by JC Harroway
So she’d had a good time. Perfect. Fresh lust slugged him in the gut along with another emotion, harder to quantify. Not that he was given to flights of introspection.
‘I...’ Her neck turned red.
He bit his tongue, fighting the urge to be the gentleman and put her out of her self-inflicted misery. She sighed, meeting his stare head-on.
‘Could we get some coffee?’
He hid a smile, tossing her a lifeline. A small one.
‘Sure.’ He tilted his chin. ‘There’s a deli across the street.’
She swivelled her gaze in the direction he indicated. Her pert nose wrinkled.
‘What? Too good for the Bronx?’ Why had she followed him here? If he could nudge her out of her comfort zone, perhaps she’d be as honest about her motivations as she was when it came to claiming her pleasure.
She smoothed her features. ‘Sure.’ With a flick of her long silvery ponytail, she stepped around him and headed towards the crossing.
In two strides he’d caught up with her, her light perfume wrapping around him. He’d worn her scent all the way back to his apartment last night—when mixed with her arousal its heady aroma amplified a hundred times over and he’d been torn between showering or spending another night hard and alone in his bed.
‘Did you design the new wing?’ She tilted her head in the direction they’d come from, her eyes sliding over him as if searching for something. A missing piece, perhaps. One she hadn’t bothered to hang around long enough to see nine years ago.
He nodded. His mouth tingled to kiss her perfectly glossy lips again. If only to remind himself he wasn’t alone in his need to taste her. She wore a nude colour today, light make-up, professional clothing. How he longed to mess her up, rumple her a little, unleash the sex goddess he now knew lurked under the sophisticated elegance she designed and wore like a suit of armour.
‘And they asked you to open it?’ She tilted her head, ponytail swinging.
He shrugged. ‘I’m a benefactor. I worked for free so they insisted.’ Whatever her opinions of him, whatever prejudices she believed about the Lane name, she didn’t know him. He had nothing to hide and nothing to prove.
She stared, not quite open-mouthed, but he’d take it. The lights changed. With his hand tingling in the small of her back, he guided her across the street and into Martinelli’s.
They ordered espresso, the delicious aromas almost enough to make him hungry for something other than Harley, but not quite. At a table for two in the window, he pulled out her chair and took the seat opposite.
‘So, you wanted something else from me?’
His ambiguous statement hung in the air. Spot on target. She flushed, fidgeting with her coat and her purse in her lap, her eyes dancing anywhere but on him.
Intriguing.
When she looked at him, she swallowed, her delicate throat lifting.
‘I have a proposal.’
‘I’m listening.’ And his cock was pretty interested, too.
She tilted her head so her hair swung over one shoulder in a way that made him want to reach out and touch.
‘I’m...’ she pressed her lips together while she chose her words ‘...between relationships right now...’ her stare hardened ‘...and I assume you’re single.’
He stayed silent, offering a small nod, desperate to see what angle she’d play. He’d already experienced her negotiation skills for her beloved building. He couldn’t wait to see how she’d broker whatever deal brewed in her smart, determined mind.
‘We could...meet up, you know, occasionally.’ She stuttered to a halt. She shrugged, as if the words meant little to her, but the tension around her full mouth told a different story, and her chest worked on rapid, shallow breaths.
Jack leaned back in his seat, legs spread, giving nothing away. A surge of triumph warmed his chest. So she craved more. Had played right into his plan to get even and get them both off.
Part of him could tolerate being her sex toy, if it meant he’d get to gorge himself on her sublime body. But a bigger part, the hard-wired version, had some demands of its own.
‘So you want to fit me in for a fuck between gym sessions and mani-pedi appointments?’ He clenched his jaw. He wasn’t as outraged as he made her think. In fact, his hard-on was raring to go. Shame for both of them he wasn’t that easily led.
Her eyes widened and she pinned him with a glare. ‘No, I...’
What a fucking turn-on. She’d come here to explore the sex between them, sex good enough to keep him awake last night even after she’d lied to her brother and kicked him out.
Clearly he’d been on her mind too. Good to know he wasn’t alone in this rekindled-to-the-point-of-combustion attraction.
Their coffees arrived.
Jack caressed the handle of the espresso cup, a kick of satisfaction warming his gut when her stare followed the path of his fingertips. Yes, she was definitely in this, the physical connection between them hard to ignore.
‘So last night was good for you?’ His ego didn’t need stroking and her internal muscles had clenched him like a vice, but he enjoyed the pink flush of her skin, and if he could persuade her beautiful, cultured mouth to talk dirty, all the better.
She sipped her coffee, her eyes glaring above the rim even as her cheeks obliged with another rush of colour.
‘Mmm.’ A shrug, as if sex that good were commonplace. But then she wouldn’t be here if that were true.
His lips twisted. ‘Your orgasm better than the previous one?’ He’d take the confirmation he was a man of his word.
She rolled her eyes, shoulders sagging with a sigh. For a moment he thought she’d refuse to answer. After all, it likely wasn’t every day she sat in a Bronx deli discussing the quality of her orgasms.
The moment she decided to be candid, she met his stare, head-on.
‘So good, I stopped breathing. But you know this.’ She flicked a fallen strand of hair behind one ear and adjusted the neck of her blouse.
He did know. He’d witnessed her unrestrained rapture, revelled in it, the surge of triumph almost making up for his unceremonious dismissal. Almost.
He instinctively knew her body as if he’d had the past nine years to learn every plane, every contour, every pleasure point. And she wanted more?
He tilted his head, staring into her eyes until she squirmed. After a pause, he reached for his coffee cup and took a sip, all business. Energy flooded his limbs, the way it did when he negotiated any deal, but more, the best deals hard won. And here she was, the ultimate prize, not above begging for what he offered.
‘If we do this, you’re going to need to allocate some dedicated time.’ He placed the cup back on the saucer, taking his time to find her wide eyes again.
At her crinkled brow, he continued.
‘I’m not a stud to be slotted into your busy schedule whenever you’ve got an itch.’
Tightly pursed lips. Shoulders back. ‘I didn’t assume—’
He lifted his hand.
‘I’ll call you any time. Any place.’ He shrugged. ‘If you want more...’ He had boundaries, too. She wanted to explore their explosive chemistry until it fizzled out? He could oblige. But on his terms. His agenda. His timescale.
He took another sip of coffee, waiting, the bitterness on his tongue lingering like her taste. If the deli weren’t crowded with office workers seeking a caffeine fix, he’d pay the owner to close the place and go down on her at this very table, until the only word spilling from her parted lips was yes.
A thousand emotions flitted across her sea-green eyes as she warred with herself.
Time to reorder your priorities, ma belle. You want me, yes. But how far are you willing to go for my promised orgasms?
‘Okay.’ A hoarse whisper, barely audible over the general noise of the busy café, but he’d take it.
‘So, chérie. I’ll be your dirty little secret.’
She shook her head, the excitement in her eyes dulling.
‘It’s not like that. I—’
He held up a hand, keeping his expression light and easy.
‘I get it. Family is everything, right?’ The bitter coffee taste grew more pronounced.
Yes, their families were enemies. But, they’d set the rules in play. The game, it seemed, was on.
* * *
‘Has the green silk come in?’ Harley asked Belinda, the manager of the Give concept store on Fifth Avenue. The other woman nodded, indicating a display rack near the fitting rooms, and answered the phone with an apologetic shrug.
Harley went to the rack, her expert eye assessing the new garments. Her hand trailed over the luxurious fabric, its sensual glide over her fingertips reminding her of Jack and the way he’d touched her. With reverence, with possession, as if he knew her body inside and out. As if he wanted her so badly, he couldn’t stop himself touching. Her own fingertips tingled. She knew the feeling.
She hadn’t seen him since their shared coffee two days ago. But her every waking thought and some of her sleeping thoughts too were of his command of her pleasure as he’d lured her to the edge with hoarse encouragement, addictive praise and cocksure prophecy.
You’re going to come soon. Look at me.
And he’d been spot on. She shivered. Delicious reminders fluttering low in her belly.
She flicked impatiently through her beloved autumn collection, the hours of hard work, luxurious fabrics and form-flattering designs completely lost on her. Her skin itched. Every second she didn’t hear from him increased her longing to have him inside her again, no doubt exactly the reaction he intended.
Bastard.
She’d tried to banish the constant ache, diminish his power over her. She’d masturbated only this morning, her tepid C-grade orgasm mocking her efforts. And it hadn’t helped. Clearly her body refused to return to mediocre self-pleasure. Having experienced the fully grown, man-with-serious-bedroom-skills Jack, it craved the A-grade variety with a side of sheet-clawing, hoarse-throated OMG. And that was currently to be found only with Jack.
Belinda finished her call and called out an apology as she scribbled a note. Harley surfaced from her trance and glanced over her shoulder at her competent manager with a smile. She didn’t really need to be here, her business a well-oiled machine staffed by competent and trustworthy people who understood Harley’s priorities and her limitations.
In fact it operated better without her...interference. She’d learned early on to leave the ordering, invoicing and bookkeeping to someone else. The one time, when the store first opened, she’d sent Belinda out on a lunch break, she’d had to hide in the back room to conceal her panic attack from a customer who’d insisted Harley use the computer there and then to order in a particular garment in her size.
She relied on her staff, perhaps more than she should. But she compensated them well. And as her beloved workroom was above, she regularly visited the boutique-style store to ensure everything was as it should be for her loyal and growing clientele, who favoured the luxury-with-a-social-conscience brand she offered.
‘Let’s feature this in the window, shall we?’ Harley pulled a size two green silk dress from the rack and began to remove the protective tissue wrapping. ‘Let’s team it with the tan suede pumps.’ The spreadsheets, marketing and correspondence might be above her, but she understood how to put an outfit together, her eye for accessorising and layering contrasting textures spot on.
Belinda nodded, her attention snagged by someone entering the store behind Harley. She waved Belinda away. Her store manager moved to the front of the shop to intercept the customer.
Harley hung the dress on a hook outside the fitting room and stooped to snag the pumps she’d wear with this particular dress. Yes. That worked. She’d designed a faux-fur bolero that would finish this look to perfection...perfect for the opera, or theatre or...
Her phone buzzed and she snatched it from her purse, her shoulders drooping when she saw the message was from her assistant, confirming her lunch date with an A-list celebrity who loved her brand and wanted to discuss an endorsement. Then they dropped again when she realised she’d never actually given Jack her number.
‘Waiting for an important call?’
His breath warmed the back of her neck, raising the hairs. Harley jumped, but then the shock dissipated, leaving behind the throb from her pebbled nipples, an inconvenient thrill brought on solely by Jack’s husky voice. She closed her eyes, breathing hard, and fought the urge to lean back into his solid chest.
She schooled her features to neutrality and spun, slowly, to face him. The impact of him all suited up and sexy as fuck sent electricity zinging between her legs. She swallowed.
‘Shopping?’ She fisted a hand on her hip. ‘Can we help you find something?’ It wouldn’t do that he knew the effect he had on her body—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy his.
She ogled him shamelessly. He was dressed in a dark charcoal business suit and a blue shirt and tie—could she close the store, send Belinda on an early lunch break and persuade him out of his immaculate tailoring?
Harley held her breath as, in return, he eyed her up. Please let him be here for sex. Her panties turned slick and desire coiled in her belly as the uncontrollable lust poured through her system.
One eyebrow arched, his sinful mouth twisted. ‘Perhaps.’ He tilted his head and opened his jacket to push his hand into his pants pocket. ‘Do you have time for a tour?’
The vest he exposed matched the suit. She wanted to unwrap him layer by layer—yet to see him completely naked—and take her own tour of his sexy, cut, mature male body.
He waited, giving no indication he’d read her thoughts, or shared them. She flustered. He seriously wanted to look at couture, not peel her out of her clothes in the back room?
‘Sure.’ Harley placed her purse on the counter where a discreet Belinda busied herself at the computer. Her heart thumped with more than sexual anticipation.
Her business, her passion—it was more than a job for her. Would he understand what she tried to achieve? How hard she’d worked? What she’d overcome to have her own Fifth Avenue store turning over enough profit to fund initiatives she considered important?
He wouldn’t know how whole she’d felt the first time she’d created something with her hands, the summer she’d stayed with her grandmother, who’d spent long patient hours teaching her to sew. For the first time in Harley’s life something had come easily, when all else—reading, maths, writing—seemed like traversing the Grand Canyon on a broken pogo stick.
Would he get her, or dismiss her, like her father and Phil? She cleared her hot throat, meeting his stare, one of genuine interest.
‘Give is a concept store.’
He nodded, his thumb and forefinger stroking his cleft chin as his eyes scraped over her. She looked away, unable to witness any judgment from him, if it came. She moved to a wall of exquisite shoes, each designed by her and made in the US.
‘For every pair of shoes we sell, every purse, every item of clothing, the profits are turned into food and clothing in Third World countries.’
He frowned. ‘All the profits?’
She nodded, jutting out her chin. She’d heard it all before. Crazy. Naïve. Ridiculous.
‘I take a modest salary. The rest...it’s surplus. I’d rather see it doing real good than sitting in the bank.’ Her face grew hot. Why should his approval matter? ‘And I have no shareholders to pacify. The store is leased. A lot of the business is clicks, not bricks, so overheads are minimised.’
She moved to the make-up area, acutely aware of his proximity behind her. ‘All Give’s cosmetics are cruelty-
free and packaged by disabled adults here in NYC.’ The surprise and admiration she saw in his face flooded her body with warmth, bolstering her sense of pride in what she’d painstakingly created and she herself often failed to enjoy. She’d spent too long compensating for her challenges. Too long doubting herself and her abilities to break the habit and take full ownership of her achievements, at least on the inside.
She warmed to her topic, basking in his interest.
‘Even our lingerie line contributes.’ She ran a hand through a rack of skimpy silk and lace, holding his stare. ‘Sales funding global women’s issues initiatives.’
Jack glanced at the froth, his fingers tracing the lacy edge of a rose-pink thong.
‘And you design everything here?’ He stepped closer, eyes hot, searing, probing deep inside her until she wanted to hide.
She nodded, pressing her thighs together as his fingertip lingered on the silky fabric. The air thickened, heat from his closeness making her dizzy with longing. He wasn’t even touching her but she was ready to combust.
He took the garment, if such a filmy scrap could be called that, from the rack and lifted it between them, eyes wicked.
‘You’re very...talented.’ Low, seductive, innuendo dripping from his tongue. His eyes flashed. He was picturing her in the thong he held in his hand.
Harley tilted her head, a challenge, half tempted to dash to the fitting rooms and oblige. To wipe that cocky smirk from his face, replace it with the burning lust he’d shown her that night in her apartment.
‘Would you like to see my workroom?’ Air caught in her chest. Why had she said that? Her inner sanctum? The creative space the only place that settled her mind and gave her a modicum of confidence in her abilities.
He nodded and followed her to the back of the store and up a narrow flight of stairs, the lingerie still in his hand.
Light spilled into the room from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and she cast an eye around the space, guessing at what he would see. Two long, wide cutting tables dominated the room, racks of paper patterns lined one wall and rolls of fabric occupied every corner, nook and cranny.