Her eyes jerked to his, as if she’d forgotten he was there, but she obeyed, closing the door behind her and pressing her back against it. Her wide eyes darted around the apartment like she’d never seen it before. God, she looked like a caged animal. He himself was still feeling the aftereffects of the adrenaline rush that had powered him through the confrontation. He took a step toward her and she flinched. “Hey,” he said, speaking softly. “It’s okay.”
She started to shake. He saw then, suddenly, how very alone she was. Dead father—and one who hadn’t been much of a father at that, from the sound of things. A mother who was worse than useless. There was the best friend, he supposed, but where had that guy been lately? Jack was used to being alone. Preferred it, even. He was hard that way. But someone as vibrant as Cassie shouldn’t be alone all the time. It did something to a person, and he didn’t want that something happening to her.
He stretched out his arm toward her, and when she didn’t object, he took another step. He could reach her now, so he palmed her cheek. He kept his hand still—he didn’t want her to think he was coming on to her. He meant only to comfort. The touch seemed to change something in her because the hunted, defensive look slowly began to drain away as she locked eyes with him. But it was replaced by something just as bad. He watched her face crumple, and those big multi-colored eyes that he had once thought of as innocent welled up with tears. So many tears that they began spilling over in earnest—one, two, then too many to count.
“Hey,” he said again, gently pulling her off the wall and into his arms. He hugged her, though she was wooden and unyielding in his arms. But he persevered, and they stood silently. After a minute she deflated, softening as her arms snaked around his chest.
Then she began to sob, silent tears superseded by great gasping cries that echoed in his chest. He let her cry and held her tighter, a flashback overtaking him. He was thirteen, at a restaurant with his parents. His father was trying to make him calculate the tip, shoving the bill in his face, and his mother was pretending not to notice the confrontation.
The last time he’d cried.
Jesus, he’d like to get his hands on Cassie’s mother. He regretted now that he’d let her walk away without at least giving her an earful. Cassie’s hair fell over her face as she pressed her cheek against his chest. After a minute the weeping became less intense. Jack kicked off his boots and stooped, tapping her calf to prompt her to lift her leg. After he’d dispensed with their footwear, he led the now merely sniffling Cassie to the bed. Damn, this bed was awkward, wedged as it was into its alcove. He climbed over the foot, pulling her along with him, lying down and spooning her against his chest.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
“Shh. Just rest for a while.”
“You should go. I’m not going to be very good company tonight so you should just—”
“You’re freezing.” He didn’t think it was strictly true. She was still quivering, but more likely it was the aftermath of the confrontation. He worked the duvet out from under them and covered them with it. “Just lie here for a minute and close your eyes and get warm.”
He expected her to argue but instead she sighed a deep, shaky exhale. So he wrapped his arms around her, notched his chin over her head, and took his own deep breath. As she softened and burrowed back against him, he could feel the tension draining from his muscles, too.
It wasn’t five minutes before deep, rhythmic breathing told him she’d fallen asleep. He closed his eyes then, breathed in her spicy vanilla scent, and let himself go.
…
It wasn’t like in romance novels, where you wake up and for a moment have no idea where you are. Maybe you even make out with your bedmate in some kind of mysterious half-asleep zombie state before you realize you’re actually in bed with someone you shouldn’t be. Nope, when Cassie woke up she remembered precisely what had happened. And, more to the point, she knew exactly whose arm was slung over her, whose solid chest her cheek rested against.
Well, this is embarrassing. After her big speech about how this was going to be casual, she’d put him in a situation where he—Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Relationships—felt forced to stay the night. Without even opening her eyes, she could picture him, choppy hair all disheveled, a day’s worth of beard growth. Because she’d never closed the curtains, the west-facing room was flooded with enough sunlight to suggest a clear and well-advanced Monday morning. She shifted a little bit, trying to ease a crick in her neck without waking him up. His arms came to life and tightened around her, immobilizing her against his chest.
“Good morning.” Yikes, his voice was sexy first thing in the morning, all low and gravelly.
“Good morning,” she echoed, and he loosened his hold enough for her to tilt her head up to see his face. Yep—disheveled and wickedly hot. The sun glinted off his fair whiskers, making them look almost golden.
“Woman, you need a bigger bed.” Somehow, they’d drifted over to his side of the bed, and his back was pushed right up against the wall. “You’re one of those migratory sleepers, aren’t you?”
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, but when she tried to scooch back to her side, his arms tightened again. She’d been sort of half draped over his chest, her own chest and head cradled on his soft T-shirt, but now he hoisted her up so she was lying fully on top of him. He didn’t seem to be trying to hide his morning erection, which was apparent even through his jeans and hers. Ironic that they’d slept fully clothed.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She closed her eyes, embarrassed but resigned. “Yes. I’m sorry you had to see all that.”
“You’ve been paying for your mother’s rehab, haven’t you? That’s where all your money goes.”
There was no point in trying to hide it. It was plainly obvious from the exchange he’d witnessed. And anyway, she didn’t want to hide it from him anymore. It was too much work. So she nodded. She expected him to have a lot to say, to scold her, to berate Laura as ungrateful. Instead, he merely asked, “What will happen now?”
“Same thing that always happens. I’ll hear from her once or twice more in the next few days, and I’ll be all tough love. Then she’ll disappear for months. When she comes back, I’ll have talked myself into believing her when she says she’s ready to change for good.”
“And then you put her in rehab again.”
“Yep. Rinse and repeat.” She sighed and let her forehead fall to his chest. If only she could burrow into him for a while and ignore everything—at least until Christmas was over and school started up and life became busy and routine again. It was safe and cozy nestled against his chest, and he smelled good. There was something to be said for a lemon tree growing in a bog. But he would have to get to the office. And she still had a lot of work to do to get ready for the trip.
She pressed against his chest to lever herself off him, but his arms tightened, halting her progress. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She didn’t know what to say. I’m trying to extricate us from this super awkward situation? I need to remove myself from your person before I jump you?
“I believe I won the race up the stairs last night.” The sentence was delivered in a completely neutral tone, and his face did not betray any emotion. But all the same, the declaration made her catch her breath in response to the twinge between her legs.
“Don’t you have to go to work?”
One hand wormed its way under the waistband of her jeans and cupped her ass. “I’m the boss. I don’t have to do anything.” He rocked his hips into hers, grinding his erection against her.
She closed her eyes, allowing herself to revel for a moment in the pure, hot pleasure of her pelvis immobilized between his hips and his hands. Then they flew open at the unexpected sensation of his whiskers against her neck. He was gently kissing down her throat, and when he reached her collarbone he traced the outline of it with his tongue. A day away from his razor had left him with sharp, golden stubble
that tickled and tortured and made her nipples harden.
“Waking up in bed with a woman,” he rasped against her skin, voice as rough as his face, “should involve far less clothing.” As if to illustrate his point, the hand that wasn’t on her ass snaked up her shirt and around to her back. He was searching for her bra clasp. Locating it, he expertly unfastened it, and then the hand moved around to the front and gathered a handful of breast. It was a slow assault from all directions—one hand on her ass, the other kneading a breast, while his hips continued to grind against her. “But you’re right,” he whispered. “I probably should go to work.” An evil grin blossomed, and he gave a low, hard thrust that nudged her a startling amount of the way toward orgasm. And they were both still fully clothed.
Which suddenly seemed like a problem. “No way,” she said, pushing herself off him, but this time only so she could slide her hands under his shirt. When they made contact with his taut abs he hissed, as if she were burning him. “I want my money’s worth on our little arrangement,” she said. It was the simple, honest truth.
Sitting up, he shucked off his T-shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs before going to work on her clothing. Then he gently pushed her down so that she was on her back. “I won the race, remember?” Without waiting for a response, he kneeled over her.
And then his hands began to roam. Slowly, languidly, they made their way over every inch of her neck and down to her breasts. He flicked her nipples and then lowered his mouth to kiss away the tension his fingers had wrought. His hungry mouth had the opposite effect, though. As his tongue worked her nipple, she felt it in her core. A coil was twisting inside her, tighter and tighter, and the more tightly she ratcheted up, the more she needed him inside her, to ease the heavy ache that had settled between her legs.
“You like that, do you?” he whispered.
She found his shaft with her hand and stroked it, coaxing a ragged groan from him even as he continued to work her nipple with his tongue and teeth. Shamelessly, she thrust her hips up as she tried to guide his cock toward her, a clear invitation. He moved her hand off, and she let loose an involuntary cry of frustration.
“Not yet,” he whispered, letting his hand drift down and tangle in her curls. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more—when she would come from the feel of his mouth on her breast alone, he moved his lips to her other nipple. But the relief was only momentary. As he took the second nipple into his mouth, he parted her folds and dragged a finger from her clit to her opening. “Oh my God, you’re so wet,” he choked out, sounding half strangled.
“There are condoms in the bedside drawer,” she said, hoping to urge him onward.
“Patience,” he said, having gained control of his voice.
“No,” she said, though she knew it was pointless to argue—he won the race, and he wasn’t going to give up control.
And so on and on it went. He would take her to the brink and retreat just long enough for her head to clear so that she was able to fully grasp how totally and completely frustrated he was making her with the ceaseless torture. He’d allow her to touch him, but only a little. Then he’d groan and push her hands and mouth away and renew his measured assault. He wasn’t kidding about the “in charge” business. He wasn’t being stereotypically dominant, though. In fact, it was all very disciplined and controlled and slow—unlike their past couplings. But he was definitely playing her like a violin.
Then, finally—finally—after it seemed hours had passed, he had two fingers inside her, stroking her. She lifted her head up from the pillow, enough to make eye contact. He nodded a little, as if acknowledging a message she wasn’t consciously sending, and pressed his thumb down on her clit. The cry that ripped from her throat sounded otherworldly to her own ears, like it was coming from someone—or something—else.
The aftershocks were still quaking though her when she became dimly aware of him rolling on a condom, and then he was pushing inside her with a guttural cry of his own. She surged up to meet him, closing her eyes tightly and wishing she never had to leave this nest, this cocoon where nothing else mattered.
…
It was a long time before Jack came back down to earth. He’d intended to give her what she needed—a slow, attentive fuck to take her mind off her mother. A caring fuck, even, if he were that kind of person. He’d wanted to show her that she was worth paying attention to. Because whatever happened at the end of this incredible friends-with-benefits thing, she was a good person. She deserved to be happy and well-treated.
The ironic part was that he’d planned the whole thing out, insisted that he was in charge. And he had been. He’d purposefully resisted when she’d urged him to hurry, drawn it out, a slow, deliberate torture. And yet…he had a nagging sense that a person who was so calculating—a person in charge—should not be left feeling this positively gutted with pleasure.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Good idea.” If he had any hope of getting out of here without jumping her again, it was probably smart for her to use that mouth for something banal. Like talking.
Shooting him a bewildered look, she scrambled to a sitting position and put her T-shirt back on. It didn’t help. She still looked like she’d been fucked within an inch of her life.
“How did you discover Carl was stealing from the company?”
Well, that was unexpected. But still, a nice chat about Winter Enterprises’ problems could be just the distraction the doctor ordered. “I was working through a stack of mail late one night a couple weeks ago. Seth was on vacation, so we’d had a temp in. An invoice addressed to Carl mistakenly made its way into my pile, and I opened it before I noticed it wasn’t meant for me. It was an invoice for lumber.”
“Is that suspicious?”
“Not inherently. But I know the names of all our suppliers. All. Like, down to where we get our toilet paper. And I didn’t recognize this one.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yeah. It was called A-plus Construction, which is not a name I know.”
“And I would guess, being a developer, you know the construction industry pretty well. Plus, that’s, like, a name you would make up if you were inventing a fake construction company.”
“Exactly. And the address was a P.O. box, and there was no phone number.”
She groaned. “And nothing on Google, I assume?”
“Nope.”
“And the company turns out be registered to Carl?”
He nodded, glad she hadn’t asked how he’d figured that out, because he’d called in a few favors.
“Funny,” she said, scooting off the bed and heading for the kitchenette. “It all came to light because of a misdirected invoice. Because of a temp who screwed up.”
“Yes, and I’m aware of how stupid I am.”
“Not stupid. You trusted him.”
“I should have known better.” It was hard to say aloud. “There should be more than one person’s eyeballs on incoming invoices. Anyway, lesson learned. Of course, that set me off looking at everything. If there’s one fake supplier, why not more?” He paused. He still hated talking about it. She’d been nothing but kind, but his disability was a shortcoming. A serious one. “Everything takes me ten times as long as it should because I’m always second-guessing myself. Part of me still wants to think he’s doing some kind of creative accounting that I don’t understand, something that benefits us. Something he hasn’t bothered to tell me about.”
She shook her head from her vantage point by the sink. “Sorry, but I don’t think so.”
He sighed. As much as it sucked, it was kind of a relief to have someone else confirm his worst suspicions.
“Coffee?” she asked. “I’m making some.”
“No thanks. I should get to work.”
She turned, coffee pot in hand. “Would it be okay if I looked around for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m pretty familiar with your company now. What if I poked around a little mor
e, dug deeper, checked on the invoicing for the past couple years? Then when you call the police—”
“I won’t be a total ignorant idiot,” he interrupted.
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” She turned back to her coffee making. “Anyway, don’t worry if you’d rather not. I just thought—” She cut herself off with a slight headshake.
“You thought what?” Her head kept shaking. He had to get her talking again or the flapping of that evil dark mane would prevent him from leaving. “Tell me.”
“You helped me last night.” She flashed him a sheepish smile. “And this morning. So I thought maybe I could help you, too.”
The idea that she simply wanted to help him damn near took the wind out of him. He couldn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was embarrassingly raspy. “That would be great. I’d appreciate having at least a big-picture handle on what has been happening before I call the cops, knowing if there are any more suspicious suppliers. I was going to worry about that after the Wexler deal, but if you have time…I’ll pay you, of course.”
“I don’t want you to pay me. Can I just do you a favor?” She tilted her head, as if she were looking at a puzzle she couldn’t quite make sense of. “Is that against the rules? Having friends?”
Friends. His cock jumped. As if in protest? “Not against the rules,” he said. “Just not a lot of precedent. That Dax guy you met the other day is as close as I get, and he’s pretty much an asshole.”
She smiled then—a real one. “Well, we’ll muddle through.” When she turned back to pour cream in her coffee, she was all business. “Send me whatever information you think might be good for me to look at—don’t be picky, just send everything. I’ll start this afternoon. I’m at the bar tonight, but I’ll get back on it tomorrow.”
Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1) Page 10