, who’s seven, and heading for the living room.

  Addie bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, is this your move?” she asks, tipping her head back to see his face more clearly. Her messy bun is done for, the elastic slipping right out and fluttering to the carpet. “The fireman’s carry? Seriously?”

  “Shut up,” Eli tells her, but he’s grinning. His arms are steady and strong underneath her, the smell of soap and sweat and beer. “It is kind of my move, yeah. I’ve never tried it on an actual fireman before.”

  “Oh no?” Addie asks as he sets her down on the futon. He’s a ridiculous person, honestly. Addie can’t believe she wants him to undress her as much as she really, really does. “Jim won’t let you do this, when you guys fool around?”

  “Oh you’re funny.” Eli gets one knee on the mattress and leans over her, looming a bit with this faintly amused expression on his face like he’s trying to decide exactly what to do to her and in what order. Addie feels her breath catch deep inside her chest.

  “Off,” she demands, reaching up and making a fist in his dress shirt. For no reason at all, she suddenly wants to stall, prolong the moment before Eli Grant focuses all his attention on her. “If you’ve got any stripper moves, now’s the time to shine.”

  “Get bent,” Eli tells her congenially, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over her wingback chair. His shirt is wet under the arms and around the back, faintly see-through. “You too,” he adds, starting to unbutton. “I seem to remember something about a strapless bra.”

  Addie shakes her head. “Gotta work for it, my friend.”

  “Oh sure, I have to.” Eli drops his tie on her chest, a coil of warm linen. Addie wraps it around both her fists, petting the heavy fabric. “You just sit back and relax then, princess.”

  He hangs his shirt over the chair too, shaking it out carefully; Addie doesn’t have the heart to warn him about the cat hair. Underneath it he’s wearing a tank, and for the first time Addie can see that the old burns at his wrists go up over his shoulders, raised and pink down his arms. They’re common among firefighters, burns like that, but Eli’s are the worst Addie’s ever seen.

  “That got you pretty bad, huh?” she says now, pushing at his chest with her stocking-covered toes. It must have been some fire, right through the protective gear like that.

  “Yup.” Eli pulls off the tank and she can see the burns fan across his chest too, just faint. His broad body tapers toward his hipbones, a trail of tawny hair disappearing into his waistband. “Pretty much.”

  Addie nods. His voice is not the voice of somebody who wants to talk about it. It’s probably something he has to explain to girls a lot. “Pants too,” she orders instead, planting her foot in the middle of his chest again, but this time Eli grabs her heel and pushes until her knee bends, getting one leg in between hers on the
futon.

  “Bossy,” he tells her, leaning down and sucking lightly on her tongue before sliding both hands underneath the dress she’s wearing, hooking his fingers in the elastic of her nylons. Addie shivers as he peels them off, rough thumb pushing against her bare instep. When his mouth takes over a second later, Addie gasps.

  “That’s better,” Eli says, stringing a line of kisses from her knee to her calf to her ankle. “I’m supposed to be working for it, you know?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Addie smiles. There’s something about how unapologetic he is that she likes, his easy smile. Still, when he reaches for the side zip of her dress she feels herself go just the slightest bit tense.

  Eli feels it too. “You sure?” he asks, voice in her ear low and quiet. “Addie.”

  Addie bites her lip. “Yeah,” she says finally, wrapping her bare legs around his. He’s okay, Eli. He’s not a bad guy. “I’m sure. So long as we keep it out of the firehouse.” Only then that sounds like she’s talking about a long-term thing, rather than a one-night stand. Not that it’s really night yet, Addie guesses. God, is there a five o’clock rule for casual sex? “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, princess.” Eli laughs, leaning in to plant a kiss under her jaw. His mouth is warm and chapped. “We have to keep it on the down low anyway, otherwise Jim’ll get jealous.”

  Addie busts up laughing, giddy relief more than anything. God, Eli Grant, his dumb jokes and his dumb player moves, you wanna get out of here at a frickin’ funeral. Letting him get in her pants for an evening really isn’t the end of the world. It might, she suspects, even be fun. “Yeah right, okay. Don’t worry, I’m discreet.”

  “I guessed that about you, actually,” Eli says, fingers worming their way back to her zipper. He’s watching her this time though, Addie can tell. He’s watching carefully. “You look like a girl who can keep a secret.”

  Addie grins. He’s such a bullshitter, talking to her in that bright coaxing voice like he’s trying to talk a cat out of a tree. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a wonder,” she says, arching slightly to encourage him. His hand brushes the side of her breast as he works the zipper down. “Listen though, I don’t have any…” She trails off. She should. As a modern adult woman, she should. She swore that was the first thing she was going to buy as soon as she moved out, condoms and a vibrator. She managed one half of the equation. God knows what it says about her. “Are you…?”

  Eli nods, like, of course. He has her zipper undone to her waist now, dress gaping at the side. “But we don’t need it just yet, do we?” he asks, peeling one thick strap down her arm. “Remember: said I gotta work.”

  Oh. Well. “I did,” Addie agrees, shifting her weight so he can get the other strap down too. It’s really more of an up-over-the-head affair, this dress. Watch it get stuck around her hips, that’ll be nice and charming. “That is a thing I said.”

  “So.” Eli is supremely unconcerned about potential wardrobe malfunctions or about anything else, it seems like, eyes flicking between her face and her bra, which is in fact black and strapless. Her boobs are pretty okay, Addie knows. “Let me work.”

  Addie laughs again, reaching up to run her palms over his chest and stomach, the raised tight skin where his scars are and the flat packed muscle down lower. She scratches lightly with her nails for the pleasure of hearing him inhale. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, lifting her chin to give him access to her neck and her collarbone and the pale soft tops of her breasts above the bra cups; he ducks his head and bites her nipple through the satiny fabric and it’s Addie’s turn to let out a gasp. “Do your thing.”

  Do his thing. Jesus Christ, this girl. Eli doesn’t totally know what to make of her is the truth. He thinks it’s possible she’s about to have sex with him ironically, the way Eli watches old monster movies or his ex-wife, Chelsea, used to listen to Taylor Swift. And it’s not that Eli minds, exactly—he’s into her now, Addie Manzella, her quick wit and the Jessica Rabbit body, all dangerous hourglass curves—but it’s not an attitude he’s encountered a whole lot of in his recent endeavor into encountering as many women’s attitudes as humanly possible.

  But Eli really likes old monster movies is the actual truth of it. Chelsea really liked Taylor Swift.

  So.

  “Come here a second,” he murmurs, sliding a hand underneath her back. Addie raises her arms as she sits up, thinking he’s after the dress, but it’s her breasts Eli wants. Her bra, specifically. It’s not the kind of underwear Eli expected to find hiding under Addie Manzella’s funeral blacks. Everything shifted when she sat up, reorganized itself, and now she’s resting so heavy and full in the molded cups it nearly kills him.

  “Jesus, Addie,” he says, abandoning the hooks for a minute to trace her. “Look at you.”

  That makes her smile, a real one. She reaches back to flick the clasp herself, a one-handed pinch the shoves everything up and out appealingly. Eli just can’t get over her skin, olive pale and sweaty. He’s leaning over to taste the freckles on her chest when Addie stops him.

  “Wait,” she says, peeling off the bra and chucking it in the direction of the beanbag. Eli starts to lean back in but already she’s reaching up again, this time for the clasp of her necklace, a delicate cross Eli’s noticed on her before. She sets it on the IKEA coffee table and does her earrings too, two tiny knots of gold. “Okay, now go.”

  “Now go?” She turns back toward him and Eli finally gets a good look at her. Fuck, but she’s a pretty girl, pink nipples and all that wild Renaissance hair spilling over her shoulders, a baby mole the size of a pinprick on the side of one round breast. It occurs to Eli that everyone’s body ought to be punctuated so nicely. It’s almost enough to make him forget to roll his eyes. “Oh I’ll go, princess,” he tells her, touching his tongue to the beauty mark because he wants to, turning his head a couple of inches to suck. She tastes just as sweaty-good as he thought.

  Addie gasps—that’s working for him too, the shaky breath on her, how it makes him wonder what exactly an ironic orgasm is going to sound like—and grinds her hips up into his rib cage, where he’s dropped down enough that he’s flush against her lower body. The dress is still bunched around her waist.

  “You like that, huh?” he asks, reaching up to knead one breast while he kisses his way down across her ribs and the soft plane of her stomach, narrow middle and the dramatic flare of her hips. Then, biting when she doesn’t answer, “Hmm? Addie.” She doesn’t seem like a girl inclined to give very much in the way of feedback, but Eli wants to get this right.

  Addie sighs noisily, shifting her weight on the futon. “I mean,” she mutters, eyes on the ceiling and that teasing, exasperated tone in her voice. “It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Oh no?” Eli smiles. It feels like a game now, how much he wants to get her to admit to something. How committed he is to making it good. “Lift,” he murmurs, fisting his hands in the dress and tugging ’til she arches her hips up. He takes her underwear too, when she does. He doesn’t get much of a look at them—plain cotton with a wide, lacy waistband—but it hardly matters because there she is, Addie Manzella buck naked on her crappy futon. The hair between her legs is even darker than the hair on her head, more than Eli’s seen on a girl in a while. She looks almost like a page from a vintage porn spread, the really old stuff that only comes in black and white, something about her curvy body just not quite of this century. Beside her, the futon seems space-age new.

  “Oh Christ, don’t just stare at me,” Addie complains, covering her face. Eli laughs and yanks her hand away, crawling back on top. Underneath her palm she’s glaring at him, dark eyes narrowed and those straight, boyish eyebrows drawn together. Her eyelashes are as thick as a doll’s.

  “You’re beautiful,” he tells her, which is the God’s honest truth. Addie rolls her eyes. She seems to be trying to keep her legs closed but Eli bends her knees back up anyway, fitting his hips in between. He’s going to work for it, he is, but right now�
�right now, his dick is fucking aching.

  “No, don’t,” Addie whines, twisting like an eel. For a second Eli’s heart drops. “I’ll get you messy.”

  Oh. Eli nearly laughs with relief. “What, princess?” he can’t resist asking as he undoes his belt. “Did the not-worst thing that’s ever happened to you get you a little worked up?”

  Addie groans, both hands up over her face now; she sounds like a teenager whose dad is embarrassing her at a family barbecue. But the idea has taken root now, the idea that she might already be—Eli stops what he’s doing.

  “Is that what’s going on?” he asks, swinging an unresisting leg open and running a hand up her thigh. His fly is down at least, breathing room. “Is that what I did? I work you up?”

  Addie huffs noisily. “You’re an asshole,” she accuses him. She’s watching him now though, Eli notices when he glances up at her, both hands fussing in her glossy, soft-looking hair. When he smiles at her, she smiles back like it’s in spite of herself. “I swear to God.”

  “Uh-huh.” She can call him whatever she wants, pretty much, Addie with her pinup girl body and her skeptical face. Her inner thighs are warm and damp, sweat or arousal or a combination of both. Eli feels his heart trip inside his chest. He flips his hand and opens her up, testing with just his thumb to start. He finds her clit and rubs gently for a minute, chances sliding his middle finger inside. Addie makes a soft, quiet sound.

  She is—fuck, she is tight.

  Wet too; Eli can smell her, private and sharp and mixed with that same faint perfume, gardenias maybe. He thinks there used to be gardenias in the yard when he was a real little kid. Eli wants his mouth between her legs just as bad as he wanted it on her nipples.

  “Here,” he tells her, wrapping his hand around her ankle and canting her leg as wide as he can get it, resting her slippery heel on a wrinkled Entertainment Weekly on the coffee table. Sliding his ass down the mattress and ducking his head.