by Emily Snow
I hate him for that.
Almost as much as I hate myself for sliding open my nightstand drawer and reaching blindly for my vibrator. I don’t bother to remove my panties because it’s over almost as soon as it begins, my body buckling beneath the hum on my sex. As I crash, I think of Jace. Of his demanding mouth and his rough touch in my hair and pressed against my skin. Of the way I’d wished he hadn’t left earlier today and how I’d escaped to the restroom for longer than necessary to catch my breath.
Because that kiss with Jace—I remember everything about it. Every stroke of his tongue and brush of his fingers. Every second, period.
And it’s a memory I’m not sure will go away, no matter how much I pray it will because he’s made it evident where we stand.
FIFTEEN
JACE
Every time I look at her—and unfortunately for me, it’s too bloody often—vivid images shoot through my head. When she comes into my office on Tuesday to tell me that Allene wants to interview me on her show next week—for a post-Valentine’s Day special—I picture my hand undoing that prim ponytail falling over one shoulder and the other on the slim column of her throat.
My fingers spasm on my desk.
“I’ll check my schedule,” I say, and she flicks her tongue over her bottom lip, skimming it from one side to the other. She’s wearing red lipstick today—the same color she wore the night of Bailon’s party. My thoughts creep from kissing her to the way she’d molded that curvy body against the glass in the voyeur room so she could watch. She hadn’t been able to look away then, and I can’t now.
I want to watch her. I want her bound and bucking against my tongue and fingers. Then I want more of her.
“You can go now, Williams.” The sooner she leaves, the faster my cock will recover from her presence.
She doesn’t budge. Instead she taps her fingers anxiously on my desk. “Do you think you might not be able to do the interview?” Those hands. Since she first walked into my office, I’ve thought of Lucy Williams in a hundred different positions, but the need to possess her has gotten worse since I touched her, since I tasted her.
And it all started because I asked to use those hands.
“Jace,” she whispers, snapping my attention away from her fingers. “I can email Allene and let her know that—”
“I said I’ll check my schedule.” She flinches at my harsh tone, then wets her lips again. “And don’t do that.”
“My lips are dry.”
“Then buy some Chapstick or pick another lipstick, Williams. I pay you well enough,” I growl because I’m a split second from telling her to close the door so I can clear my schedule right now and wet her lips for her. “Christ, love—” I start, but she nods curtly and stands, filling my office with her sweet scent.
“Let me know what you decide about Allene.”
She leaves without another word, which is better for her.
Better for me.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when my hand is pumping my cock later. But when I close my eyes—right before I blow my load—her face is the only one I see.
“Williams, get over here.”
Her shoulders tighten, but she turns from her office door and approaches the workshop tentatively. I pull off my safety glasses and stuff them into the back pocket of my jeans. “Is there something you need from me?”
A good, hard fuck. My name on your lips. Your taste on mine. There are so many things I need from you, Lucy, that I’m close to exploding.
“Your opinion.” I nod at the gleaming metal table separating our bodies. After sleeping like shit last night, I came in a few hours ago to finish Bailon’s table. I had planned to call him to let him know, but I lost interest the second I saw that she was thirty minutes early. “What do you think?”
She takes a step forward and skims her fingers along the ankle restraints. And she trembles. Fuck, it shouldn’t get to me that she does that, but it does and my dick rises to the occasion when she faces me with parted lips and hooded hazel eyes. “Is this for Mr. B?” I nod and move close to her, and her breath hitches. “It’s … nice.”
“Nice is for the metal fence in your backyard, love. This—this is a masterpiece.”
“Confident, Exley?”
“About this I am.”
She traces her finger along the ankle restraint and then crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you delivering it today?”
“In a few weeks.” Gripping the edge of the table, I lean against it. Her gaze follows, stopping at my bicep. “He’s unveiling it at one of his parties.”
“I see.” When I shift, causing my muscles to flex beneath my flannel sleeve, she blinks and swallows hard. “He’ll love it. After all, it’s a masterpiece and—”
“Look at me, Williams.” What a stupid fucking thing to say to her. But I want her eyes on mine. Want to drink in the sight of her because if I can’t have her—won’t let myself have her—at least I can look at her. “I wanted to apologize for being a shit yesterday.”
Keeping her arms crossed over her tits, she tugs on the top button of her red blouse. “It’s fine. Did you have a chance to check your schedule?”
I slide closer, breathing her in, memorizing her scent. “Look at me, Williams.”
“I’d really like to give Allene an answer today so we can make sure it’s advertised properly. This is such a fantastic opportunity for EXtreme, and—” She gasps as my fingers close around the hand clutching at her buttons. “Jace…”
“If it’s in your way, love,” I start, pushing her hand aside. “Just undo it.”
With a flick of my thumb, the first button parts, exposing her creamy skin. It’s another mistake on my part, and we’re both silent for a beat as she stares down at the tattoos on my knuckles. Finally, she tilts her chin up and our eyes meet. “The interview…” she says hoarsely.
When the sound of Griff and Daisy’s voices pour into the workshop, and I catch a glimpse of both out the corner of my eye, I drop my hand from her blouse. “Schedule it for anytime next week, and I’ll make sure I’m there.”
“Perfect.” She takes a step backward and splays her fingers over her collarbone, rubbing them vigorously over the spot I’d touched. “You won’t regret it, Jace. I promise it will be great.”
But I’m already regretting it.
Regretting hiring her.
Regretting touching her.
Regretting that I can’t have what I want from her.
SIXTEEN
LUCY
8:32 AM: A BDSM shop, Luce? You’ve got to be shitting me. Is this why you’re not coming home to SF?
“Son of a bitch.” I glare down at Tom’s text and the screenshot of my contact information and photo on our website’s staff page and shake my head incredulously. “Why are you texting me at 5:30 on a Friday morning?” Hell, why is he texting me at all?
8:33 AM: I know you’re getting my messages. We need to talk.
Pausing a few feet from my desk, I fire off a response—It’s not what’s keeping me from returning to San Francisco, but if you want to redirect blame… And we’re talking now. I have no desire to make it verbal.
I drop my phone into my purse and plop down in my chair, spilling coffee down the front of my white blouse. It’s lukewarm—I had picked it up before leaving Worcester over an hour ago—but I still curse aloud at the giant stain seeping through to my bra. "Can this day get any—" I start, but a voice, the one with the faint British accent that drives me insane, interrupts me from the hallway.
"Daisy said you wanted to talk to me." I glance up to see Jace striding into my office uninvited. Leaning one shoulder against the doorway, he nods to my top. "There’s coffee on your shirt.”
Sucking in a breath through my teeth, I grab a crushed paper towel and pat the stain. It only makes it worse, much to my irritation. “Thanks for pointing that out.”
“Was there something you needed from me?”
"I spoke to Allene last night, she
wants to do that interview on Thursday evening. You’re still fine with that?”
"I told you I was.”
"Good,” I say curtly. “I'll email her this morning to confirm that—"
"You’re going with me, Williams," he says.
I pause from vigorously rubbing at the coffee on my blouse. "Why?" I don't like the breathless edge to my voice one bit, but if he notices it, he doesn't point it out.
"Because you signed me up for this mess, and it's only fair for you to follow through. Isn't that what a good marketing manager does?"
Yes, but most good marketing managers also don't take photos in restraints and follow up by making out with their boss. I release a harsh breath, which draws his dark brows together.
"Will that be a problem?”
"Nope." I scrub harder, disintegrating the paper towel. "No problem at all."
He takes a step toward me. His steely blue eyes are intense, focused on my blouse as if he has X-ray vision. My nipples pebble beneath his stare, and the muscles in his shoulders bulge in response. He moves closer, parts his wonderfully full lips. I know he’s seconds from saying something that will rock my world. It’ll be something that will make me forget that my morning started with a text from Tom. Something that will only intensify the hold he’s had over me for the last several weeks.
“You’re still wet,” he says at last, shattering what’s left of my ability to breathe just right. “That napkin’s not doing much to help.”
I fist the paper towel and wait until my heart stops pounding against my throat to speak. “I have a conference call this morning. After that, I’ll run out and grab something else to wear.”
“No.” He slams his blue eyes closed, and when he speaks again, his voice is rough, scraping over my skin. “I don’t want you to do that.” I’m speechless as he shrugs out of his green flannel shirt, revealing a plain white tee underneath. For a long pause, my only movement is the sharp rise and fall of my chest, but then I flinch when he holds the flannel out to me. I don’t take it—hell, my hand is still frozen around a damp paper towel—so he opens his eyes. “I have another in my office.”
I shake my head. “I really don’t mind going out to buy another—”
He drops his shirt on my desk. “It wasn’t up for discussion, love.” Then, he pulls a move that’s typically Jace: he turns on the heel of his boot and stalks out of my office.
“Motherfucker.” I stare after him for far too long, until my heartbeat returns to normal. I jerk his rumpled shirt off my desk. “Yeah, screw you too, love.”
I change shirts a moment later, grateful Jace’s is so large because my bra is just as drenched as my blouse and I’m left completely bare beneath the soft green fabric. I tie it at the waist, my touch lingering on the buttons at the hem. I imagine Jace’s long, tattooed fingers working over them this morning as he got dressed. And now, I can smell him.
All over me.
His scent overwhelms me for the rest of the day, and even after I go home and shower that evening, he remains.
“Heard you booked Exley on a sex show.” Ash is behind Daisy’s desk when I come in from the cold on Monday morning, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pecks at Daisy’s tablet. “That true?”
“It is. Where’s Daisy?” She’s usually here before me, and it throws me off seeing Ash in her chair.
“Theo’s sister got married over the weekend. They’ll be back in town tomorrow.” Just as I reach for the doorknob to the workshop, he clears his throat, stopping me. “So, about that sex show … you know we’re all going to call in and give him shit, right?”
“Define all.”
“Well, Griff and me.”
Turning from the door, I drop my laptop bag and purse on one of the chairs by the desk. “Ashton,” I say sweetly, leaning over him. He lifts his chin until our eyes meet. “If you or Griff even think about calling in to give Jace anything but glowing support, you can say goodbye to this.” I pluck the top of his man bun, and his eyebrows jerk straight up.
“You’re threatening to cut my hair if I heckle Jace?”
I stand upright, running my hands over the peplum waist of my black dress. “Or hire someone to do it for me.” When I don’t crack a smile, he makes a face and mouths What the fuck, Williams? “Either way, don’t screw this up for him. It might benefit you in the long run, and I’d hate to see you or Griff hurt the company by acting like … children.”
“Shit, Lucy,” he laughs. Shaking his head, he shoves away from Daisy’s desk and stands. “You really are a shark.”
“When it comes to this, I am.”
“I’ll let Griff know that you’ve put out a hit on our hair if we—” He pauses, his gaze wandering over my shoulder and landing on something that makes him twist his lips to the side. “Exley’s shirt is hanging out of your bag,” he muses.
Shit. I’d tried to stuff the damn thing completely in my laptop bag when I grabbed it out the dryer this morning, but it wouldn’t fit. “I’m returning it to him.” A huge grin threatens to split Ash’s face, but I shoot down his assumptions immediately. “He loaned it to me on Friday—after I spilled coffee on my shirt.”
“And here I was thinking you were returning it after—” But whatever he’s about to say is lost when the workshop door flies open and Jace stalks into the reception area, his bronze features twisted in an angry scowl. He paces for a moment, gripping his hand to his chest, and releasing a steady stream of curse words. It’s not until he stops moving that I see what he’s so pissed off about.
He’s clutching a bloody towel in his hand, and there’s also blood splattered down the front of his gray tee shirt and jeans.
“Holy shit,” I gasp. I hate blood. I’d considered going into medicine but reevaluated that decision when I realized that watching OR scenes on Grey’s Anatomy turned me into a queasy mess. Still, I can’t stop myself from rushing to him and drawing his hand into mine. I unwrap the towel, and my stomach and chest furl together at the sight of the gash running along his palm. “What happened?”
“I got into a nasty row with a piece of metal,” he says dryly. “The bastard won.”
Fighting the nausea building in the back of my throat, I wipe around the wound in a pathetic attempt to see how much damage he’s done. “We need to get you to a hospital. Just in case you need stitches.” He chuckles, and I snap my gaze up to his blue eyes. “What’s so funny?”
“Exley doesn’t do hospitals. Although, for you … he just might.” Ash says, and I cast a dark look over my shoulder at him. He winks then ducks into the workshop. Leaving me alone with our bloody boss.
Dammit.
“You really should get this looked at.” I wrap the towel around his palm again and take a step away from him because his presence is still an intoxicating distraction—even when he’s bleeding all over the place. “It won’t be funny if it gets infected.”
“It’s just a cut, Lucy. It hurts, but it’s nothing peroxide and a bandage won’t fix,” he says as I grab my bags and start toward the workshop. “And since Daisy’s got the key to the supply closet with those items and she’s not here, you’re taking me to get what I need.”
Once again, I freeze with my hand on the doorknob. “Wait, what?”
“It’ll only take fifteen minutes, love.” My heart slams into my ribcage because the last time he said that—the last time he asked for my help—he’d ruined me for any other man’s touch and kiss. When I don’t budge, he makes an exasperated sound from behind me. I hear the front door open, and a second later, a bitter chill kisses the back of my neck.
I decide to blame the goose bumps covering my skin on that. The cold.
“Let’s go, Williams,” he drawls. “Before I bleed out and you have to do that lovely interview for me.”
I expect to drive him to a drugstore, but he surprises me when his turn by turn directions lead us to a brick row house a few blocks from work. “Are you coming in or are you planning to stay out here listening to�
�—he rubs his good hand over his dark beard and waggles a thick brow—“Craig David?”
He had spent the last few minutes giving me hell about my playlist, and I cast him a dark look. “I like this song.”
“Yes, and you like Joe Mayer, too. I’m very aware of your musical tastes.”
“For starters, it’s John Mayer, but you already know that. And Craig David is from England. Don’t you want to support your fellow countryman, Exley?”
“One Direction’s from England too, love, and they’re also a hard pass.” He lifts his injured hand, waving it around until the sight of the bloody towel clenches my belly. “Get out of the Jeep. The faster we take care of this, the faster we can get back to work and you can stop looking at me like you’re going to be sick.”
I turn off the ignition but stay firmly rooted in my seat. “Who’s house is this?”
“It’s mine. Now get out.”
As he lets us into the row house, I mention that I thought he lived in Framingham—where we ran into him at breakfast—but he shakes his head. “Theo and Daisy live in Framingham. I live here.”
I walk backward into the foyer. It’s painted a subtle shade of blue—like his eyes—and the scent that seemed to linger on my skin from his shirt envelopes me.
Damn, I should have waited in the car.
“It’s very close to the workshop,” I murmur.
He kicks the front door closed behind him then decides to steal my breath away by dragging his gray tee shirt over his head. When he shrugs and tosses it in the corner, I bit the insides of my cheeks at the way his muscles flex. “I like being close. Come with me because I might need your help.”
Numbly, I follow behind him, trying to stare at the back of his head instead of the tattoos covering the thick muscles of his back. I fail at that. I fail so damn hard that I nearly run into him when he abruptly stops in the kitchen. His good hand closes around my upper arm, steadying me, and I swallow the gasp. “You’re not going to faint on me, love?”