by Lily Zante
The sight of her slim naked waist is a mating call to every cell in my body. She’s done it again. Disrupted my best-laid plans. I don’t know what to admire more, the fact that she can stand upright without toppling over or the beads of sweat on her back.
“When did you get back?” I ask casually, as I get up and walk towards the treadmill.
“What?” She breaks the pose so that both feet are firmly planted on her mat. She also looks pissed that I’m interrupting her workout, but I need to know. “What time did you get back?”
“Why?”
She’s annoyed at me. At first, I’m surprised, but then I remember. I told her we couldn’t continue with what we were doing. I more or less laid the blame on her and now I want to make amends. “I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“Why?” She takes the top off her water bottle and takes a long sip. With her chin tilted like that, her neck is elongated, and I wonder what it would be like to kiss her there.
I start walking on the treadmill. “Because we’re both in here, and I’m trying to be polite.”
She doesn’t answer. She looks too angry to make conversation, and I should have known better. We get on with our workouts in silence.
Because I need the distance between us, I move away towards the corner where the weights are and lie down on the bench. This is easier, lying on my back on a bench, because it makes it almost impossible for me to look at her. Yet if I tilt my head, I can still see her reflection in the mirror.
Fuck.
This is way worse because now she’s lying on her back with her legs straight up in the air. I can’t help but watch her. I’m mesmerized admiring her cute butt as she does little crunches by lifting up with her hips.
My heart rate spikes further when her legs fold over her stomach so that her toes are touching the space on the floor next to her head. Crablike.
Fuck, no.
That familiar twitch in my pants is back. Tiny beads of sweat start to slowly form along my hairline.
She’s doing this on purpose because she knows how it affects me.
I decide to do the same to her and work through the various weight machines. We work like this quietly, pretending to ignore one another. The atmosphere is strained.
She catches me looking at her as she bends over to pick up her water bottle again. “What?” she snaps.
“Nothing. I was just—” I don’t finish the sentence because it would be rude to tell her that I was admiring her figure.
She takes a step towards me. “You were what?”
“Nothing, I was just—” Her gaze dips to my biceps as I continue to pull the weight down smoothly.
Two can play at this game. If she’s going to give me something to stare at, I’m going to do the same back.
We’ve crossed a line somewhere. This isn’t how a boss and his housekeeper communicate, but my twitching cock reminds me that that’s not who we are any more.
“Why are you in here?” Her face twists. I’ve never seen her this angry before. “You never come here this early.”
“I live here. This is my house.” Technically it’s not mine, and I wait for her to point this out, and when she doesn’t, “You seem angry with me, more so than usual.”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?”
I have an inkling but I’d rather hear it from her. “Please do.”
Angry lines form on her brow. “I don’t want your small talk. You don’t have to make polite conversation just because we happen to be in the same room together. It seems pathetic, after what you said the other day.”
I knew it. “You’re mad at me for saying we had to stop.”
“I’m mad at you for implying that I was the one who had designs on you,” she protests.
“I can’t focus with you around.”
That seems to hurt her. Something flickers in her expression and I regret what I’ve said. I don’t mean to say that. I need her around me. I want her around. I want something different. I want to say I’m sorry for saying what I did, but I can’t. Words like that, in situations like this, don’t come easy.
“I’m staying out of your way like you asked me to,” she snaps. Simmering rage and resentment heat up the charged pathway between us. A sheen of sweat glistens on her skin, like the beads of perspiration on her face.
“I can’t work for you anymore. I… I … I’ll quit. I’ll quit as soon as I find something else.”
Quit? What is she talking about? She can’t quit. But she stomps out before I can say something to make her take back her words.
There’s no way I will allow her to quit.
Chapter Thirty-One
MARI
* * *
I raise a shaky hand to my cheek. Why did I say that?
Silly, silly, silly woman.
I’m in no position to quit and I can’t even take it back. I’d rather gouge my eyes out than go begging to him.
But at least I haven’t quit with immediate effect. I gave myself some leeway. I had the sense to say I would leave as soon as I found something.
But I wanted to say something. I needed to shock him. How dare he start talking to me as if everything is fine?
How dare he?
I hate him.
I hate that miserable, bad-tempered and rude excuse for a man.
I can’t even figure out what it is I feel for Ward Maddox. Is it hate, or something more complicated? I tried to not watch him lifting weights but every so often I’d steal another look at him. I would feel the rush of blood through my veins as I ogled his body. I blame the sight of his muscles pumped to the max as he showed off in front of the mirror.
Even now, I’m a throbbing, pulsating heap of nerves. “What are you doing?” I hiss at myself in the mirror. I tilt my chin. I try to see myself through Ward’s eyes. I look slimmer, and more toned in these clingy gym clothes. He saw me like this.
I changed my yoga routine to incorporate some sexy poses that I knew would make him want me. I needed to know if he did, but I’m the one who’s turned on. Not him. He’ll be back at his desk getting on with his writing before I’ve even showered.
I stare at my reflection. I am so far removed from the woman I used to be. Losing my job knocked me sideways. Getting this job has made things worse. It’s hard, worrying about money, my mom and her health, and having to contend with my plummeting self-esteem. To then have this hate-love thing going on between me and Ward is harder still.
I can’t handle it, and I see now that neither can he.
I’m going to call Danny and ask if he wants to meet up. That’s what I’ll do after my shower. Get out of here and spend my afternoon with a normal guy. See if he meant what he said about finding employment at the place where he is.
I stay in the shower for ages. The water crashing down soothes my mood, calms my beating heart.
I step out and dry myself quickly before wrapping a towel around me and bunching my wet hair up in another towel. I lie on my stomach, on the bed, and check my messages before I call Danny. I have a whole heap of messages from friends with many posting pictures from the party last night.
I’m still smiling when I hear a knock at the door, my mind still on the party and the selfies many of us took.
“Mari?”
I sit upright in a flash.
Ward is outside my bedroom
I jump up and look around for clothes, my frazzled brain trying to figure out why he is here and what he wants.
“Mari? We need to talk. Please.”
I hold a hand to my chest, keeping the towel glued to my skin.
“Mari?”
“What?”
“I won’t come in.”
“Can’t it wait?” I ask, even though I’m curious to know what he has to say.
“Don’t go. Don’t quit.” His muffled voice from the other side of the door reaches inside me and grabs a piece of my heart.
Don’t get too excited.
He doesn’t want you to go becau
se he needs a housekeeper, someone to feed him and clean his house.
I don’t know how to answer him so I remain silent. But I also need to see his face. I need to read his expression. So I foolishly open the door and catch a waft of clean, fresh mint and mountain rain.
I fold my arms tightly around me, feeling silly with my hair bunched up in the towel and sitting on my head like a pineapple.
His hair is also wet, and he’s changed into a new set of clothes. He stays where he is, hovering just outside my door, not daring to step inside. “Don’t leave. You don’t have to quit.”
I’m touched that this is what he’s concerned about. But I also have to get real. “I can’t stay here. I can’t work for you anymore.”
“You need this job,” he insists.
He’s right. “I haven’t quit right now,” I tell him. “I said I’d leave when I found something else.”
“But you don’t have to find anything else.”
His answer knocks the wind right out of my lungs. What does he expect me to do when he leaves Chicago? “I will at some point.”
“Just not now.”
His voice is softer, like it was on that lightning-filled night. It speaks to my core. My heart softens, the space between my legs getting ready for more of the nice Ward. I’ve already given in.
I need to face up to him. “You’re rude, and ill-tempered, and a jerk.”
He folds his arms. “I’m no good with people, but you already knew that.”
“You’re a difficult man to be around.”
“I’m a writer, not a social animal.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, my sassiness in full swing. The weight of the towel on my head reminds me that I look silly. I whip it off before running my hand through my hair, trying to straighten it.
“Is it that obvious?”
He steals a glance at my towel, the one I hold against me as some sort of defense shield. Not one to miss an opportunity, I take a quick look at his biceps. I love a man with strong arms, and muscles, and those lovely workout veins. Ward is slowly getting those arms.
I look up, but it’s too late. He’s caught me ogling him. “That’s not it, though, is it?”
“What?” I pull my towel even more tightly around me.
“That’s not why you’re pissed off with me. Why you weren’t in the mood to talk to me just now.”
I almost choke with exasperation. “You said we should keep away from each other. I was keeping away.”
His eyes twinkle. “I’ve been unkind, and I’m sorry. After that night in the study, I should have thanked you, but I didn’t. I pushed you away.”
I take a tiny step back, because his words are like an unexpected gust of wind.
“Do you accept it?” he asks. “My apology?”
“I only wanted to help you that night.”
“You did help me.”
“I never intended for that to happen.”
“Lap-dancing isn’t a skill set on your resume,” he acknowledges. If this is his idea of a joke, it’s a bad one. As if I don’t already feel bad about my reckless behavior.
“Sensual pen massage isn’t one on yours,” I throw back.
“I can give you another one, if you want.”
“What?” My wavering voice manages to utter one word.
“Did you like it, Mari? Me touching you like that?”
My mouth dries up, my throat, too. My heartbeat begins to thump, only it’s in the space between my legs, and not where it should be. If this is his idea of a joke … the bastard. He’s giving me hope, and just like that, he can take it away.
“You’re cruel,” I say. Because he’s playing with me. He’s so, so cruel. He’s feeling horny, so he’s come to my bedroom. He wants something. And I want to cry. He wants to use me, and …
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Mari. I can’t finish my book because I’m stuck on the story. I can’t get the image of you out of my head.”
I melt. Literally. My insides hollow out and turn into a great big ball of mush. Ward Maddox can’t stop thinking about me. He’s a man of two sides. A split personality. A tortured soul.
But you’re hurting too, a voice whispers in my ear. Don’t be fooled by his words.
And now that he has confessed his feelings for me, my nerve endings are jangling wildly. Are they his true feelings for me, or just empty words? I can’t tell, because I can’t think. Blood rushes to every orifice in my body and I suddenly feel lightheaded.
He’s a Jekyll and Hyde character, I remind myself. A beguiling combination of brooding and tortured.
I take another step back, but he doesn’t move. He’s not a threat, but I move away because I’m in danger of throwing my arms around him, especially now that I know he won’t stop me.
“Did you stay with Jamie last night?” he asks.
“Why? Did you wait up?” The few inches between us bristle with sexual energy. I feel it in my core. The pounding in my heart is nothing compared to the throbbing between my legs. My gaze lands on his broad shoulders. I feel the urge to run my fingers over his biceps.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I hated that you went with him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I wanted you here with me.”
My mouth falls open. I forget to breathe.
“I saw you in that dress,” he says, leaning forward. His voice is low and sexy, enticing and warm, like a lover’s kiss on a rainy day. His hooded eyes lock onto me, pulling me into him without him even touching me. “I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t write. I was good for nothing.”
This new revelation makes me gasp. In the space of a few minutes, Ward has revealed more about himself than ever before. I’m clutching at happy possibilities, wanting to believe all the good things, while pushing all the bad things out of sight. Everything he says makes my insides glow. His words intoxicate me. “So … so … you waited up for me, to do what?”
“To see you, to say I was sorry. To make amends.”
“Is this what you’re doing now, making amends?”
“I don’t want you to leave, Mari. I hate that you think it’s the only solution.”
“Then what do you want?”
“For you to stay.”
“But you’ve already told me you can’t concentrate with me being around. Seems like me quitting is the best solution for both of us.”
His jaw tightens, the tell-tale muscle flexing at the side. “Please don’t leave.”
I really don’t want to leave, not only because of the money I so badly need, but because there is something about this man which pulls me towards him. I hate him and want him with equal measure.
“I’m not good with people, Mari. I’m not a people person, but it matters to me what you think.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you. I care about what you think of me. I want ... I want to stay friends.”
The way he’s looking at me, all bedroom eyes and sultry voice, the way I feel about him, my heart clattering, my insides on fire—we both know staying friends is a huge, huge lie.
“I’m your housekeeper. I work for you. I make your meals,” I point out.
“I’m aware of that.”
He doesn’t want me to leave. That’s a huge load off my shoulders. I ditch my plans to call Danny. I don’t need to look for work. I don’t need to get stressed out all over again.
“You said you can’t write when I’m around,” I counter. “Why are you so eager for me to stay when you know I get in the way of your writing?”
“I’m almost finished writing my first draft. Rob said I could return home once that was done.”
We stare at one another, my gaze dipping to his lips.
I want his kiss so much. We haven’t kissed yet. There are other things we have done, but not that, and now I want to kiss him all the more.
One of us is going to have to make the first move. He can hold back better than I can—this man who says he’s no good
with people. I have less self-control.
“Friends?” I say, holding out my hand.
His heavy hand clasps mine. “Friends.”
We’re still holding hands, and I’m still staring at his lips.
“There will be no more help and support during inclement weather,” I say.
He grunts and grips my hands a little tightly. “I can’t run my pen all over your body?”
He’s putting ideas in my head. I gulp. “Not if I can’t reciprocate.”
He steps towards me, crossing the line separating the hallway from my bedroom. Now he’s in my territory, and my skin tingles with anticipation.
“Just friends?” I remind him, as he inches closer.
“Your call.”
A warning pierces through the haze of my attraction: he’s blowing hot right now, but what happens tomorrow when he blows cold and leaves me to suffer?
With a playful little tug, he pulls me towards him. That’s all it takes. In the next second, he hoists me up in his arms. My legs wrap around him as if they were already an extension of his body. Our lips smooth together, tongues meeting hungrily. He tastes fresh and minty, warm and sweet. I cling to him with my arms around his neck as his kiss deepens and I tumble headfirst into it.
My towel falls off, because my hands are elsewhere, around his neck, instead of guarding my nakedness. We both stop and gasp. I’m completely naked as I stare at his swollen wet lips. He sets me down even though I am panting with need.
I’m naked, and he’s in his sweatpants and t-shirt. It’s a little one-sided to me.
“Damn it,” he growls, devouring me with his eyes.
“How is this going to work?”
He bends down, brushes his hand against my cheek. “We make it work,” he whispers, kissing me softly again, his lips pressing against mine as if they belong there. His hands caress my sides, flitting from my waist to my hips and back again. It’s sensual, and tickly, and I don’t want him to stop. I splay my hands across his chest as we kiss. There’s no urgency now, or desperation. This is an acceptance kiss, one that tells him I want this, I’m okay with it. The kiss that leads to other things. The kiss that is filled with anticipation, desperation and lust.