A Heat of the Moment Thing

by Maggie Le Page

  Chapter Four

  “Isn’t this what we all dream of?” the interviewer gushed, her American twang dragging like fingers down a blackboard. “The fairy-tale ending?”

  “Yes!” the studio audience cheered.

  “I know.” Coy and proud, I smiled at Matt, by my side. Then turned back to our interviewer. “I always hoped, of course, but I never thought it would happen to me.”

  “Does this feel like it’s happening to you?” Matt murmured in my ear, his hand roving over my breasts.

  Did it ever. I turned, my lips meeting his, my breathing shallow. He stood and, ignoring the marauding cameras, pulled me to him, his erection intense against my belly. His tongue plundered my mouth and desire stormed through me. My knees buckled. He held me tighter, moulding me to his length. Passion took over and my last traces of modesty slid away. We dispensed with clothes, foregoing the bed at stage-left—when had that appeared?—for a convenient shag-pile carpet just feet away from the audience whose presence was, truth be told, a huge turn-on. In fact—gosh—I was only seconds away from ecstasy . . .

  Matt’s body continued to play mine as, with sensational skill, he took me to the brink and back, to the brink and back. I was a dam of liquid sensation, his every plunge increasing the pressure within like a burgeoning tidal wave. Our bodies a perfect fit, our minds in perfect harmony, our pairing the perfect outcome.

  His mouth burned a hot trail from my lips to my ear and I gasped as the tidal wave loomed, colossal, above us.

  He gave my earlobe an erotic nibble and murmured, “Take this. It’s hot.”

  The tidal wave crashed down, consuming me, consuming him, consuming us.

  “Hey! Careful, you’ll spill it.”

  A slight pressure on my wrist rapidly morphed into searing heat and pain. I whipped my hand back and opened my eyes to see my house-mate’s face only inches from mine, looking more than a little demonic as he held a coffee mug aloft.

  I screamed and flung myself to the far side of the bed. “Are you crazy?”

  Stupid question.

  Jim cackled. “Drip by drip or all at once?”

  “Bloody idiot! You could’ve given me third degree burns.”

  “Nothing more than you deserve if you won’t shift your lazy butt and take a hold of the cup.”

  “I was asleep.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “I do the decent thing and wake my house-mate with a cup of real, hand-ground coffee . . .”

  I took in his filthy paws and hoped his hands hadn’t done the grinding.

  “. . . and all she does is whine. I don’t know why I bother.”

  “Me neither.” My adrenalin rush subsided and, yawning, I slid back to the warm patch I’d just vacated.

  He handed me the mug and I placed it with exaggerated care on the bedside table.

  “Thanks. Next time, try waking me first.”

  With an energetic leap, he Fosbury-flopped onto the bed and lay full-length beside me, hands behind his head. “Hey, it’s not my fault you sleep like the dead.”

  He turned on his side and waggled his eyebrows at me. They looked like synchronised black caterpillars. “Or maybe they took you to the Mother-ship for experiments.”

  I wished I could be back in my dream.

  Jim fixed me with a stare. The caterpillars met in the middle. “Are you Becky or a stand-in? What’s your sister’s favourite food?”

  “Oh please.” I pulled the covers over my head. “Let me wake up in peace.”

  Jules, my battle-scarred cat, gave a warning mrowl and leapt up onto me with his usual hurled-brick finesse. Clearly it was the boys versus Becky this morning. I gave up on peace and re-emerged.

  Jules settled high on my chest, lifted a leg and started licking his privates. Nice. I shoved him off me. He glared. I glared back.

  “Do I get to drown him?” Jim asked, propping himself up against the headboard.

  I transferred my glare to Jim.

  He slurped a mouthful of coffee. My coffee. “You’ve got bad breath, black eyes, and dried-up dribble on your chin.”

  “Whatever.” I scowled at his unkempt black mop and tried to think of a clever response. Nothing sprang to mind. I surreptitiously rubbed at my chin to remove the dribble; the rest would have to wait.

  “Coffee?” He proffered my mug.

  “Not anymore.” The cheek of him. First he chose some ungodly hour of the morning to wake me from the most delicious dream, then he offered me coffee and drank it himself.

  I caught a whiff of the coffee beans and thought of Matt. At-Work Matt, not Horny-Dream Matt.

  Trouble was, give or take a garment or two, they were pretty close to identical. Even I could see that might be problematic.

  Could I really do this? Have erotic dreamtime encounters with my boss all night then go into work and make like he was nothing special?

  Well, I just had to. Either that or quit my fantabulous new job.

  Jim slurped at the coffee, gave an audible ahhh. I scowled at him.

  Could I talk to Jim about my Matt/boss quandary? Maybe. He’d seen me at my lowest, after Mickey destroyed my world. He’d been a great support then.

  “This has to be my best brew yet,” said Jim. “Try it.”

  I gritted my teeth. “No.” God only knew what diseases he harboured.

  He swung himself up off the bed. “Pity.”

  With a flourish he flung back the curtains and launched into song. Whatever song it was, though, he was destroying it.

  “Shut up.” No, deep and meaningfuls wouldn’t work today. There was no telling how he’d respond.

  “Look,” I said, “it’s six-fifteen in the morning. I’m still in bed, dammit. This is really social and all, but what exactly are you doing in here?”

  “Just making sure you don’t sleep in,” he chirped. “Can’t be late for Day Two.”

  Day Two. It felt like a death sentence.

  “What’s on the agenda today, then? Press conference? Spank a few students?” He executed a couple of lewd hip-thrusts. “Blow-job for the boss, eh, BJ?” He emphasised the nickname.

  Sudden anger ripped through me. “Get stuffed.”

  I hauled myself out of bed and stomped to the door. If he wouldn’t leave, I would. “Asshole.”

  He chuckled. “You’re too easy to wind up, BJ.”

  “So don’t bother. And don’t call me that. I have a name.”

  “Cute PJs. Are you really Purr-fect In Bed, BJ?” His fingers scribed quotation marks.

  I shot him a withering look, and yanked my robe off the hook. Yanked harder when it resisted. Heard it rip.

  “Typical. You know what? I don’t have time for this,” I stalked off to the bathroom, trying to hold the robe and my dignity together.

  Jim wolf whistled after me. I sacrificed dignity and flipped him the bird.

  When I eventually went downstairs, far more presentable and a muzzle on my mood, Jim sloped in and hovered as I buttered my toast.

  I looked up, annoyed. “What?”

  “Well.” He leaned against the fridge. “I just realised, you haven’t said squat about the new job.”

  I returned my attention to the toast.

  He waited. “Well? How was it? Your first day?”

  “Okay.”

  “What, your ultimate job and it was only okay?”

  I turned toast-buttering into an art form. “It’s hard to tell on the first day.”

  His eyes screwed up as he read my words, my posture, my mood. Dammit, he knew me too well. He seemed about to speak, then changed his mind. I bit into my artwork.

  “That’s bullshit, Becky,” he finally said.

  He’d stopped using my initials, and just as well. The butter-knife would’ve been messy but it would’ve been worth it.

  “What’s bullshit?”

  “You must have some idea whether you’ll like the job.”

  “Well, I don’t, okay?” I looked longingly at the knife.

  He
cracked open a can of coke, took an impossibly long drink, and burped.

  “Then I’d say,” he concluded, “you’ve got a problem.”

  Yeah, and no easy solution. What a bloody, bloody mess.

  * * *

  The mess felt even messier once I was ensconced behind my desk at work. On the one hand, I was thrilled to be here. Applying for this position had been ambitious, and I’d never really expected to get an interview, let alone a job offer. This move was everything I needed: a fresh direction, new challenges and, hopefully, a long-tailed career arc.

  On the other hand, I was terrified. What if I wasn’t cut out to be a lecturer? What if I was, but then threw it all away over my too-hot-to-handle boss? What if I screwed up so badly my students complained?

  Stop it, Becs.

  Concentrate.

  I looked down at my notes and took a deep breath. It skittered out in a flurry of nerves. I glanced at the clock. In less than twenty-four hours I had to deliver my first lecture. Not some off-the-cuff ten-minute chat to a cosy group of friends: a two-hour, professional presentation to a hundred-odd students. My chest constricted. I needed to nail that lecture.

  Out in the corridor I could hear Matt talking a student through something they hadn’t understood in class. He had such an easy manner with everyone. I liked that.

  They laughed at some comment or other, and Matt’s baritone rumble reminded me once again of our poolside encounter.

  Lecture, Becs.

  I blocked out his voice and flicked through the course outline. Re-read last year’s assessments, making notes in the margins. Waited for a moment of creative genius to hit me.

  It didn’t.

  Rats. I’d have to rely on hard graft to get me through.

  Not that I was bothered by hard graft; I loved the satisfaction of a job well done. I just wished I had something—anything—to offer that would stack up against my predecessor’s impressive track record. Something better than a gaudy headscarf for Matt to remember me by.

  And there I went again.

  I groaned. Banged my forehead on the desk once, twice, three times. This was not about Matt. Or any other man, for that matter. This was about me and my career. And if I wanted to concentrate on my career—which finally seemed to be on track—then Matt was a no-go zone. That way lay mortal danger.

  “Becky. Hi. How’s it going?”

  I looked up, startled, and dropped the folder, scattering papers all over the floor.

  “Hi.” I scrabbled to pick them up. Great. Now he thought I was a dim-witted hypochondriac with head-banging tendencies.

  Matt put down the box he was carrying. “Here, let me help.”

  He reached for some pages. Our hands brushed as we went for the same piece. Zing! An electric bolt shot up my fingers, echoing in my girlie bits. I snatched my hand back. This was crazy. I wasn’t sixteen anymore.

  He picked up a couple more pages and handed them to me with a friendly smile.

  “Cheers,” I said, avoiding his touch and feeling foolish for it. I retreated back behind my workstation.

  He deposited the box on the desk between us.

  “Sharon’s bequest to you,” he said, sitting in a chair opposite. He raked his too-long fringe up off his face, and I watched, entranced. How did it manage to balance there?

  I blinked, looked away. Work. Focus on work.

  “Thanks.”

  I opened the box and pulled out the top file. It was full of documents, all colour-coded and labelled to the enth degree.

  “Wow.” I flicked through the folder, relief surging through me. “This will save me so much time.”

  He leaned back, tilting the chair on two legs at a gravity-defying angle. I pretended to peruse the documents, watching as he hooked a casual thumb through the belt-loop of his anti-management jeans. He wore them well.

  SSW. SSW.

  I dragged myself back to Sharon’s notes, breathing out long and slow, trying to deflate my libido as well as my lungs.

  “Knowing Sharon,” he said, doing that fringe thing again, “she’ll have left everything you need, and more. She’s incredibly organised.”

  I put the file back in the box and smiled at him. “I really appreciate this. If you’re talking to her please pass on my thanks.”

  He stretched, his arms reaching high, and I pretended not to notice the strain of pecs against fabric.

  SSW. SSW.

  “Sure.” He stood. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. You’ve got plenty to do.”

  Yeah, like get ready for my lecturing debut. Nausea clawed at my gut. “My first lecture’s tomorrow, right?”

  “That’s right. Only the first-years, though. The others have independent study this week.”

  Clearly I looked as scared as I felt because he grinned. “Hey, you’ll be fine. Look, I lectured this course a few years ago, so if you’ve got any questions just yell. I can help with anything you need.”

  He probably could, too . . . and the less I thought about that the better.

  * * *

  I sorted through Sharon’s box of goodies with increasing panic. Instructions, lecture notes, assessments, student records, suggestions for future course developments, budgetary stuff; all there, faultlessly organised. Anxiety swamped me. What had I been thinking? This job was a massive step up. Too massive. I’d felt totally confident in my safe little job at my safe little travel agency. Did I really want to swap that for a swanky career I knew nothing about?

  Of course I did. I was a big girl now, and I wasn’t afraid of hard work.

  My messy workstation stared back at me. Okay, maybe a little afraid. But I could do this. I could. Think positive.

  “Ready for that lecture?” Matt loitered in my doorway yet again.

  Wasn’t he checking up on me just a bit too often? Maybe he thought I wasn’t up to the job.

  I’d just have to prove him wrong. “Yes. All sorted.”

  “Excellent. Can I take a look? Make sure you’re on track?”

  “I, ah . . .” I fidgeted with some papers. “Can I bring you a copy later?”

  “No need. I’ll just check it on-screen.” He walked round to my side of the desk.

  “No!” I switched off the monitor, feeling like I’d been caught downloading porn.

  His eyebrows shot up.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. Sighed and looked up at him. “Okay, maybe it’s not quite sorted. But it will be. I promise.”

  He gave a lopsided smile. “I’m not the lecture police.”

  He was my boss, wasn’t he? And wanted to see my work? That sounded fairly police-ish to me.

  “Relax,” he said. “It’s just first-lecture jitters.”

  He leaned closer to turn the monitor back on and I breathed in a heady mix of aftershave and musky masculinity.

  Whoa. I held my breath, not trusting myself.

  “Come on, talk me through it. I’ll be your sounding-board.” He tap-tapped the top of the monitor as he retreated to the other side of the desk and sat down. “Got a topic in mind?”

  I released my breath as naturally as possible, then looked at him across the desk. He gave me a lazy smile and my heart-rate kicked up. Stop it, Becs. This was work. This was not a lesson in seduction.

  But my body wasn’t listening. Golden heat shimmered in my belly, radiating through my body and leaving me breathless. Matt’s gaze flickered down to my lips and back up to my eyes with unmistakeable meaning, and for a moment I felt exposed, hunted—and downright sexy. I ran my tongue over suddenly-dry lips. Then saw his eyes darken and realised what I’d done. Bad move. I picked up a pen to keep my hands busy. Closed my eyes to put some distance between us.

  What had he asked? Oh, yeah. Did I have a lecture topic? “Not really. That’s half the problem.”

  He didn’t respond. Eventually, unable to stand the suspense, I opened my eyes.

  “And the rest of the problem?” he prompted.

  I looked out the windo
w, avoiding his gaze. “Nothing, really.” You. Sharon. Everything.

  “Hey.” He leaned forward and donked his hand flat on the desk. Waited until I returned his gaze. “You’ll be fine. You’re not”—donk—“Sharon”—donk—“so don’t try to be. Be yourself.”

  Hell, was I that easy to read? Best I work on my confidence fast, or the students would slaughter me.

  He stood up. “Your first lecture’s with a group of new students. They have no preconceived ideas. Don’t try and achieve miracles; just introduce yourself and the course.” At the door he turned, adding, “Play to your strengths.”

  Strengths? My strengths?

  He took in my expression and chuckled. “I’ll come and pick up your bones afterwards.”

  * * *

  I peeked in through the small rectangle of glass. The room beyond was crowded, people squeezing themselves in any old how, climbing over and around each other, jostling for better positions. Exuberant noise seeped through the door: students chatting, papers being shuffled, bags being rifled through, mobile phones ringing, seats banging up and down as people arranged and rearranged themselves Musical-Chairs-style.

  An old wooden lectern stood to attention at the front, flanked by a good-sized bench. Soon I would be standing there.

  So many faces! One hundred? No, more. Feck—more. Sheer terror rocketed through my limbs, stilling me, chilling me. If this failed, my credibility would be shot to pieces. Could I pull it off?

  I’d practised on Liz. I’d practised on Jim. I’d practised over the phone to my kid sister, Dani. I’d practised in front of the bedroom mirror at two in the morning until even Jules, poor long-suffering beast that he was, had retreated under the stairs for some peace and quiet. I’d been living, eating, breathing this lecture for the last twenty-four hours solid, and now here I was, and there they were, and all I had to do was walk through the door.

  A student pushed past me into the lecture theatre and the moment passed, my body and brain in sync once more. I braced myself and followed him in.

  As I began my long, long walk towards the lectern a hush dominoed around. I was the person they’d been waiting for, and now the whole theatre focused their attention on me.