He stays above me, his breath uneven, his eyes almost accusing as my own climax recedes, and I am left weak and confused by what the hell just happened to us.
I stare up at my boss, at the man who’s just given me—I don’t know...four orgasms? Five orgasms? I’ve lost count. It’s still the afternoon and my body is covered in goose bumps.
Holy shit. Is this what it’s like with his other women?
They are like ghosts, immediately hovering on my subconscious. I hate it that they’re there, but my brain clearly needs me to remember them. To remember what Jack’s like.
‘So I suppose you don’t get complaints after all,’ I murmur, running my fingertips down his back. Like mine, it is wet with perspiration.
‘Not so much.’
He pushes up, with a smile on his face that somehow doesn’t fill his eyes. He presses a light kiss to my forehead and then stands.
‘I’ll get Hughes to take you home.’
The words seem to be spoken in a foreign language for all the sense they make to me. He’ll get Hughes to take me home? Is he fucking serious? Am I being dismissed?
I smile, even as my mind is reeling from the sheer rudeness of that statement. ‘I need to finish something at the office.’
I am amazed by myself. How do I sound so unbothered? So casual? It’s a bald-faced lie, but it’s the best I can come up with while my body is numbed by shock and fulfilled desire.
He nods. ‘Fine. He can take you there.’ Another tight smile. ‘You’re okay to let yourself out? I’m going to grab a shower.’
Jesus fucking Christ. Is he indeed?
‘I think I can find a door without a map,’ I drawl sarcastically, reaching for my phone without so much as a smile.
I flick it to life and load my emails, but the words swim before me like one big puddle of grey matter.
Which is what his brain is going to be against the crisp white wall if I don’t get the hell out of there.
He walks towards a door across the room and I continue staring at my phone. Yet I know he’s paused and is watching me. So I smile at an imagined joke on my phone, then pretend I’m typing a reply.
If you’d asked me an hour ago what could go wrong I would have said exactly this. Pushing past the boundaries we’ve always wisely obeyed, only to have Jack reinstating them just as fast as he’s able—brick by brick, blocking me out.
My fingers move over my phone but I’m play-acting, doing what I can to distract him from the fissures running through my heart, my hopes and my confidence.
Eventually Jack moves into the bathroom and I hear the shower running.
Arsehole.
It might have been the best sex I’ve ever had, but I’m pretty sure it was also the biggest mistake of my life.
Chapter Five
‘AMBER.’ I SMILE, meeting the redhead’s eyes with genuine interest.
Lucy’s sister is ten years older than Lucy was, and she has the same pale skin and dainty features—at least going from the photographs I’ve seen. Her eyes are enormous and brown, her smile slow but genuine. She is naturally plump and attractive.
I like her instantly.
‘The angelic Gemma,’ she responds, her Scottish accent thick. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting the woman who’s tamed my brother-in-law.’
Tamed him? Not bloody likely.
Flashbacks of the previous afternoon flood my brain and I push them away. I cannot think about how it felt to be made love to by Jack Grant. No—fucked by him. Fucked hard. So hard, so hot... Oh, my God. My insides clench with remembered need. It’s a visceral awareness, and actual biological need throbs through me on a cellular level. It’s every bit as compelling and real as thirst, starvation and fear. It is a need strong enough to fell me at the knees.
I swallow, hoping to calm my raging, insatiable desire. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s untameable,’ I say, with only a hint of desperation, gesturing that she should take a seat.
I’ve moved us to the small conference room on-site at The Mansion. Thankfully it’s nothing like the office in the City, with its modern decor and imposing outlook. This is a room far more fitted to an ancient home on the edge of Hampstead. Still expensive, with luxurious leather recliners, but homely, somehow.
‘Put up with him, then. You must have the patience of a saint.’
‘I must,’ I agree.
‘Gemma is actually very impatient.’
His voice enters the room before he does, and I straighten in the chair.
‘If I don’t give her what she wants straightaway she begs me until I give in.’
My cheeks flame and I’m grateful that Amber is standing and moving across the room towards Jack—arsehole that he is. How dare he say something so bloody obvious? I know we’re both thinking of how I begged him to make love to me the day before.
My eyes cling to Jack and Amber, morbidly fascinated, as they embrace. It’s a hug of true affection and, yes, grief is there, too. He’s wearing navy blue pants and a pale blue shirt which he’s rolled up to just below the elbows. It’s a linen material, and it’s crinkled a little around the chest, showing he’s been sitting in it for quite some time.
He keeps an arm around Amber’s waist as they walk deeper into the room. She takes an armchair opposite me and he sits beside her, facing me, aligning himself with her.
They are family. I’m the outsider.
It hurts. Possibly even more than the showering-straight-after-sex thing.
Did he need to drink copious measures of Scotch to forget me last night?
My eyes drift to his face to find him watching me. Intensely watchful, I would have to say, peeling away my skin and analysing each beat of my heart.
I blink, careful not to react, and then turn back to Amber. ‘How’s everything going with the launch preparation?’
‘Aye, good. We’re getting there. I’ve staffed the main headquarters and we’re just getting the international charitable recognition worked out to allow foreign donations.’
‘Advertising?’ Jack chimes in.
‘We’re meeting with two agencies next week to select a final campaign. It’s looking like it will be print and digital-heavy, with the possibility of sponsoring a major sporting event over the summer—possibly the cricket.’
Jack pulls a face. ‘Bloody hell. The cricket?’
‘Oh, come on. Lucy would have wanted it.’ Amber grins, pushing a finger into his shoulder in a further sign of their casual camaraderie.
It’s strange that I don’t often think of Jack like this—as a member of other spheres.
Here, it is him and me and the work we do together. It consumes so much of my life that I must admit I’m surprised to realise he has other people, things, memories and hobbies. Jokes and history.
Did Lucy watch cricket while Jack groaned about it? Did they laugh about his aversion to any sport other than rugby?
I blank the thoughts—or try to. But they’re gnawing at my mind, unfolding like a concertinaing piano accordion that’s ever so slightly out of key.
‘It’ll be a good show,’ Amber says loudly, her smile encouraging as she winks in my direction.
Despite the fact that she’s forced me to walk through a door that shows me the ghosts of Jack’s Happy Past, I like her immensely, and the more she speaks about the foundation the more I know we’ve absolutely made the right decision. She’s intimately informed on all the matters I need to consult with her about. She’s thorough and quick and funny. And she’s uniquely motivated to make the fundraiser a success.
She’s Lucy’s sister, and Lucy is dead, but I am jealous of Amber suddenly. It’s ridiculous. An emotion entirely unworthy. But watching her talk, with her big red lips and her animated face, I feel wan and boring in comparison.
I would have been bland compared to Lucy, too.
I look downwards as Amber launches into a description of the view from her office. I’m wearing one of my favourite dresses—a shift in olive-green with bell sleeves and
a boat neck. Oh, but it’s so conservative and drab! Just the kind of dress my mother would adore. I chose it for the length of the sleeves, which fall to partway down my hands, because my wrists—which I see I’ve now accidentally left uncovered—have a dark band of bruising around them.
Belt-burn. Thanks, arsehole.
I nod at something Amber’s said, my eyes moving of their own accord to Jack’s face.
He’s looking at my wrists, too, and the colour has drained from his face. I shift self-consciously, uncrossing and crossing my legs and drawing my sleeves lower in the process.
‘Amber, we can discuss the rest over lunch. I know Gemma’s got a desk full of crap to deal with.’
‘Your crap!’ Amber laughs good-naturedly, totally relaxed.
‘That’s her job,’ he says pointedly.
Amber rolls her eyes. ‘How you put up with him is beyond me.’
But she stands, straightening the crinkles out of the front of her skirt as she moves towards me. I hold out a hand to shake but she ignores it and pulls me into a hug instead.
‘We’ve spoken so many times I feel like I already know you. But it’s been lovely to finally meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ I murmur, stepping away from her with cringe-inducing coldness. Something else my mother would approve of! Standoffishness is a bland green dress. Great. I’m everything I swore I’d never be.
‘Gemma? I need a moment with you, please.’ He turns to Amber. ‘Why don’t you wait for me in the car? This won’t take long.’
‘I have a few calls to make,’ she says, and nods, clipping out of the room.
He walks behind her, but only so far as the door, which he pushes shut emphatically and slips the lock across with equal force. And then he is prowling towards me. Yes, prowling. That’s absolutely the word.
I have about four seconds to pull myself together. Four seconds to ignore the hammering of my heart and the throbbing of my libido. Four seconds to remind myself that he’s my boss, and a total ass to boot. To remember how I felt when he rolled off me and all but asked me to leave his bed not two minutes after deserting my body.
No one has the right to make me feel like that. No one. And certainly not twice.
‘That went well,’ I say efficiently, leaving no room for the personal. ‘I’m thrilled she’s going to be at the helm of the foundation.’
A muscle jerks in his cheek—as though he’s grinding his teeth or something. He catches my wrists and lifts them, pushing my sleeves up my arms to reveal the full extent of my bruising. He closes his eyes as he runs his finger over them, as though fortifying himself to look properly.
‘You’re hurt.’
I swallow, not liking this side of him any more than I do the bastard side that showered as soon as he’d pulled out of me. This is scarier, because it’s doing really odd things to my heart and my tummy, seeing him show this kind of humanity and compassion.
I jerk my wrists away. ‘Yeah... Can’t you tell? I’m in agony.’ I roll my eyes for good measure. ‘It’s just a couple of bruises.’
He nods, but there’s a look in his face that I don’t know if I ever want to see again. ‘Listen, Gemma...’ The way he says it rolls my stomach. ‘About yesterday...’
‘It’s fine.’ My smile is a flicker across my face and then it’s gone. ‘I know you.’
He shakes his head. ‘No, you don’t understand.’ His frown is one of frustration. ‘Let me explain.’
I swallow. Be strong. Remember Shower Gate. ‘You don’t need to explain,’ I say firmly.
Please don’t let him explain. Without an explanation there’s ambivalence. But if I have to listen to his regrets, worse, his apology...?
‘It was good. I had fun. Let’s leave it at that.’
I walk towards the door, needing an escape. My legs are unsteady and my throat is parched and sore—like it’s been flamed with a blowtorch. I walk away from him because my sanity depends on distance.
But this time he follows. He puts a hand on either side of me as I reach the darkly panelled door, so that I’m trapped by him. I freeze, staring straight ahead while my body goes into overdrive, his nearness impossible to ignore.
‘You want to leave it at that?’ he asks, his hand dropping to my hip.
I close my eyes, waiting for the hammering of my pulse to slow. As if it’s going to.
‘You want to forget what that felt like? Never do it again?’ His fingers run lower, down my leg to the hem of my dress. ‘Say the word and I’ll step backwards. I’ll stop touching you. For good.’
I nod, but ‘the word’ clogs my throat.
‘Spread your legs apart.’
You do that and I am outta here. Love from your brain.
‘Jack...’ I say, his name thick and hoarse.
‘I’ve been wondering all morning,’ he says quietly. ‘Did you listen to me?’
And his hand creeps under my dress, up my leg towards my bottom, where he finds the fabric of my knickers and flicks at it, hard enough to make me jerk.
‘No, you didn’t. Shame... Because if you weren’t wearing underwear I could take you right now. Here against the door. Would you like that, Gemma?’
I groan, completely frozen by the imagery of his words.
‘I’m going to fuck you now unless you tell me not to.’
Not only can I not find the words, I nod my head in total surrender. I hear his exhalation of breath and smile weakly. I move to turn around, but he keeps his hands on my hip—firm.
‘No. Like this.’ And he pulls me backwards, bending me at a ninety-degree angle.
He doesn’t remove my underpants. He links both hands around them and pulls until they tear, dropping them to the ground.
I stare at them with surprise and impatience. ‘They were really expensive,’ I say darkly.
‘They were in my way.’
I hear him unzip his trousers, then the familiar sound of foil being torn, rubber being snapped onto his length, and then he’s inside me. No preamble, but—let’s face it—the whole morning’s been a total exercise in tantric delay. He runs his hands over my back as he thrusts into me and I splay my fingers wide against the door, my body taking his possession as though it’s what I need to stay alive.
I am hot and cold all over, and about to come when he pulls out. It is so like the torment of the day before—the utter outrageous shock of desolation—that I cry out hoarsely into the room.
‘You’d better not fucking stop,’ I say angrily.
He straightens me and turns me around, pushing me hard against the door and kissing me until my knees are about to give way.
‘Think of that as an IOU.’ He pulls away, his eyes meshing with mine. ‘One I intend to collect.’ He scoops down and grabs my underwear, dangling the scrap of fabric by one finger. ‘And no more of this.’
I gape at him. ‘Is that an order, sir?’
‘You’d better damned well believe it.’
‘Okay, I’ll call HR and have it added to my contract.’
He kisses me again and my body sways towards his; I give up the sass immediately.
‘Fuck me more,’ I say into his mouth.
‘Wild horses won’t stop me.’ It’s a growl. ‘Later.’
* * *
Five minutes later, I’m staring at my desk, a frown on my face.
What just happened?
It’s like some kind of cyclone came into the room and settled down on top of us. All that’s needed is for us to be close to one another and bam! The world loses its usual governance and we are wild, unshackled animals.
I tilt my head forward, catching it in my hands.
I’ve never felt like this.
I’ve always been able to control the men in my life, and I’ve always, always known what I want from them. Relationship decisions have, historically, been made by the same part of my brain that runs my career and all other aspects of my life.
I know some people talk about ‘love at first sight’, but that’s alw
ays been a good clue to me that those people are batshit crazy.
Oh, I’m not saying I think I’m in love with Jack! I’m sexually tormented, not a sadist, and loving Jack would be stupid. But I don’t have any brainpower or willpower around him.
He has all the power. Sex power. It makes me uneasy to acknowledge that and to accept that I would walk headfirst into whatever it is we’re doing just to be with him some more. He’s that good.
My body is a livewire, arcing through space, waiting to be grounded by him. But he doesn’t ground me—he flares me into a violent electrical storm.
I drive him crazy, too. I remember, in a drowning attempt to have faith in my own abilities, that when I went down on him he was mine. Completely.
I don’t think Jack welcomes this development any more than I do. I think his brain is probably giving him as hard a time as my own... What we had before worked. Sure, I pretty much had to pull up my big girl pants in the form of Maid Marian’s chastity belt to make sure I didn’t give in to the sexy man-pull of Jack Grant. But professionally we’re a great team.
And losing that is far riskier for him. I’ll get another job when I want one—I’m forever being headhunted, in fact.
My frown deepens as I open my second drawer and rifle through it, my fingers curling around the card of the most persistent caller. Andrew Long from Saatchi & Long. He’s offered me some seriously awesome job opportunities in the last year, and every time I demur he tells me I must be on an incredible package.
Little does he know! I am very well-paid; Jack knows he can’t afford to lose me. But, more than that, I get to stare at Jack-fucking-Grant all day.
Oh, God.
This is hopeless. I scrape my chair back, dropping Andrew’s card back into the drawer and pushing it closed, scooping my bag up and pulling the strap over my shoulder.
‘I’m going out,’ I call as I pass Sophia and Rose. ‘Back soon.’
Sophia waves in acknowledgement. I keep walking, my bare ass making me feel both turned on and self-conscious as I step out into the weather. It’s cold, but I forgot my coat and I don’t really care.
Off Limits Page 7