Four Temptations

by PJ Adams

  There was a polite ripple of laughter at that, and I’m sure that caressing thumb was doing something polite too. It was definitely something that was making my legs take on the consistency of jelly, the bastard.

  “There are two inevitabilities about these occasions. There will be a speech, and the speech will end. Now, I know you all love the sound of my voice – or is that just me? – but generally speaking it’s best when those two inevitabilities come as close together as possible. So, without further ado, I hope you’ll all raise a glass to Maggie, for finding the words of love that stimulate the brain, the heart and, of course, the bedroom.”

  I raised my glass, not to me, but to Jimmy.

  Somehow he’d achieved the impossible.

  He’d made me forget completely that Brandon was taking this as an opportunity to not-so-discreetly feel me up.

  He’d found those magical words.

  Right then, I felt so damned lucky to have Jimmy as my friend and protector.

  §

  “I don’t know what you thought you were doing,” I said, a smile carefully pasted all over my face.

  Brandon raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Was that not obvious by the hand on that quite sensational ass of yours?”

  We’d slipped outside for a little air, and now we were standing in the middle of the pedestrianized street, a short distance from the knots of smokers.

  “You were distracting Jimmy. He was saying such sweet things and I felt like the naughty girl in the back row.”

  “Oh I do love it when you talk dirty, baby. You know I do.”

  “I could knee you in the balls right now,” I said, still smiling. “You know I would, and you know how bony my knees are.”

  “And now the sweet talking!”

  “Don’t spoil it, Bran. Jimmy’s put a lot of work into this.”

  “He can take it. He’s man enough.”

  Brandon could be very dismissive, very sure of himself. That was all part of the attraction: a man who knew his own mind, who didn’t suffer fools. That boorish straight talking did well for him on TV. It was an act, of course, a protective layer.

  “What do you want, Brandon?”

  It was the look in his eyes that suddenly cut through everything. A moment of vulnerability.

  “You’re not just fooling, are you?”

  He shrugged, looked away, took a big slug of red wine.

  Back when we’d been a thing, it had been those protective layers that had come between us in the end. It had taken a lot of work to chip away at them, and even when I had he’d wanted his space, his distance. That two houses thing. His place and mine. I’d wanted more; he’d wanted what we had.

  But now?

  That look in his eyes, that inadvertent chipping away of a protective layer...

  “You’re serious, aren’t you, Bran? This isn’t just some game.”

  “I don’t play games.”

  “No, you don’t, but there are different levels of not playing, aren’t there?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What level of not playing is that response?”

  We were standing close together, face to face. I really could just knee him in the balls. Or kiss him. And we were at that stage of fighting and joking where I could easily tip in either direction.

  §

  Was I really even thinking about it?

  Me and Brandon Tyne?

  Again?

  Hadn’t we learned our lessons the first time around?

  But then, if we’d learned our lessons then maybe we were well placed to get things right this time.

  And was I really arguing with myself, right here while I was standing in the middle of a city-centre street arguing with the man himself?

  What level of screwed up is that?

  §

  “This is what you do to me!” I said, and of course he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

  He shrugged, then reached out and put a finger under my chin, with just enough pressure to tilt my head up for the kiss that was going to come at any moment. I knew his moves.

  And he knew my responses. He could play me like a Stradivarius.

  He knew the effect that move had: the teasing, barely a touch at all, and yet it was an alpha male thing, a control thing. A strong man doesn’t have to be physically overpowering; he has to be in command.

  And, oh my God, but Brandon knew how to dominate me like nobody else ever came close to doing.

  “Hey, babe,” he said. “You know you want–”

  The sound of the pub doors swinging open and then shut again interrupted him, and then: “You really are, aren’t you?”

  That was Jimmy, standing in the doorway, haloed by the pub’s light.

  “I...” But I didn’t know what to say.

  Brandon barely glanced at our agent, instead keeping those steely eyes locked on my own.

  “Seriously?” demanded Jimmy, approaching us. I’d never seen him so worked up. Had he been drinking? He’d never really been much of a drinker, in my experience, which was unusual for the publishing world.

  Now, Brandon turned to face him. “Why wouldn’t we be, boy?”

  “After last time?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Brandon. “If we screw things up we won’t mess with your business plans, okay? Your golden girl won’t let you down.”

  “You think this is about money?”

  “I sure hope so,” said Brandon. “That’s why writers hire agents, isn’t it?” And with that, dismissively, he turned his back on Jimmy.

  That’s an image that will be with me forever: Brandon standing facing me, that look of cocky triumph smeared across his face; and over his shoulder, Jimmy, my champion and protector... and he looked so broken.

  That was when it all fell into place in a single, brief, ohmygod moment.

  Brandon was jealous. He’d been Jimmy’s star client, he’d brought me to the agency, encouraged Jimmy to humor me, and then, rapidly, had fallen into my shadow.

  And Jimmy... Poor, darling, always-there-for-me Jimmy.

  How blind had I been?

  I backed away from the two of them, until my heels hit the curb, and then I turned and walked, right away from my own book launch, away from it all.

  How blind...

  §

  He called, of course.

  He had to. No man could leave things like that. Not if he wanted to walk again.

  So many unanswered questions. So many things I had to reassess, all of them swirling around inside my skull since I’d walked away from my book launch only a few hours before.

  The phone trilled – my mobile, on the little chest of drawers by my bed. I was sitting there on the duvet, my knees drawn up to my chest. I may even have been rocking back and forth a little, in true One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest style. I was still in my clothes from the launch: my favorite Boden skinnies, and a tailored jacket over a vest top, only my shoes kicked off on the floor.

  How could I have been so blind?

  “You could have said something.” That’s not how I normally answer my phone, but the caller’s number was in my Contacts and his picture popped up on the little screen when the phone rang. “You could have at least dropped a little hint. But no–” I kept going, filling the silence; why call if you’re not going to speak? “–you’re the consummate professional, aren’t you? You keep work and private separate. I don’t even know if you’re married, for God’s sake! Or gay. Or a creepy, predatory stalker who steals ladies’ underwear from their washing. Eugh... You could be all these things, but you’re never anything other than professional, and... and...”

  “Let me see,” he said, finally. “Yes, I try to be professional: you’re special, Maggie; I couldn’t risk that. And yes, I like to be discreet. Not because I’m married or gay or some kind of stalker pervert, but because I’m professional about what I do and I’m damned good at it.”

  “I know. I know. You sell my shit to Hollywood
. You’ve told me that often enough, Jimmy.”

  “But as you kind of ask, no I’m not married any more, and not because I’m gay but because I can be stupid and blind sometimes and I realized too late and ever since then I’ve been very cautious about opening up my heart to someone. And no, I don’t steal underwear. I’ve never even felt the slightest inclination in that direction, which I hope will be a relief to you.”

  “It is. Believe me it is. I don’t think I could handle that, as well as...”

  “As well as what?”

  “As well as whatever this is.”

  Silence, then: “I’m sorry about your book launch.”

  “It was a fabulous book launch.”

  “I know. But I’m sorry about your book launch. That thing with Brandon... You weren’t really...?”

  “I don’t know.” I thought back to that exchange on the street. “No. No, I don’t think I was. I just...” What had Ellie said? “I was just flattered, and a part of me was thinking that maybe that thing with Brandon had been it.”

  “You really think that?”

  No. I’d always known, really, even when I’d tried to kid myself that this time could be different. Doomed relationships, volatile lovers who can never make things work together, all the fights and making up. I’d been there. I’d seen it all. I’d written the book and sold the movie.

  “So,” I said, after another long silence. “Where to from here?”

  “Well you could start by letting me in. I’ve been standing out here for ages and it’s starting to rain, and the longer I’m out here the more I’m going to look like that pervy stalker you mentioned.”

  I went to my window, twitched a curtain aside and looked down.

  Over on the far side of the street, under a street lamp, dark jacket pulled tight as if it might somehow ward off the steady rain that flashed and streaked in the streetlight. Dark hair that normally had a curl to it, plastered flat against his head.

  “You’d better come in, then,” I said into the phone, my voice little above a whisper.

  I met him at the door and thrust a towel into his hands. Did I resist for just a moment, feeling him tugging the towel from me? I don’t know. Perhaps. He started to rub vigorously at his hair and then dabbed at his jacket.

  “Coffee?” I said, turning and leading the way to the kitchen. He’d never been to my house before. That professional-personal divide of his.

  §

  He sat at the kitchen table, his jacket on the radiator and the towel around his shoulders.

  I fussed with the kettle, the cups, the coffee grinder, the cafetière. I had my back to him, and I didn’t know why I was behaving like this. As if turning to face him would betray something, or open me up; as if it was some kind of commitment. Don’t ask me to explain what goes on inside my head; let’s just not go there, okay?

  “Nice place.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The rain–”

  I turned round, and he stopped. I don’t know... maybe it was something in my face. Maybe it was just the eye contact. I know that when his eyes met mine it did something strange to me. Maybe that was what I’d subconsciously feared: what might emerge, what might follow.

  It only lasted for a moment. I don’t know if he was the first to look away or if it was me. I think it was him, that nervous air of his that I’d always thought was an affectation, an act. Maybe it was the confident public persona that was really the act, after all.

  The kettle boiled and I turned. Steam billowed out, pooling under the wall units and spilling out and up around them.

  I put freshly ground espresso coffee in the cafetière and breathed its smell deep as I poured hot water onto it.

  “You okay, Maggie?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, my back still to him. “I’m really not sure.”

  “I’ll go?”

  “And leave me to drink all this coffee by myself? I’ll never sleep.”

  I sat opposite him, the cafetière, a milk jug and two cups between us, a barrier of sorts.

  Still, no more eye contact.

  No more words, even.

  Why did I feel so awkward? Like a schoolgirl. Like a gawky teenager. Like a damned virgin, indeed, and now that song was stuck in my head.

  I looked at him, then. My agent. My protector. Would I call him a friend, even? Or were those professional barriers in the way?

  “Well maybe one of us should say something,” he said, finally. “Or this could get really awkward.”

  I nodded. “It could get very complicated.”

  “It is very complicated.”

  I reached for the cafetière, raised it and tipped. Dark liquid bulged at its lip and then spilled over into a white cup.

  “Is it too complicated?” I asked.

  Silence again.

  I slid the cup across to him. He reached for the milk. I reached for the milk. Our hands stopped in mid-air, a fraction apart. I moved first, pushing the jug with my knuckles, and he took it by the handle and poured a swirl of thick, creamy milk into his coffee.

  I took mine black.

  “Ginger nut biscuits?” I said, and we laughed, awkwardly. Hell, everything was awkward just then.

  “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  “The launch... did people stay long?”

  “Still there now, I’d say.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It is.”

  I raised my cup, and he did so at the same instant. Me left-handed, him right, like a mirror, except for the fact that he was a strong-jawed Irishman and I was a good few inches shorter and had far bigger breasts.

  I get flippant when I’m nervous, did I mention that?

  Maybe not, but then, I don’t get nervous often.

  “There’s water running down your neck,” I said. “Let me get you another towel.”

  I fetched one from the utility room and tossed it across the table to him.

  I watched as he toweled himself down, and this time, when his eyes found mine, neither of us looked away. Those dark eyes, fixed on mine as he scrubbed at his hair again, and then his neck, and then down inside the front of his shirt, the top three buttons undone.

  That thing: if looks could kill? I don’t know about that, but they could certainly do other things. My heart raced, my skin flushed, my stomach did a jig of its own and, even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t look away from those dark eyes.

  He raised an eyebrow, prompting me to speak.

  “I... I think things might be getting a bit more complicated.”

  That nervous thing of his. Act or not, I was still undecided, but now it had vanished.

  “Complicated?” he said. “Or simpler?”

  He stood, and for a moment I thought I’d been misinterpreting everything and he was about to leave, and I had that mad, heart-racing thing again, and then...

  He came around the table and dropped down to his haunches by my chair. Those dark eyes, just below the level of mine. So close.

  His hand, covering mine on the table. It made my hand look tiny, my wrist slender as a twig. Jimmy had never come across as a physically imposing man, and I’m a tall, curvy woman, but now... He could wrap me in his arms, enfold me.

  His other hand, gentle on my cheek, my jaw. One finger touching the lobe of my ear – so sensitive! – and another finger resting on the hollow between jaw and ear. Such a delicate touch!

  His first kiss was brief, hesitant. A pressing of lips, lingering for a moment and then withdrawn.

  His second picked up where that lingering had left off, with a sudden, hungry urgency. His other hand came up to the back of my head. There was such strength in the way he held me, such surprising tenderness in that kiss, after its first few animal moments.

  He rocked back on his heels.

  He looked startled, suddenly scared. God knows what I looked like: my skin was hot, my heart pounding.

  “I...” he said, then stopped.

  I reached out, took a handful of his shi
rt, and pulled him to me, kissing him on the cheek, along the rasping stubble of his jaw, to his ear, my tongue tracing delicate lines around its interior.

  His mouth started to work across my neck, stubble scraping, tongue and lips so tender, teeth hard, dragging across the skin, setting it alight with his touch.

  He stood, then, and I was facing an unmistakable bulge in his chinos. I leaned forward, pressed my cheek against his hardness, worked along the contours of his shaft with my mouth, and then he was pulling me to my feet, sitting me on the kitchen table.

  There was a crash of cups or cafetière or whatever on the floor and I didn’t care at all.

  He pulled at my top, sliding the jacket from my shoulders, and then the vest top over my head, and then he was kissing downwards, the rasping of his chin dragging down into my cleavage, followed by his mouth. When his tongue found the top of my bra, it worked along it, his hand pushing my breast upwards so that his tongue could slide down inside the lacy cup in long sweeping motions.

  I reached back and released the clasp, and for a moment he pulled his head back, taking in the sight.

  And then he dipped down again, this time taking a hard nipple in his mouth and sucking it deep. It was as if there was a direct connection between that nipple and somewhere much further down. I was hot and wet. Throbbing for him. I squirmed against the hard surface of the table, getting little thrills of pleasure as my skinnies tugged and pulled against me.

  When his hand found my other nipple and started circling it with a touch so delicate and electric I thought I was going to climax right there and then, it was so intense. It was, really, as if I’d never been touched before.

  His tongue started to flick, matching the rhythm of that finger. Steady, regular, teasing me as he speeded up and then dropped back again.

  I was leaning back now, supporting myself on both hands. Selfish, maybe, just sitting back like that, but... it was as if I didn’t have any control, as if I’d given myself up to him.

  With one bare foot, I found his calf and started to slide up and down. His chinos were still damp from the rain.

  I managed to raise a hand to his chest, all muscle and bone.

  “You’re still wet,” I said, and then I started to giggle, manically.