Elizabeth Finn - Restoring Jordan

Inappropriate as my actions were, I at least now had a chance to fix the embarrassment I’d caused her during our lunch, or better stated, after our lunch when I lashed out. Even as I was reaching to her breast where I’d caught sight of the still attached size sticker, I could see her eyes widening and her breath hitching. She didn’t pull away. She wanted my touch, and while my body was responding as well and wanted nothing more than to stroke my finger over her nipple, my irritation from lunch and the challenge she’d given me pushed me to humiliate her. I regretted it instantly but didn’t realize until we’d arrived back at Foster’s just what pain I’d caused her, and now I’ve been obsessing about it for the past week.

When we arrive at the old warehouse that will become the trendiest new building in Lincoln Park and will be Adeline’s first project, we are met by Mark Lear. He is the developer who commissioned Foster’s for this particular restoration. His company, Trigg Enterprises, appreciates restoration rather than renovation with properties such as this, and I’ve always appreciated Mark’s enthusiasm for old architecture, but as soon as he looks to Adeline and then fails to look away from her, I suddenly hate him. For whatever reason, I’m jealous. All I want is to take her hand, pull her into my arms, kiss her sweet little mouth, whatever I need to do, quite frankly, to make it known to Mark she is off-limits. His gaze moves over her body in much the same way mine does, and as he studies her bottom, clothed in gray pinstripes that contour to the roundness of her cheeks, I want to punch him. When he pries her for personal information, I want to tell him to butt out, but I listen, hating him in my head.

Admittedly, I find out far more about her than I’ve managed on my own; Mark has no qualms with prying, whereas I’ve been reluctant to ask anything lest she realize just how interested I am to know about her. She’s from a small town in Iowa. She grew up out in the country on an acreage—not a farm. Her parents still live there, and she visits often. Her mother is an avid self-made decorator, and her father is retired from law enforcement. She’s an only child. The more I hear of her and the more my mental picture of who she is emerges, the more I want. It doesn’t really matter of course. She’s as off-limits for me as I want her to be for Mark, but it still hits like a punch to acknowledge this fact.

I want her. I don’t understand why, but I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in an incredibly long time—since my ex-wife left me, I suppose. We were only married two years before she announced at dinner one night she was in love with another man. I’m not sure I even blamed her. I was young. I was driven. I was working the pace of a madman. She was neglected, and my neglect is what drove her away. After her, it was easier to just keep things casual, and now it’s seven years later, and the first sign of life is beating through my heart. I don’t know Adeline, but I crave her anyway. She’s far too young, she’s far too innocent for an asshole like me, but I want her to belong to me, I want to protect her and fight for her, and I’ll be damned if I can figure out why.

She’s beautiful. Her curves are subtle and very womanly. She is nothing like the sophisticates I’m constantly surrounded by, and for some reason this draws me to her more. I believed her when she proclaimed her intelligence at lunch in desperation to gain a foothold with me. She’s intelligent; she wouldn’t have made it to Foster’s otherwise, but beyond that I see it in her. She’s feisty, but reserved. She’s unsure of herself, but proud as well, and she leaves me wanting to boost her and propel her forward in her life. I have no doubt she doesn’t need my help to succeed, but I want to be a part of her success anyway, and as my gaze trails after her as she walks with Mark, my body shivers in need to be close to her.

When we reach one of the condos under construction with the construction company we contract for our restorations, we stop in what will be the kitchen. This is her show now, and I stand back watching. She’s nibbling on her lower lip as she looks around. Her sketchpad is in her hand, and I’m rolling out the blueprints on a nearby workbench as she continues to inspect the space. When she approaches the workbench and starts looking over the drafts I’ve brought, she makes notes and writes dimensions and measurements. I can smell her subtle scent, and I want to touch her. Mark is still watching her like a hungry dog, but I’m zoned in on just her now. She knows her way around blueprints, and within moments she has the rudimentary shape of the room sketched out. It’s up to her to design the most functional and aesthetic layout of cabinetry and appliances, and it’s up to me to make it happen from a logistics standpoint. I’ve defined the room, she just has to fit her design within my shape; it’s such a perfect team effort and not one I usually appreciate so much as I do in this moment.

Watching her is intoxicating, and I nearly forget Mark is still present until his unwelcome voice interrupts the silence. He’s excusing himself to check on the progress of the construction, and as he leaves us in peace at last her eyes find mine watching her hungrily. She stills in an instant at the expression on my face. I’m making her nervous, and she has no idea my expression isn’t harsh in a bad way, but rather harsh in a sexually dominating fantasy sort of way. I force a gentle smile on my lips that are begging for her mouth, and as she returns to her work I continue to watch her.

Fifteen minutes later, she has a layout sketched. It’s good and exactly what I hoped to see, and I’m now excited to get her to the samples room to see where she takes her layout. We move on to the two bathrooms to tackle the layout there as well, and when we finally return to the workbench and the blueprints she starts reviewing her measurements. As I approach the bench, I stand beside her and breathe in her scent deeply. She’s wearing the same perfume I’ve come to recognize, and I study her hands as she continues to work. They’re small and delicate, her fingernails short, clean, and unpainted. She wears only one ring on the thumb of her left hand, and it looks antique. Those very hands caressed my body into a frenzy only two weeks ago, and I still remember her touch so clearly. She was hesitant but trying so hard to hide her fear. Her first grasp on my cock nearly had me begging to fuck her, and as her palm stroked up my length and her eyes studied my body, I felt more ecstasy than women with a hundred times her experience have shown me.

As Mark rejoins us, I chastise him in my head once again for interrupting us. He asks us to lunch, and I decline before Adeline has a chance to respond, but once we’re back on the road I take us to a nearby quiet hole-in-the-wall café. She smirks as I help her from the car, and I comment drily, “Shut up. I changed my mind.”

She smiles her precious sweet smile, and my cock stirs in response. I spend the meal taking a page from Mark’s book, asking her question after endless question about growing up in Iowa. Not only did she grow up in a small town but she also graduated in a class of less than thirty students; I had no idea that was even possible. Admittedly, I grew up in the city. She was an officer for her school’s chapter of the National Honor Society—nerd, and she was heavily involved in music and band—double nerd. But nerd or not, I’m drawn to her more and more with every passing divulgence.

When she turns the tables, I put on a brave front though I’m nervous of her delving into my life. We cover my private school upbringing in Chicago, the fact I’ve made my home in the same neighborhood I grew up, the fact my parents now live in France and only care to talk to me once in a blue moon, which is only marginally more than they cared to speak to me when I was a kid; I’m the epitome of latchkey, and as her sadness registers on her face I regret being so honest. I don’t want her pity even though it sends a warmth through my body. When she asks if I’ve ever been married, I tell her the truth, and though the question was hers to ask, she looks shocked when I tell her I have. When she asks why we divorced, with a hesitant look on her face and a nibble of her lip, I respond I’d rather not talk about it. And when the embarrassment reaches her face, I regret not forcing myself to open up more, and I reach for her hand and apologize.