Lane frowned as she looked up at him. ‘So,’ she said slowly, ‘you mean that being impulsive can … can be a … a turn-on?’
She almost swallowed the words ‘turn-on.’ She seemed to find them so difficult to say. It was curiously charming. Not that he was interested in being charmed. ‘That’s right,’ he said, and promptly—almost roughly—pulled the bodice of her dress back into place.
He turned her quickly and tried to pull up the zipper, but it was jammed firmly in place. So the stuck zipper hadn’t been a ruse. As he should have known. She just didn’t have those moves.
He manoeuvred the zipper, his fingers touching that pale, soft skin as he tried to free it. You can have her, take her, do it, his subconscious urged, as he fought almost desperately with the zip. And then the zip finally closed and he was able to rein himself in.
‘And if I do something like that to you … you know, when you don’t expect it … you won’t mind?’
Oh, Lord. Lane, sliding her hands inside his underwear. Adam felt his body leap at the thought and realized he was going to have to tighten those reins if he was going to keep his hands off her. God, what was happening to him? It wasn’t supposed to work this way. He was experienced enough to direct the action the way he wanted it to go. And the way he wanted it to go was for him to be the one arousing her until she couldn’t control herself. She was a novice! Practically nun-like. How the hell was she managing to reverse the natural order of things?
‘At the moment, it’s better for me to take the lead.’ The words were fine but his voice sounded like some weird, half-strangled thing—not that there seemed to be much he could do about that. ‘But later, yeah, sure.’
She turned to face him. So serious. ‘You’ll tell me, though, if you don’t like what I do? Or if I’m making a fool of myself? I can’t learn otherwise.’
‘You want me to score your performance?’
She ran her hands down the front of the dress. ‘I have no objection to being scored if it helps me in the long run. I mean, these are lessons. Like … like English, geography and mathematics. Mr Cook, Miss Symons, Mrs Feldman.’
He was staring. He knew he was. Couldn’t seem to help it. Her cheeks were still flushed but otherwise there was no sign that he’d just had his fingers inside her panties, and he had no bloody idea what the litany of school subjects was about. Only that it was offending the shit out of him.
‘I won’t be crushed by criticism from a teacher,’ she added, sounding defensive—no doubt because he was looking at her as though she was stark staring mad. ‘If I knew it all, why would I hire you?’
And there you had it, in a nutshell. ‘All right, then,’ he said shortly. ‘Score two out of ten for fashion—and you only get the two because of the dress you’ve got on now.’
Lane nodded stiffly. ‘Actually, Sarah and Erica—my housemate—picked this out today. I guess that means I get zero.’
The inference wasn’t lost on Adam. She’d gone shopping for a dress to wear for him. ‘Which is why you and I have a date next Saturday. We’re going shopping for some clothes that might actually appeal to a man.’
She frowned. ‘It seems like a waste of lesson time, since I can shop on my own.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not judging by the contents of your wardrobe.’
‘With Sarah and Erica, then.’
‘Maybe, but one dress? Is that all you bought today?’
‘I bought two.’
‘You need more than two. And I’m a man so I bring a different perspective.’
‘Yes, but would your opinion translate to … to all men?’
Adam paused, processing that. ‘Do you have a particular man in mind, Lane? You must have a picture, if so. Grab your phone and show me. I’ll give you a quick assessment.’
‘You can do that from a photo?’
‘You can tell a lot from a photo. Expression, clothes, stance.’
‘Hmm,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s a shame I don’t have one in that case.’
‘But there is someone.’ Another pause, during which Lane said nothing. Adam found that he was clenching his teeth and forced his jaw to relax. So there was a man waiting, was there? The ‘fire under the ice’ man, perhaps …? Well, big deal. So what? ‘Whoever he is, I can almost guarantee that navy and grey suits, neck-strangling white shirts and tragic Nana shoes aren’t going to do the trick. So will you accept my help, in the spirit of our agreement?’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ she said grudgingly.
‘But I’ll see you before then—two-night minimum, right?’
‘Right. So when?’
‘Such eagerness!’ Adam laughed softly. ‘I’ll get back to you on that.’
He saw the flash of frustration in her eyes, which she quickly masked as she took another deep breath. He wondered what was coming.
And then she gave it to him in a concise question. ‘Adam, when are you intending to get to the consummation?’
He had to give her points for directness. ‘Lane, we’ve known each other for less than a week. Tonight, I had one hand on your breast and the other between your legs. You don’t think that’s progress?’
Ah, the blush. ‘If you put it like that …’
‘Yes, let’s both put it like that. Straight line A to B the way you like it—as befits a businesslike contractual arrangement. When the time is right, I’ll be all over you like a sugar addict on cake, eating you up.’
Her eyes widened. She cleared her throat and took a step back. She didn’t have quite as much bravado as she liked people to think. Promising, Adam thought. This was very promising.
‘I just have a goal,’ she said. ‘And I need to be ready in three months.’
‘All right, let me have it. What’s the deal with three months? Party? Conference? Overseas trip? What?’
‘Nothing like that. I just find it beneficial to set parameters, schedules, timetables. It keeps things on track. And I thought … I thought … three months …? Why? Isn’t that enough time?’
‘It’s long enough.’
‘Is it too long?’
‘Too long? What the—?’
‘I mean …’ She jerked her hand—an indication of impatience? ‘Is there an abridged version?’
Crikey! ‘No, there is not an abridged version. Or any version.’
That hand jerk again, and a slight frown.
He stepped closer, took her chin in his hand to tilt her face up, and looked into her crystal-blue eyes. ‘Three months. No longer, but no shorter. And you’ll be ready for him, Lane. You’ll be so ready, you’ll be able to teach university-level Kama Sutra.’
‘Kama Sutra,’ she said. ‘All of the positions?’
‘Whichever ones you’re up for. Promise. Money-back guarantee if you’re not satisfied.’
‘Good—because I will!’ she said gamely. ‘Want my money back. If I’m not.’
Adam felt an almost overwhelming desire to laugh—but it was mixed with a desire to crowd her against the wall and shove himself inside her. Bam. There, is that what you’re paying me for? Done.
Instead, he leaned in, nose-to-nose, and hovered for a long moment before settling his mouth against hers in a long, languid kiss. Slowly, slowly he drew back, stared into her eyes then released her chin. ‘Good night, Lane,’ he said.
As soon as he was out of the house, however, he started wondering about the state of his mind, because in the space of one evening, he’d cycled through thinking Lane Davis was ball-breaking, aggravating, adorable, infuriating, sexy, charming, prudish, amusing, classy … and circling back to sexy.
He got into his jeep and just sat there, wondering …
Three months.
One man in her sights.
He wondered how Lane would be with a man who wasn’t on the payroll. Wondered who the mystery man was. If she’d really already chosen someone specific, or whether it was going to be more a matter of lassoing the first decent
guy she saw once she was skilled up and ready.
And very suddenly, Adam felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. She’d better not be thinking of a rematch with DeWayne the Douchebag, or he’d have something to say about it. Not that it was any of his business, but seriously? Someone as bloody clueless as DeWayne the Douchebag, who clearly hadn’t had the faintest idea what to do with a woman, should not be reaping the benefits of Adam’s expertise and didn’t deserve a second shot even if it was only to teach him a lesson.
He shook his head. No. She wasn’t that stupid. Not Lane. She couldn’t be, with that gigantic brain of hers. Surely it wasn’t DeWayne.
So … who?
Fire under the ice.
Who the hell knew that about her, said that about her?
Who?
He hit the steering wheel hard. One, two, three, four.
None of your freaking business, Adam, that’s who!
And he wouldn’t be bothering to think about it, if he wasn’t so … so … frustrated. Dammit!
He was itching to get her into bed. Could see her in her bed. In his bed. On the floor. The couch. In the back of his jeep. The urge to do her every which way was almost impossible to resist—but he’d set his path and he would stick to it.
But, God, it was torture.
Just as he thought he was getting it under control, she wrested the upper hand back, and she didn’t even know she was doing it. He’d almost broken tonight, almost hadn’t been able to disengage himself from her. And it was only week one. Was this tug of war going to go on for the whole three months? He wasn’t sure he could take it. Her pushing him to do what she was paying him for, him resisting.
He started the jeep and pulled out onto the road.
Consummation. He could hear her voice, in his head, saying that. Consu-bloody-mation. That seemed to be everything to her. But he’d vowed to himself to show her otherwise, and that’s what he was going to do. He was not going to get to ‘consummation’ until she couldn’t pronounce ‘consummation’ in that intellectual-professor way. Until she was breathing sex words, begging words, with her hands everywhere because she couldn’t help herself, because it was him she was with and she wanted him more than her next breath—not because she’d memorized that putting tab A in slot B worked best.
Tab A. Slot B. Position C, D, E. And all before he even got to F.
God, he didn’t want to think about it, but the images were there anyway, tormenting him for the entire drive back to his house. Lane in various stages of sexual gratification.
At home he headed straight for his library and his single malt. Which did approximately nothing to take his mind off Lane.
Hours later, he was still trying to figure out how he could push her, how he could get so tightly under her skin she couldn’t think straight … while simultaneously trying to figure out what had happened to his own skin, which was showing signs of appalling fragility.
CHAPTER NINE
How can I get him to do it?
The question had been running through Lane’s head all day yesterday. And all day today, despite her determination not to think about him when she was at work.
How? How? How? Over and over and over.
Until she couldn’t get her pie chart to explode in the right proportions, and ended up taking her laptop to one of the meeting rooms for some privacy, because the thought of one of her colleagues walking behind her and seeing the mess she was making on her computer screen was too embarrassing.
At least she could unexplode the chart and try again—for the sixth time—but she doubted she could unexplode the incendiary device that seemed to have landed in the middle of her agreement with Adam Quinn.
What she’d thought was going to be a simple business transaction—three months of straightforward lessons on sexual technique—was turning out to be not so simple. The main problem being that he wouldn’t do what she wanted! Tonight was their one-week anniversary—if you could even mark an association like theirs in such a way—and they’d done almost nothing. She was in a hurry, and he knew that, so why wasn’t he just … just getting on with it? Why was he torturing her?
Clothing shouldn’t be boring: what kind of lesson was that, anyway? A wasted one, if you asked her, but she hadn’t been able to get out a demand that he replace it with something more physical. And so here she was, still waiting. And she didn’t care what Adam said about how waiting enhanced the experience—Lesson number two—she was ready to be enhanced right now! It was unbelievably difficult to be around him, be aroused by him, and know that at some point they’d be naked in bed but not know when. How was she supposed to plan for it? How was she supposed to prepare?
And the worst thing of all about being on tenterhooks waiting for him was that it made her think about him when other things—like pie charts—were supposed to be occupying her mind.
He’d had an erection when he’d circled her from behind, kissing her neck and putting his hands … well, there. And … and there. She’d felt it. It had felt good. Right, somehow. Exciting. And she wasn’t stupid—it meant he was aroused, just like she was. Ready for her. So he must have felt like pushing on.
So why hadn’t he pushed on? It wasn’t like she was stopping him.
And what did he do with that achy, aroused, unreleased feeling afterwards?
According to Erica, if he was everything Sarah said he was and was also sticking to the fidelity clause, he’d be fixing himself up, probably in the shower. And her advice to Lane was to do the same. Lane had given it a go but the half-heartedness of her efforts defeated her. The purpose of the contract was to get his hands there, and her hands on him. What was the point of her doing it to herself? She wasn’t going to learn anything new that way.
She jumped as her phone rang just as her seventh attempt at the pie chart became a mash of wrongly proportioned coloured slices, and stabbed at the phone harder than was strictly necessary to accept the call—which, in turn, annoyed her so much, she sounded uncharacteristically testy when she said, ‘Yes, what?’
‘Interesting phone manner for an executive economist.’
Adam.
Her heart stuttered to a halt—that’s what it felt like—and then started pounding so hard she put her hand over it in a vain attempt to steady the beat. She was staring straight ahead, looking through the glass wall of the meeting room, wondering how life could continue so calmly when she was on the verge of a heart attack, hoping nobody looked in at her and decided to call an ambulance because for sure she looked like she was about to keel over.
But nobody was looking at her. People were working at their desks, or standing in small groups; a meeting was taking place at one table out in the middle of the space—all as though nothing special was happening. But inside her small room, the atmosphere felt suddenly thin, so that she wanted to wrench open the door and let more air in.
And then she saw David Bennett come out of his office on the other side of the floor, and the sight of him jolted her out of her trancelike state. David. Her target. No way could she wrench open the door with him out there. She wanted all sound blocked off so nobody—especially David—could hear her speak to Adam. She wished she could black out the glass so nobody—especially David—could even see her while she talked to Adam.
David, luckily, hadn’t noticed her. He was beckoning to Anthea from Investor Relations, who went running as she always did. He asked her something and he smiled as he listened to her answer, head cocked to one side. He really was one of the best-looking men Lane had ever seen.
Rumour had it he and Anthea were occasional lovers. The thought of them as lovers should bother her, Lane knew, but somehow it didn’t. Maybe because she was concentrating on the fact that her turn would come in due course, when she was ready for it to come and not before. She tried to picture David touching Anthea the way Adam had touched her the other night. Standing behind her with his hands on her, but it didn’t seem to have any impact.
/> ‘I’m not hanging up, Lane,’ Adam said, ‘so you might as well say something.’
And with that, the image of David and Anthea receded, to be replaced by an image of her with Adam, and her heart exploded all over again. This was ridiculous. A simple phone call and she fell apart. Sexual frustration—had to be. And it was going to have to stop.
Lane forced the image out of her head. ‘I’m here,’ she said, and could hear the resentment in her voice. ‘But preoccupied. I’m working on a presentation.’
‘What, not daydreaming about me?’
Oh that she could answer easily! ‘I don’t think a few kisses and a half-hearted grope constitute sufficient grounds for daydreaming.’
‘Then let me try a full-hearted grope tonight.’ It sounded like Adam was talking through his teeth. ‘Have dinner with me.’
What? How was she going to get groped over dinner? She didn’t want to get groped over dinner. She wanted to say no to dinner, just on principle. Dinner was not businesslike. Dinner was not appropriate. Not for them.
But—deep breath—how do I get him to do it? Not by refusing to go out with him the first time he asked, that seemed certain.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Although I think public groping is juvenile and unnecessary in our situation.’
‘Then I’ll grope you in private, after dinner.’ He still sounded like he was talking through his teeth, but a little shiver of something pleasurable snaked down Lane’s spine regardless.
‘Private groping is … acceptable,’ she said.
‘I’m glad that’s “acceptable” to you Lane. Wouldn’t want to do anything “unacceptable”, or off-contract.’ When was he going to open his teeth?
‘So where are we going?’
‘A little Italian place called Benedetto’s in Haberfield. The easiest menu choices in the world because you don’t make any. Everyone gets the same meal, whatever the chef decides to cook, so it’s easy, and it’s always good.’
‘Okay, I’ll meet you there at … what? 7:30?’
‘I’ll pick you up.’
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