Truth & Temptation

by Riley Edgewood

  But instead of looking relieved that I'm giving him an out—his expression darkens. "You're kidding, right?"

  "Alec, I—" I freeze when he slides his hand up my leg, pushing my thighs apart. I tighten my hand on his to keep him tame—but he's a million times stronger than I am and drags both our hands under my skirt until he's cupping me against my underwear. Until I'm cupping his hand, while he cups me against my underwear.

  "Um…" I can't remember how to breathe, how to say no, or why I'd even want to.

  "This is not a whim. You are not a whim." He lays his palm flat against me, holding it still, heat transferring from his hand to my body. I start to pull my hand off of his—but he grabs it, covering it with his own, and presses it back against me. Pressing me…against myself.

  I will not squirm. I will not squirm. "You can't know that."

  "Yes," he says, curving his finger—and mine—over my panties, making me, damn it, squirm, "I can."

  "How?" I mean to sound derisive, but he's using my own finger to tap out a rhythm beneath my skirt, and the word comes out in a whimper instead.

  Tap, tap, tap. He leans closer to me, the pressure increasing, his mouth directly next to my face. "Because…" he says. Tap, tap, press. "You've been the first thing on my mind every morning since I met you."

  Tap, tap, slap.

  Oh my God.

  I should tell him it's the same for me. He deserves to know.

  But I can't make the words come.

  "Show me what you like, kitten," he says softly in my ear. "Teach me how to touch you."

  I swallow past the rise of nerves in my throat, past the flutters of excitement. "You've already proved yourself an A-plus student."

  "This time I want a guide." He slides his thumb beneath the edge of my underwear, lifting it from my skin. "Show me."

  "I can't." But there's an electric spark striking under my hesitation, telling me not to stop. I like this, touching myself for him.

  "You can." He pushes against my hand and I let him, both our fingers creeping beneath my underwear. I'm wet already, no surprise, and aching.

  "Alec," I beg. I always beg with him. For things I can't name. Somewhere in the back of my mind it annoys me, but the rest of my body's too turned on to care.

  He reverses our hand positioning again, sliding his beneath mine. "Show me."

  He's begging, too.

  I can't believe I'm fucking doing this. What if someone walks in?

  I twist my neck toward him to ask, but change my mind at the last minute, capturing his mouth with my own in a sharp, biting kiss, pulling at his lower lip with my teeth.

  "I like this," I murmur, deciding on the spot to fucking go for it.

  I press his finger, one, then two, into me.

  "And this." I press his palm against me, showing him the pressure I like best. "Hard. Like this."

  "You're so wet, so warm," he says, his voice rough. "So fucking sweet. You have no idea what that does to me, feeling you respond to me."

  "Maybe I'm responding to me."

  "Even fucking better." He picks up the pace, the pressure, the…everything, making my hips roll forward, so I can press myself harder against his fingers—against our fingers— moaning. "Shh," he teases. "Can't be too loud in here, kitten."

  He tugs my skin, pulling it apart, and when he masters the rhythm I best respond to, he takes it on solo because I'm beginning to shake so hard, I need both hands to grip the table in front of us.

  He shoves my underwear all the way to the side, dragging his fingers across me at the same time, making me gasp. The air hits me coolly and then his hand is back against me, and I swear to God I want to weep at the tumbled, erotic mix of sensations.

  "Do I have it right, then?" He hooks one finger into me, sliding it, twisting it, hitting my spot—and new ones that turn my gasp into another moan. And another. And another.

  He bites my mouth this time and yanks on my tongue with his teeth, pulling back with a pleased little smile, forceful enough to travel fluidly through me, a lightness twining with all the heat.

  He's grown hard beneath me, pressing through his pants. When I shift my hips directly over him, he shudders and grabs my hip with his free hand, shoving me more roughly against him. "The things you make me want to do…"

  "The things I want to let you do," I say. Grinding, grinding, while his fingers never stop fondling me, pushing into me, slipping along my slick skin.

  The air is syrupy between us, weighty and fluid and sweet, and when he flattens his palm against me—pressing down harder, harder, pushing in another finger, deeper, deeper—I tingle so powerfully it's almost painful, and my head loses a battle with gravity, falling back to rest on his shoulder.

  He lets go of my hip to rub his hand up my stomach, over my breasts, caressing, squeezing, tugging at my nipples until they're tight and sticking out through the thin fabric of my bra, of my shirt.

  "You like this?" he asks, and when I nod, biting back the volume of the moan building in my throat, he captures my chin and tugs my face toward him. "I want to watch your face when you come."

  The warmth of self-consciousness floods my cheeks, but it's nothing compared to the heat between my legs, and I don't look away. I bite my lower lip, my hips rocking, his wrist twisting.

  We're in his office. We're supposed to be working. He's fucking me with his fingers so hard I can't keep from crying out.

  This is so wrong.

  I fucking love it.

  He watches my face, his own so smugly intent it's almost enough to drop me over the edge. But it's more than his expression… It's this entire moment.

  It's electrifying. And not because we aren't supposed to do this here.

  It's this thing between us—between his hand and my body, between my heart and his mind; it's all connected and it sizzles. My breath is coming in little moans. My eyes close and my head starts to roll again, but he yanks my chin back in place, the short, demanding motion tipping me over the edge.

  I've never been held so captive; I've never been regarded with such warmth.

  His eyes are bright and determined. His fingers are quick and hard and demanding.

  My body is trembling out of my control, and goose bumps rise along the base of my collarbone, a whirlwind sensation whipping through my body, spinning so fast I lose my breath.

  "Look at me." He tightens his grip on my face, and when I open my eyes he's staring at me so intensely, my belly constricts and releases so fast, with such a physical blow, a cry that's more like a pleasured sob escapes my mouth.

  And then it's not just my stomach pulsing. It's everything, everywhere. An orgasm funnels through me, taking up the space where my stomach used to be and slamming me lower, lower, until my legs squeeze shut around his hand, which he never stops moving. His fingers nimble and fast, exploring me, his thumb pressing, pressing, smearing me in circles, while he whispers, "Fuck, that's it, Teagan, let it go, let it go," until I do. As quietly as I can, which is to say, not that quietly at all.

  He releases my chin, sliding his hand up my face and into my hair, yanking my head to the side to capture my neck with his mouth and his foresty scent invades my senses, intensifying everything.

  His fingers don't stop, tugging, piercing, twisting until there's not an inch of me left unexplored and then he starts again a second time, a third, and pressure like a deluge beats first in my chest then floods into my belly.

  "Good girl," he growls, and I go completely under, lost, lost to the final crash of the orgasm. I squeeze my eyes closed—and, oh God, my mouth, to prevent any overly loud moaning—and it's like there's an entire ocean inside my body, whipping through me to the rhythm of his fingers in wild, biting, pleasure-filled waves, crashing, swelling through me.

  Eventually, it slows, flowing more like water pushed by a breeze, lighter, lighter, until all that's left is a hollow, glowing memory of the motion that rocked me only moments ago.

  Even still, I tremble.

  Tremble
.

  Tremble.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  WHEN I FINALLY open my eyes, the light of the office somehow shocks me.

  And then…

  I nearly slide right off Alec's lap.

  He locks his arms around me, keeping me from slamming into the table.

  Holy hell I may never be able to walk again. My limbs are made of liquid, sloshing everywhere. I wonder if people heard me come. I tried so hard to stifle myself, but… I glance out at the office, but everything's so blurred I can't tell if anyone's looking.

  "That was so fucking hot," he says a second (minute, year, century—who knows, who cares?) later, pulling me tighter against him.

  "My clumsy ass?" I ask.

  "The way you drenched my hand and moaned my name," he says, tossing a big ball of heat right back between my legs, holy hell.

  "Oh… That…" I slowly, subtly pull my underwear across my still-exposed skin, doing my best—and failing—not to shiver in the process. When I'm covered, I stand, turning to face him, the table at my ass. Guess I can stand after all. But what I can't do is find the right words to respond with.

  He runs his palms up my thighs, over my skirt this time. Which is a bit of a letdown—although I doubt I could handle a second round. He smirks, knowing exactly what I'm thinking. "If I thought you could handle another go, I'd bring you back to my lap. There's nothing I'd like more than getting to keep my hands on you—in you, the entire day. Fuck. I want you, Teagan. In every way. I want you."

  I shiver again. And then… Why? I almost ask. Because I don't get it. But I'm still glowing, and I don't want to burst this bubble. "You want me…on my knees?"

  "Stop." The word is quiet and deafens me all the same. "Don't purposefully twist my meaning into something less."

  "I'm saying—"

  "This is why I've worked so hard to keep my hands off of you recently." He stands, too, stepping away from me, toward his desk. "Don't you wonder why I haven't invited you back over?"

  "Maybe." Yes. "Don't you wonder why I haven't asked you over?"

  "I know why you haven't. It's for the same reason."

  "Which is?"

  He sweeps his jacket off his desk and shrugs it on, making the everyday motion sexy as hell. "Because, sweet Teagan, I know what this is between us. But I can't have you, not in my house, not in my bed, until you know it, too."

  "I know what this is," I say.

  "Tell me."

  But I can't make the words come. Maybe I don't have the answer. Maybe I'm scared. Instead, I twist the silver picture frame on his desk… It's a toddler. Cute little girl. "Um. Do you have a kid?"

  I don't know why the thought shocks me so much—but his expression drops down to something dark and he shakes his head. "That was my sister as a child."

  "You have a sister?"

  "Had." He closes his mouth and tells me more with his eyes than anything else that the conversation is closed as well.

  "I'm sorry," I say, my heart twisting, an autumn leaf dropping from my chest, falling, falling.

  "You still haven't told me what this is," he says.

  I search his expression, but it's calmly unreadable.

  "See," he says when I hesitate. "You can't."

  I'm not sure which is more frustrating, my inability to articulate what it is between us, or his annoying determination to make me. "Why does it matter so much?"

  "Pride, maybe," he admits with a shrug. "I want all of you, Teagan. Your body. Your mind. Your heart. And until you're ready, I don't want to take the risk." I open my mouth, but he speaks again first. "And let's clear the air about it because I know you won't tell me if you're thinking it—I'm not talking about sex."

  "What if I want to talk about sex?" Because, suddenly, I do. "What if I want to do more than talk about it?"

  "What if I want to invite you to my brother's wedding?"

  "What if you didn't avoid my questions?"

  "What if you said yes to mine?"

  "Come on," I say, exasperation pushing my tone into something sharper than I intend. "Your dad's pissed that you want to break it off with Piper. You think he's going to allow your receptionist on your arm at your brother's wedding? When is it?"

  "My assistant, not that it matters. Next weekend—and who cares about my dad?"

  "Next weekend? Are you nuts?" Even if this were a good idea, I can't find a dress that fast. And, more importantly, "I care. And I'm pretty sure deep down you do, too."

  He strides toward me and grabs my hands. "That's the thing. I don't. I've spent my entire life coasting along the path they chained me to. But I'm changing. This is changing me. And they need to know they can't control me anymore."

  "I don't want to be used as a slap in your family's face."

  "You're not a slap to them—you're a prize, a treasure, for me. I want to see you all dolled up and spend the night imagining what you're wearing underneath. I want to dance with you, to watch you whirl on my arm, and to catch you, all night. I want to taste the champagne toast still on your tongue when I kiss you."

  It makes my head spin, everything he's describing. "God, what are you? A poetry major?"

  "Don't snark your way out of this."

  "Don't fill my head with fairy tales. I'm not your Cinderella."

  "No. You're a kitten with a mighty roar." There's not a trace of mockery in his tone. I'm not sure how he does it. "Fuck Cinderella. This is our own story."

  "Fuck Cinderella? Now you've gone too far." I try to smile, but it falls limply across my lips, dissolving into something closer to a frown. I'm…dazzled. He's stunned me with this sudden bout of intensity. "I'm not going."

  "Because you don't want to—or because you're scared of my father?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "To me? Yeah."

  "I don't want to get fired. Getting in the middle of a family battle when your father runs this company? It's not smart."

  He laughs, a bitter sound, and trails the backs of his fingers down my jaw. "Don't you get it, Teagan? This thing between us? It guarantees you won't get fired. My father'd be setting himself up for such a huge lawsuit."

  And immediately, I see it. If Alec tells his father about me—I'll keep my job.

  For the worst possible reason.

  The lava, long settled in my stomach from earlier, erupts in flames. "I don't want to blackmail my way into keeping my job." I slap his hand away, the sound ringing through the room. "And I'm pretty fucking offended that you think I would."

  His sigh's so heavy, it sounds like it's attached to the weight of the world. "Do you hear yourself?"

  "Do you?"

  "Give me a little more credit." He laughs again, as sharp as the last time, but not as harsh. "We both know you'd never do that."

  "Then why would you mention it at all?" I don't know what to do with my hands. He's standing here in front of me, one hand in his pocket, all casually cool, and I'm looking up at him like, I don't even know what. A moron. "Back up, would you? I can't think with you this close."

  He lifts an amused eyebrow, taking a step back, and with distance between us I really do find it easier to sort through my thoughts.

  "Thank you." I offer the words grudgingly.

  "My remark about my father had everything to do with my frustrations with him and absolutely nothing to do with you." He reaches for my hand, stopping an inch short until he sees the permission in my expression. "Will you at least consider saying yes?"

  As if any girl could resist the way he weaves his fingers through my hand, so gently—after I know how rough he can be with them? After very specific parts of my body are still halfway on fire from the way he hammered them against me?

  "Will Piper be there?"

  "Her whole family will be—but I can ask her to stay home. She might appreciate the time away from her family, away from mine…"

  "No." I wait to feel nervous over attending the same event as Piper and her family, but I don't. Probably because I won't be going. "I thoug
ht we agreed to keep this secret—bringing me to a wedding kinda blows any sort of cover."

  This stalls him. "I want to say I don't care, because for me, I don't. But I don't want to make things uncomfortable for you."

  "Thank you," I say, annoyed at the disappointment running through me. He's being considerate. I should appreciate it.

  But I don't.

  He grins a cocky grin, like he can read it in my expression, though I'm trying so hard to keep it blank. "You want to go."

  I do. I really do. "No, I don't."

  "Say yes," he says, all demanding.

  "I'll think about it," is all I'll promise, letting my gaze wander the office to avoid the pressure to give in.

  "I get what I want, you know. Might as well say yes now." His smirk widens when I scowl at him. It'd be annoying if it didn't bring out his dimples. If it didn't fit the features of his face perfectly, all angles and smooth skin.

  "I'll think about it." I turn to leave because I'm discovering that sometimes being near Alec, speaking with Alec, touching Alec, stirs things in me too…full to handle. I need space. Before I exit, I glance back. "But don't get your hopes up."

  It's a weird thing, though, that my own hopes are raised. Not sure why. But the moment I step out of Alec's office, I'm buoyant.

  All the way through lunch with Sam—who didn't seem to hear anything from Alec's office, or is too polite (or scared) to mention that he did.

  All the way through the rest of the day.

  All the way home, and even after that for a while, too.

  "It's because he's totally falling for you," Cassidy tells me later, on the phone, her voice annoyingly confident.

  I search for a way to argue against her point, but come up blank. "Shit. I mean, I wouldn't say he's falling for me. But he cares for me. Enough to upset his family by bringing me to his brother's wedding. You're right."

  "Wouldn't be the first time."

  "Keep telling yourself that." I scratch at a piece of chipped paint on my ancient cheap-o desk, the small familiar thrill when it lifts from the wood mingling with the much, much bigger thrill of the realization that Cassidy has a point.