by JC Harroway
His strung-taut body acted on instinct. A cathartic release of pent-up frustration as he reached for her.
‘Yes,’ she hissed seconds before his mouth covered hers, swallowing the tiny moan she released. He pressed against her, fanning the flammable connection that had sparked to life in the elevator earlier.
As her fingers tangled in his hair and her lips parted, giving his tongue access, the past grew foggy.
He didn’t need to trust her to enjoy the feel of her body in his hands. And she was right there with him, succumbing to the searing chemistry, as physically attuned as cream and coffee.
Her soft moans punched him in the gut, his balls heavy. She twisted her fingers in his hair and pressed herself against him as she’d been in the elevator, but this time her body writhed, as if she too was trying to quench an insatiable fire inside.
Perhaps it had been as long for her as it had been for him.
He cupped her ass, drawing her heated centre to his rock-hard dick, pressing her closer, to their mutual delight if the gasp she gave was any indication. He could practically feel her wetness through their layers of clothing.
She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Why wait? Why deny this? Why not slake this mutual physical need? No strings attached.
Reaching for the hem of her dress, he worked his hand up one bare thigh, the silky softness of her skin a roadmap leading him home. She shifted, opening up and giving him the access he sought. Still with him. On the same page.
As his fingertips stroked her soft lips through the lace of her panties she gasped, pulling back from their kiss to stare at him while he worked his fingers back and forth with increasing pressure.
She was clearly as turned on as him. He’d barely touched her, but her panties were soaked, and her eyes were soft and heavy with desire. He pressed himself to her hip, making his intentions clear.
‘Do you remember your first orgasm?’ He cupped her, his index finger working inside the wisp of lingerie to find her wet, swollen. So ready.
She nodded, her tongue darting out to trace the cupid’s bow of her top lip.
‘Tell me.’ A test. Did she really remember? Had it meant something to her as it had to him or was she just desperate to get off?
Her eyes rolled back, her mouth open on a broken gasp as he located her clit and brushed the nub of nerves with the pad of his finger. Her moisture slid down his fingers, and he widened his legs, pushing her thighs open with his to get closer to her centre. When he pressed home, two fingers plunging inside her tight warmth and his thumb zeroing in on her clit, her eyes flew open, her stare beseeching.
‘Tell me you remember, Harley.’ She’d get what she wanted when he did. Confirmation that, if only briefly, he’d once mattered enough.
But fuck, she was responsive. Her thighs juddered, bumping his working fingers as if she were seconds away from coming on his hand. Just like the first time he’d made her come, her cries muffled into his shoulder.
She could barely speak, her breathy voice punctuated with staccato moans that matched the rhythm of his plunging fingers.
‘We were at the...lodge, in Aspen. You said...that you’d make the next one better. Oh.’
Triumph surged through him, and he ramped up the circling of his thumb. Her breath caught, her head fell forward. She clung to him, her nails gouging his arms as she held on tight, her bold, uninhibited sexuality a wet dream come true.
His own desire ramped so high he searched his mind for the location of the closest condom, reluctant to move too far from this spot before plunging inside her.
Every muscle in his body tightened to snapping point. He pressed closer, grinding his erection between the crush of their writhing, jerking bodies.
‘I was a kid then.’ He twisted his wrist, his fingers probing deeper, curling forward to rub her walls. ‘I’m not any longer.’
As firsts went, he’d been damn proud that he’d taken her there. But he’d honed his skills since then, never had any complaints. If she wanted it, he’d show her everything she’d thrown away.
No emotions.
No entanglements.
And just like her, no regrets when he walked.
‘Look at me, Harley. Look at me and I’ll make this one better.’
Her head lifted, her eyes heavy, swimming with lust. He cupped her breast with his free hand, his thumb brushing her nipple erect through the layer of frustrating wool.
He ground his teeth. It wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her naked. He wanted her laid bare so he could touch every inch of her sexy body. He wanted his mouth on her, every part. Laving and lapping until she went off like a rocket and screamed his name. He wanted to be inside her so bad he had to bite his cheek to remind himself he didn’t know this woman aside from his ability to get her off.
He tweaked the bud, twisting and rolling her nipple between his fingers.
‘Yes.’ Her mouth dropped open.
Euphoria pounded through his blood. She was close. She would come for him, just like the first time. He held her eyes captive. A roar in his head deafened him to everything but the frantic little whimpers she made as he worked her higher and higher.
His hand started to cramp, but he’d die before stopping, something primitive in him demanding her orgasm, showing her the man he’d become.
‘Kiss me.’ His voice wasn’t his own. Gruff. Challenging. But getting him what he wanted.
She cried out, cupping his neck and yanking him down roughly to meet her needy mouth. Her tongue welcomed his, every surge and retreat, every slide as perfect as the first time they’d kissed, the excitement of firsts eclipsing the awkwardness back then.
But there was no awkwardness now. He wasn’t a fumbling teenager any more, and she was all woman, writhing on the verge of climax.
She pulled back, wild eyes clinging to his.
‘Jacques... I—’
With her use of his French name, he groaned, the bittersweet wash of memories unleashing his raw need to stamp his mark on her as Jack Demont, not the dismissible Jacques Lane.
Her kisses turned frantic and then she tore her mouth from his, her orgasm slamming her against the wall as she cried out, her hooded stare wildly flicking between his eyes. Spasms rocked her and she rode his hand with sublime abandon.
Fuck. Perfect.
He kept up the pressure, his hand slowing but not retreating from between her legs and his thumb circling her peaked nipple. Still she twitched around his fingers, her body lax in his arms as her breaths slowed.
Finally she pushed his hands away, and he released her. A flush caressed her cheeks, her eyes slumberous, and a small, satiated smile tugged her red and swollen mouth.
She rested her forehead on his chest, the gesture so familiar, something in him recoiled from the intimacy. He pressed his body along the length of hers.
Just sex.
‘I’m a man of my word, Harley.’ She couldn’t deny she’d had a good time, and once he got inside her, he’d take her there again.
A small sated sigh. ‘We’ll see,’ she mumbled against his shirt.
He froze. Ice water replaced his blood. Had he heard her right?
He stepped back, steadying her by the forearms until she stood tall, taking her own weight.
‘What did you say?’
The post-orgasmic flush in her cheeks darkened, but she lifted her chin.
‘I said we’ll see. You’ve certainly broken your word on the Morris Building sale.’
His balls shrank as quickly as if she’d kneed him in the groin. A red film lowered over his vision—he’d always assumed that was an exaggeration, but, no, he was definitely seeing red. Hearing red. Fucking feeling red.
So she doubted his integrity, his professionalism, still blamed him for the delay despite her mistake?
He shook his head. What a fool. He stepp
ed back, adjusting his diminishing hard-on.
‘I’m my own boss. I call the shots and I choose who I do business with. The cock up with the Morris contracts came from your office.’ His enamel creaked where he ground his teeth together.
She pushed down her dress, eyes blazing.
‘I told you, Give has nothing to do with Jacob Holdings. I’m my own boss, too.’ Her eyes flared but colour highlighted her cheekbones, and she looked away. ‘So I messed up the paperwork. But we’re not so different, you and I.’ She retrieved her purse from the floor, glaring at him again. ‘You’re so desperate to disassociate yourself from your father and the mess he made with his business, you’ve changed your name.’ She mashed her lips together, breathing hard through flared nostrils.
Perhaps he imagined the moment’s regret on her face. Either way, he was done. This—whatever this had been—was over. He turned away, gathering the last shreds of his resolve. His fingers formed a fist, frustration with his stupidity tensing every muscle in his body. How had he been so blinkered? Harley was a Jacob. She knew as much about him as he did her, but she’d already tarred him with his father’s brush. Used him to get off and then insulted him. Clearly thought no more of him today than she had nine years ago.
At least the timely reminder of the distrust between them had finally cured his hard-on. He turned back, keeping the emotions from his face. The best advice his father had ever given him—show no weakness. Not that he was weak, professionally. Only, it seemed, where his dick and Harley Jacob were concerned.
‘Well, I guess we both have something to prove.’
He needed this deal like he needed a hole in the head. He’d been half tempted to renovate the Morris Building himself. And, until the issues resolved and he was certain Hal Jacob had no hand in it, the deal stayed stalled.
‘I’ll have my lawyers contact yours when the issues are rectified to my satisfaction.’ He loosened his tie. ‘If the timing was that important to you, perhaps you should have taken better care to avoid errors.’
Her fuming glare followed the path of his fingers as he popped his shirt buttons but the satisfaction was short-lived.
‘I’m going to take a shower. You know the way out.’
Even with the water switched to arctic, he couldn’t wash away the scent of her, which clung to him as if he’d doused himself, head to toe. Nor could he banish the flash of hurt in her eyes as he’d walked away, leaving the society princess to put herself back together and show herself out.
CHAPTER THREE
LOFT 333 IN CHELSEA, a chic industrial space in the heart of the Garment District, provided the perfect venue for an intimate fashion show showcasing some of New York’s most exciting new designers. Harley emerged from the makeshift backstage area into the cavernous space, which vibrated with the thud of techno music, the kaleidoscopic lighting bouncing off the stark white walls.
A buzz at her temples threatened to become the perfect and fitting end to the shittiest of days.
And it was all Jack’s fault.
Starting with the stubborn pig-headedness that had caused him to cancel their meeting, ruining her favourite shoes at his Swiss cheese building site and ending with him unceremoniously kicking her out of his apartment.
She couldn’t blame him for the part where she’d surrendered to her fierce sexual attraction to him—that was all her. Stalking him to his building, practically eye-fucking him and then unashamedly riding his hand to orgasm...
Yep, all her.
Forcing her mind from the memory of his voracious, demanding kisses and his exceptional manual skills, she scanned the venue, her critical eye for detail and high expectations cataloguing the packed rows of seating, the smartly dressed wait staff and the professional, if not headache-inducing, audio-visual display.
Shame her thoroughness with the Morris deal had let her down. She sighed, slinking further into the shadows.
Part of her, the old Harley, baulked at her own success. Yes, she’d had every privilege in life. But without her team behind her—her dedicated assistant, her competent store manager, her siblings—her dyslexia meant she struggled with the very basics.
To outsiders, she had it all. And yet the planning alone for tonight’s show—the lists, the running order, the spreadsheets of which model would wear what for which designer—was enough to make her head explode.
Jack was right. She alone had responsibility for sabotaging the Morris deal. She’d failed. Again. Shot herself in the foot.
She leaned back against the wall, maintaining a low profile. She rarely lauded her own shows. Her fashion label, the only aspect of her life that offered her contentment, meant everything, but she’d decided from the beginning she wouldn’t use the Jacob name to garner publicity, make connections or grease the ladder rungs. If she made it in what was a competitive, often fickle and rapidly shifting industry, she’d make it on merit alone.
And it was the creative process—from sketching a new design, to sewing a sample garment and then styling an entire outfit—that allowed her a brief glimpse of chest-tingling pride. At least she was good at one thing.
But she wasn’t here to see her own designs paraded.
Harley snagged a glass of champagne from a table laden with exquisite crystal and located a quiet, dark corner to watch the show. She’d missed most of the first half, staying backstage to help the other designers dress their models.
The collective of young, emerging fashionistas she mentored had worked tirelessly for months putting this show together and she was here to support them, knowing first hand the importance of a leg up onto the bottom rung. The fashion industry, as cut-throat as any deal Hal Jacob peddled.
She released a small snort—she’d learned from the master. Not that Hal had ever dedicated any time to her education, preferring to hurl money at the situation, his ‘problem daughter’.
She’d known from an early age she was different. But her difficulties had gone undiagnosed through elementary school, until the age of twelve, when she’d been no longer able to hide her challenges and one particularly insightful teacher had suggested to her parents she might benefit from formal testing. Hal had struggled with her diagnosis, denying the label and preferring instead to employ a series of tutors to put his unmotivated daughter through the wringer.
Dyslexia affected sufferers differently. Harley struggled with the full gamut of challenges. The fact she’d learned strategies to mask her shortcomings had delayed confirmation of her diagnosis until well into sixth grade. By which time she’d become a bullied, socially isolated black sheep of her over-achieving family and a constant disappointment to Hal.
Harley gulped a mouthful of champagne, forcing down the shame and humiliation. She scuffed the toe of her shoe on the parquet flooring, cursing her stupidity with the Morris paperwork.
She’d checked and double checked until her eyes watered and her temples screamed. Then she’d run everything past her assistant. Not that she blamed Alice. The mistake was all Harley’s. And she was used to making the most simple of errors. But why did it have to be on that deal? With him?
Perhaps that explained her uncharacteristic rudeness. Heat crept up her neck as she recalled the shutters covering Jack’s heated stare earlier when she’d questioned his integrity. She’d obviously inherited her vicious tongue from Hal, too.
She smoothed her damp palm down the length of her form-fitting dress—a simple bias-cut sheath in black silk. Elegant, timeless, modest. Or as her twin sister, Hannah, would say, boring. But Harley preferred fading into the background over standing out.
She scanned the two-hundred-strong audience, sipping her champagne to chase away the demons that lurked beneath her polished exterior. Although her eyes focussed on the show, her mind wandered.
Back to Jack.
Her initial shock at seeing him again had faded quickly. Her annoyance at him holding th
e sale of Morris Building to ransom simmered. But the few stolen moments in his apartment this afternoon...? They played in a continuous looped film reel behind her eyes, every intensely erotic, libidinous moment relived over and over.
Surely she’d exhausted her supply of female hormones? She shifted, pressing her thighs together and leaning back against the wall in case she slid to the hardwood floor in a puddle of lust.
Just like the first time he’d touched her so intimately, he’d commanded her body, turned her inside out, thrust her so hard into an intense orgasm she’d literally seen stars.
She’d never known anything like it, not even with her ex-fiancé, not since the first one, also at Jack’s hands. And what talented hands they were.
She swallowed, face flushed with heat. Of course, there’d been one or two others since Jack. Not many, her troubled teens merging with her underwhelming early twenties—a time when most girls spread their sexual wings. But Harley had been too preoccupied with overcoming her dyslexia enough to prove her father wrong and get her college degree, albeit in a subject Hal considered more of a hobby—fashion design.
She’d even come close to marrying, again in an attempt to improve her standing in her father’s eyes. If she couldn’t be a Jacob Holdings’ executive, she could marry one... But she’d quickly realised her error—she and Phil, although he was Hal-approved, were ultimately too different. And she had no intention of becoming a Hal Jacob puppet by proxy. Hal and Phil, cut from similar cloth, shared too many opinions about Harley’s career, or, as they saw it and frequently commented, her lack of one.
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted seconds before the warm breath whispered across her skin. She froze, either instinct or her body’s imprinting onto the only man with whom she’d discovered such overwhelming pleasure warning her it was Jack.
‘Still stalking me, I see.’ His low voice vibrated against the sensitive skin of her neck, tingles spreading to her toes via her in-sync-with-Jack clit. It seemed she possessed an inexhaustible supply of hormones where this man was concerned.