The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

  The party grew louder around us as the clock neared its final countdown to midnight.

  Cole and I had inched so close, all I could smell were the delicious notes of his cologne, and all I could see were the intricate strands of colors in his eyes. I was out of my mind attracted to him, every millimeter of my body hyper aware of every millimeter of his. And when he leaned in to ask me a question, my response came a split second later.

  "Do you want to go find some place quiet to—"

  "Yes."

  He chuckled at my eagerness. And though I blushed, I really didn't care he'd noticed. There was something about this man's energy that emboldened me. It made me want to do things I would typically be too cautious to do. I'd always played it safe, always followed the rules. But that night, I wanted to finally have some fun.

  For the first time in my life, I saw myself having a one-night stand. I'd only ever had sex with college guys. Boys. But Cole? He was a man.

  And I could tell this man fucked as good as he looked.

  We made our way through the house and out to the massive backyard. There were guests milling around there, too, but Cole knew the property well. He led me around the pool house and to a section of the backyard obscured by tall shrubs. There was a beautiful wrought iron bench there, and a stone fountain. The lampposts on either side of us made the area glow amber in the dead of night.

  The moon was lost behind clouds, just as I was lost to my own fog of need.

  Cole and I stood facing each other, my hand still in his from when he walked me out here. The sounds from the party were muffled and distant.

  "Now we can talk," he said.

  "Talk? You brought me all the way here just to talk?"

  He bit his lip in an unsuccessful attempt to hide a grin.

  Fuck. He was so goddamn sexy.

  I knew I was practically throwing myself at him. And he'd have no way of knowing it was so unlike me. It's just, I could picture myself pulling up my dress and climbing on top of him…

  My breath caught in my chest when he set a hand at my waist. He eyed the buttons of my cardigan as though considering undoing them.

  "I did bring you here to talk," he said. "Because I like the sound of your voice, and I hated it kept getting lost in obnoxious, drunken laughter."

  His words were sweet, but my heart sank a few degrees.

  What did I think? That this guy who could screw any woman he wanted would choose to screw me? I wasn't unattractive, but I also wasn't blind. I had nothing on the women at the party. Compared to them, I was just a short, plain, nobody. And yet this man looked at me…

  The same way Grant looked at the woman he was desperate to be with.

  And yet he brought me here just to talk.

  Cole seemed to read my ridiculous disappointment in my body language, because he brought a finger under my chin and tilted it up to his.

  "You think I don't want anything more? Because I do. Of course I do." He bit his lip again, almost as though trying and failing to bite back words. "Talking isn't the only thing on my mind when I look at you. There's a part of me that's picturing what it would be like to touch you. To peel up that dress and spread those thighs of yours and feel you around my fingers."

  My pulse throbbed between my legs, and I had to squeeze them together at the growing burn. I wanted him so intensely and so desperately it felt reckless. And the recklessness was exhilarating.

  "Yeah?" I nudged, my thoughts spinning.

  "Trust me, beautiful. I've got solid proof of how much I want you. I'd show you, but…I did promise I knew how to treat a woman right."

  No. Please show me.

  No one had ever talked to me like that. No one had ever set me on fire with words.

  And no one had ever looked at me the way he did that night.

  Sounds from the party grew louder, people started counting down to the new year.

  Ten.

  Every bone in my body pleaded for him to treat me any other way but right.

  Nine.

  Because if him doing the things he described was wrong, then I sure as fuck didn't want to be right.

  Eight.

  I tried to say this, but the way he stared at my mouth rendered me speechless again.

  Seven.

  "I've got to be honest…," he went on, lowering his voice further as the countdown ticked on.

  The cold crept up my dress and between my thighs, making me aware of just how wet I was.

  Four.

  "…your lips, Mila…they're making it damn hard for me to be a gentleman."

  Three.

  "Then don't be," I breathed out.

  Two.

  And that was all it took.

  One.

  He sunk a hand into the back of my hair and bowed his head toward my face. And right as he closed the gap between our lips, his fingers curled and tugged at my strands, sending the most delicious sting running down my spine. His mouth crashed over mine and commanded me like I'd belonged to him long before we met. And when his other hand tugged at my waist, drawing my body flush to his, I gasped. His hard-on was massive and pushed back against me, until I physically hurt from need.

  I could barely hear the explosion of noise from the party when the clock rang in the new year. Cole and I were lost in each other. We kissed and kissed, forgetting the cold, forgetting the world. We kissed until snowflakes dropped down onto our faces, littering us and the grass around us in a thin sheet of white. And we continued to kiss until we could taste the snow melting against our heated skin. It wasn't until the snow picked up and became too thick to ignore that Cole finally pulled away.

  "Goddamn," he'd whispered against my swollen mouth.

  "Goddamn it." I slam my dresser drawer shut, trying to drown out the memory.

  I'm furious with myself for allowing it to take over.

  Furious for the sensations it can still ignite inside me.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Why won't my damn subconscious file those fucking memories under bullshit?

  My bad mood only lasts a few hours. By the time I get to work, my frustration and embarrassment have morphed into calm resolve. I'm determined to follow my typical routine, determined not to think of new kisses or old kisses, or anything in between.

  I'm busy enough that this isn't hard at all.

  Everything goes well until Andrew knocks on my door.

  "Morning," he says, peering in. "Do you have a minute?"

  "Sure." I stare down at my desk and move some folders out of the way, mostly for a chance to swallow and take in a subtle breath.

  Slipping in, he closes the door behind him, and heads toward my desk. He looks like a different person in his suit, polished and professional. The sight makes the memory of what happened between us seem like a distant dream, except for the tightness creeping across my body as he approaches.

  He's got a hand in his pocket, the other he brings up to drag across his lower face. Instead of coming up to the front of my desk, like I expect, he moves past it and around to where I sit. It's not unusual for him to sit on the inside edge of my desk when he comes by for chats. But this time my mouth goes dry.

  A small smile grows on his face when our eyes connect.

  "Hi," he says.

  "Hi…"

  I'm hesitant to say much else, not wanting to assume I know why he's come to see me.

  "It's a miracle I made it today."

  I tilt my head. "Why?"

  "I had a rough weekend suffering from a near fatal case of chronic blue balls."

  A laugh bursts from me before I can muster a serious face again. "Is that what you came to tell me? Because you asked me if I had a minute and now your minute is up."

  "Come on, Mila. You've gotta give a guy longer than a minute to work with."

  I start to speak, but he reaches for my hand and tugs me up and out of my seat. My empty chair slides back, hitting the other side of my desk. Andrew keeps my hand in his as he sits back on my desk. He guid
es me to stand between his parted legs.

  "So," he says, lowering his voice, "about the other night…"

  His hands settle at my hips, drawing me even closer, until our mouths are a breath apart and the air thick. My face betrays me by angling automatically toward his. My lips tingle in memory of our kiss.

  "We can't do this right now," I say.

  "I thought you made the rules around here." His hands inch down my sides.

  "You want me to write a rule making it okay for you to come into my office to put your hands on me?"

  "Is that too much to ask?"

  "I can run it by HR, but I'm pretty sure they won't think it's appropriate."

  "Fuck appropriate."

  Andrew's hands close over my ass, squeezing tight and pulling me in until our mouths connect. His tongue teases me and before I know it, I'm leaning into his kiss. My body relaxes against his, even as sparks ignite between us.

  Our kiss heats up too fast and soon the small brush fire is the size of the elephant in the room. Or, rather, the elephant in Andrew's pants. I graze it by accident once. Then again on purpose.

  There's no rum to blame this time.

  A reckless little voice taunts, just a little more. What harm could it do?

  Andrew's right hand moves around to the insides of my thighs as we kiss. His fingers work slowly to hike up my pencil skirt, inch by inch.

  Just a little more.

  "Do you know how many times I've thought about fucking you on this desk?"

  His words are a stroke between my thighs, sending a thrill through me, my whole body reeling from the thought of letting him screw my brains out. I crave the kind of mind-numbing pleasure that could wipe away my thoughts. It's been a while since a man has been able to bring me to orgasm.

  My hand gains a mind of its own, moving over his chest and down the front of his pants. He does not disappoint, feeling him in my hand makes my mouth water.

  "Hey, Mila? There's a—" Janet's voice coming from the phone speakers startles me "—a woman here to see you, Camille Roberts?"

  I push Andrew away and straighten, working fast to smooth out every part of my outfit. The room's suddenly a thousand degrees and I'm mortified at how obviously aroused Andrew is. I jab a finger toward his crotch, silently demanding he deal with it, but he lifts his hands in a shrug.

  He can't exactly smooth away his erection.

  "Mila?" Janet asks.

  I rush to answer. "Yeah, uh, sorry. I'm just finishing up Andrew—with Andrew. A quick meeting but…uh, just give us a minute."

  "Um, okay…" Janet clicks off the line.

  I cover my mouth, staring wide-eyed at Andrew. That might as well have been a billboard advertising an event that I didn't get to enjoy to its completion. Holy crap. That might have been the dumbest thing I've ever almost done. Andrew and I are acting like stupid hormonal teenagers. We need to get a grip on ourselves before someone gets hurt.

  Andrew seems amused by my desperation, but I'm relieved his erection is disappearing by the second.

  Fucking snakes, that's what penises are.

  He leans in to try to kiss me again, but I push him away.

  "Damn it, Andrew," I hiss under my breath. "Get out of here."

  "Come over tonight? You know, so we can talk?" I start pushing him toward the door, and he adds, "Or we can just rub our crotches together, whatever you'd like."

  I snort even before I decide to be amused. "There's nothing to talk about. You and I are not doing this. We are not hooking up. It's not what we do."

  "But—"

  "Out."

  Once he steps out, I reach behind my desk again, clear my throat, and let Janet know I'm ready for my visitor. It's not until Camille walks through the door that I'm hit with a realization of why she must be here.

  I greet her with a hug.

  "Is everything okay?" I ask. I wouldn't normally ask this, but she must know the expression plastered on her face.

  "Look, I can't stay long. I just… I have something to tell you but I'm not supposed to. Cole asked me not to."

  "Just say it," I mutter.

  "The gallery opening. The art. It's all about why he left."

  I blink like the words pelted me in the face.

  "Okay…" I scratch between my brows. "Camille, you didn't have to come all this way to tell me this."

  "No, I did. I need you to understand. The entire exhibit, it wasn't just inspired by you. It was made for you."

  I press my lips together, refusing to allow the cluster of words to pour from them. Camille said she doesn't have long, and my time is short, too. There's only one question I want to ask.

  "Why didn't he want me to know that?"

  "He wanted you to take it in, one piece at a time, until the end." She taps a foot as she speaks, her body showing signs of impatience even while her voice remains calm. "You will understand if you go. And you should know, he won't be there. He just wants you to see the art and understand."

  My eyes snap to hers. There's fire in my veins. Am I supposed to believe he's back now, after all these years, to offer me the answers I never got? No. That's bullshit. If Cole has something he wants to tell me, he can pick up the damn phone and tell me himself. He knows where to find me. He can march his butt right to my office and tell me to my face. But he's a coward. He sends an unsigned invitation and plots with our only mutual connection to get what he wants.

  "Jesus, Camille. I don't give a fuck what he wants. You can go ahead and tell him that, since you've volunteered to be his little ambassador."

  The words fly from my lips before I can stop them. Camille straightens the handle of her purse on her shoulder. Her fingers twitch.

  Why is she so restless?

  My stomach sinks. The pieces from when she and I met last week fall into place to reveal a bigger picture. Holy crap. Is Camille on drugs?

  I look away from her sullen face and swallow, more uncomfortable than ever. The signs could point to other things. She could just be under stress, overworked. We're no longer close enough for me to ask, and my guess is she'd lie if I did.

  "Cole didn't send me," she says. "Like I told you, he didn't want you to know this. But I thought you should know, in case you were looking for closure. Because, Mila? You obviously need closure."

  Closure is a trap. It's the little voice of addiction telling you to go back, one more time. As if some word, some act, some gesture could somehow change the outcome.

  "No," I say. "There's no such thing as closure. What happens, happens. You deal with the fallout and move on."

  Camille eyes me for several long seconds. I know the accusation on the tip of her tongue.

  But that's just it, Mila…you haven't moved on.

  ELEVEN

  ANDREW

  I'M SURPRISED WHEN MILA stops by my office.

  She's got her purse over her shoulder like she's heading out for lunch. My lips twitch, thinking she's changed her mind about what she said earlier. But the smile fades when I spy the far-off, distracted look in her eyes.

  "Hey, I have a question for you," she says. "Have you had any contact with Tobias Kreisler recently?"

  "No. Why?"

  She shakes her head, scrolling through her cellphone.

  "I've been trying to reach him all weekend. He won't respond to my calls or emails."

  "You're worried something happened to him?"

  "No, his assistant got back to me this morning. Says he's fine. I just…I guess I just thought…" She stares past me for a second, then blinks a few times.

  She thought he'd let her into his life more now that he's sick. The man's warmer toward Mila than he is to anyone else, but that's not saying much. Though Mila would never admit it, she idolizes the man. She's never wielded his name for gain, but there's no doubt he's been a huge influence in her life. I have my suspicions Tobias and Mila's mother did a lot more than read cards together, but I've never said as much. If Mila hasn't figured that out, it's because she doesn't want to.r />
  "Give him time," I say. "I'm sure he's still processing. People don't just rebound after having their world rocked like that, I don't care who they are."

  She holds my gaze for a moment too long, like she's reading more into my words.

  "Yeah, it's a lot," she says, that faraway gleam is still in her eyes. She seems to zone out for a few seconds, then says, "Do you want to grab some lunch with me? I'm still working on my speech for Sunday—you know, in case I win—and it just doesn't feel right. I want to get your thoughts."

  "Of course, I'd love to help."

  "Full disclaimer, I'll be ignoring you most of the time while I keep working on it."

  "I've got some stuff to catch up on, too." I lift the tablet in my hands. "I'll choose lunch with you ignoring me over lunch without you any day."

  Her eyes flick to the ceiling, but she smiles. After what happened this morning, I never expected her to seek me out. We talk about work all the way to the elevator. Two other people from our office hop onto the elevator before the doors close. Had we been alone, it would've been hard not to touch her.

  Out on the street, Mila and I pass a construction site and head to the deli we frequent. She's been impossible to read after what happened Friday night. Her energy cluttered by things she won't talk about.

  When we reach the deli, we grab seats by the window just as an older man in a blue tie stands up. She settles in, pulling a notebook out of her purse while I go off to order our food. We fall into a comfortable flow where neither of us seems to mind the long bouts of silence between us. She reads segments of her draft aloud a few times, and I give her my thoughts.

  She seems relaxed and focused, and for a moment it seems nothing has changed between us. But everything has changed. For me, anyway. It was a wake-up call, what we did. I held myself at bay for years because I got laid often enough to not have sex cloud my judgment around Mila. I was smart enough to know the only way anything could happen between us was if and when she decided it would. We could've never bounced back from me crossing the line before she was ready. It had to be her.

  Now that she has, it's like she's lit a match in me. I'm hungry for her, and at the rate I want to move, we'll blow past our chance at this being about anything other than fucking. We'll go from being friends, to being the friends who fuck. It's a recipe for disaster.