by Elise Faber
At the offer of a car, Becca relaxed. Unfortunately, his next words made that disappear as easily as chocolate around the office.
That very naughty four-letter word — the special-occasion one — spilled from her lips.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEVON WINCED AS he stretched. Playing in the NHL, he’d had his fair share of broken bones, stitches, and bruises. This was right up there with the worst of his injuries.
Midday sun streamed through the windows, blinding him, forcing his mind awake even when his body wanted to hunker down into the mattress and not come out for days.
He sat up with a curse. An almost one. A broken-off one.
Then he blinked and stared at his nightstand. A sticky note, bright yellow as Becca seemed to favor, was propped up against his lamp. A little paper cup sat next to a glass of water.
Antibiotics, it read, and he looked into the container to see two huge yellow and red pills. His eyes trailed down, took in the rest of the note. Take them with the crackers. Not good on an empty stomach.
Devon stared at the script-like swirls of Becca’s handwriting. It had always amused him how gracefully she’d been able to give him written orders.
Today’s Post-it note was no exception.
Flowery squiggles did not hide the outright command.
It also didn’t mean that Becca was wrong. After swallowing the pills, he choked down a couple of crackers and drank the glass of water.
Using the facilities, brushing his teeth, and painfully changing his clothes went a long way toward making him feel human again.
He opened the door to his bedroom and was immediately assaulted with scents. Cinnamon, chocolate, something savory. They danced around the hall and collided with his senses.
Shaking his head, he walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.
He’d left Becca in a spare room the night before, after they’d waited for Pascal.
After his five phone calls and texts had gone unanswered.
Devon didn’t know whether to thank or strangle his assistant.
“I take it that Pascal is still MIA?” he asked.
Becca jumped. “Don’t do that!” she said, hand over her heart. “I was just—”
His mouth dropped open as he glanced past her and caught sight of the destruction she’d made of the kitchen. Every square inch of countertop was covered with pots or cookie sheets or ingredients. He flicked his gaze back to hers, watched her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink.
Devon found he liked the mix of scents, the sight of the cheerfully messy disorder. His chef, on the other hand, was going to lose her shi— stuff.
He raised a brow. “Just what?”
“I — uh — thought that you might need some food while you’re recovering and…”
He remained quiet as she trailed off, having learned long ago that sometimes silence was the best weapon to gain the truth.
Becca was no exception. She sighed, and her shoulders slumped slightly. “I stress-cook.”
“You’re stressed?”
It was her turn to raise her brows. “Um, yes. That tends to happen when a girl’s ex tries to kill her boss.”
She had tried to keep her tone light, but he’d seen it in her expression before she turned away. Guilt. The way her blue eyes had glittered with tears.
“It’s not your fault.”
A shrug of her shoulders. “Of course not.” But she didn’t look at him, and her tone wasn’t right.
Devon didn’t spend time second-guessing his actions. Not after last night, not after realizing how easily he could have lost her. He might have only known Becca for six months, but he’d never felt so connected to a woman.
When he was with her, the world shined a little brighter. When he kissed her, nothing else mattered.
Which, he thought ruefully, was probably why he was sporting more stitches than Frankenstein.
But Devon didn’t care. About any of it. He’d find a way to make it work at the office, make sure her psycho-ex was locked up permanently.
Because he’d realized that this was his chance.
His opportunity for something permanent. And he wanted Becca in his life.
So while she was trying to slyly wipe her tears away, Devon snagged a brownie and crossed to her.
“I hear chocolate makes everything better,” he said, carefully leaning over her shoulder and offering her the treat.
It wasn’t the smoothest line he’d ever made, but it did make her smile. And really, if all she gave him for the rest of his life was that smile, then his heart would be full.
“I baked those for you,” she said softly.
He started to shrug, forced back a grimace, and touched her cheek instead. “I can share.”
She gave him a crooked grin. “Good,” she said and stuffed the square in her mouth.
Her moan of pleasure hit him hard in the gut. And elsewhere. It shouldn’t be like this. She shouldn’t affect him so strongly. But he was realizing that Becca made all the shouldn’ts and can’ts become possible.
“Hey,” he said after she’d swallowed. The skin on her neck was delicate, pale honey, and his mouth watered with the urge to trail his lips there.
Not yet. She was primed to bolt, and Devon knew he would need patience if he wanted to catch her.
Resisting the urge to kiss her was tough, but he understood how to play the long game. So instead, he laced his hand with hers, got close enough to feel the heat of her body, to smell the aroma that was wholly Becca — floral with a touch of spice.
“It’s not your fault.”
She stiffened, tried to pull free.
Devon held on and continued, “You don’t believe that right now. I get it. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop telling you.” He bent and put his face right in front of hers. “I’ll keep telling you that until you realize it’s true. I’ll keep telling you because it is true. This guilt will eat you up inside.”
Becca was silent for a long time. “It was my fault—”
“I told—”
She closed the inch between their bodies and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Not that. My mom’s accident.”
“You said she was in a car wreck. That kind of thing just happens sometimes.” He stroked a hand through her hair, feeling the strands slide like silk through his fingers.
“Not this one.” She leaned back, misery in her eyes evident. “We were talking on the phone. No—” a bitter laugh “—arguing is more like it. My mom wanted to talk later, said traffic was bad, but I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t hang up, a-and she got into an accident.”
“Shit.”
He didn’t even bother to stifle the curse. Because, well, shit.
Becca didn’t seem to hear him, or maybe the adjective didn’t bother her because she was so distraught.
That’s why she was working so hard, why she was so intent on paying her mother’s rehab bills. That was why she thought last night—
“I’m sure your mom doesn’t blame you.”
And that was precisely the wrong thing to say.
“She should,” Becca said fiercely and pulled back.
Devon let her go, not able to find the right words.
Then — screw that — he closed the distance between them and gathered Becca in his arms. “It’s not your fault.”
A snort. But she didn’t fight his hold.
“Not your fault,” he murmured into her ear.
Her breath caught, but she shook her head.
“Not.” A kiss behind her ear. “Your.” To her jaw. “Fault.” The corner of her mouth.
“Dev—”
He pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle and sweet, penance and persuasion wrapped in one. And yet the underlying heat threatened to singe his very soul.
Becca just meant so much more than he could have ever expected.
He pulled back way sooner than he wanted to, resting his forehead against hers, breaths coming fast, heart poundi
ng.
“It’s not your fault.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she gave a small nod.
“More chocolate?”
She smiled. “God yes.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NEXT TEN days were a blur.
Pascal did eventually come back that morning, the car filled with files and two laptops synced to the office’s server in hand. He drove Becca to the police station to give her statement before returning her to Devon’s house and disappearing to who-knew-where.
She and Devon worked in his home office while he recovered, Becca organizing the client files and returning emails while Devon took calls and made deals, talking all the while as though he hadn’t been hurt the previous day.
The media had picked up on the story and called for a statement, but Devon knew how to underplay incidents with the best of them, and within a day or two, the next celebrity scandal swallowed up interest.
And so it went.
Every morning Pascal would show up in her parking lot then drive her to Devon’s. They’d work all day together, stopping for breaks only when she forced Devon to — or bribed him by cooking up something extra delicious.
At the end of the day, Becca would make dinner, and she and Devon would eat together.
It was decidedly domestic.
It felt decidedly right.
She was also learning more about him. He’d always seemed so big, so fierce and untouchable, but getting to know him, working side-by-side so intimately without all of the other stressors of Prestige’s work environment somehow blurred the edges of him.
He was softer, more approachable, and wore casual clothes. Or maybe she was just more comfortable with him.
Or maybe it was the kisses.
Devon was the best kisser.
At first it had scared her, how powerful his hold was over her, how much the spark between them threatened to incinerate her.
Then she realized he was in the same boat.
And so work got… fun.
A stolen kiss here, a brush of fingers there. She found that touching him made the day a lot better.
Snorting to herself, she flipped through the file in her hands to make sure it was all in order before moving to the next.
She was on the couch in Devon’s office, curled up near the gas fireplace and enjoying the warmth radiating over her skin. Nice to be able to get that with only the flip of a switch.
It was Friday evening and past time that she should wrap up things and head home.
Except she didn’t want to leave.
Behind her, Devon talked quietly on the phone, and his voice never failed to make her inner teenager sigh. It was slightly rough, had just enough texture to feel like a physical caress down her nape.
It was even better when he held her tight against his chest, the words rumbling through his body and into hers, vibrating her nerves pleasantly.
She set the file back on the stack and laid her head on the arm of the sofa, closing her eyes, listening, wanting to find the courage to take the next step with Devon.
The stitches had been removed that morning. He would be returning to the office on Monday, and this intimacy would be gone, tempered by HR policies and prying eyes.
And she would be leaving soon.
In a little over a week, Clarice was coming back. Her time at Prestige would be done.
Why did that make her so sad?
Fingers combing her hair back from her face made her eyes fly open.
Devon. Of course Devon. And he was so close, his mouth just inches away, his delectable body right there, calling to her to touch.
And so finally she did.
This was their swan song. Their last bit of time together before the real world intruded, and she was so damn — yes, damn — tired of resisting, of ignoring, of downplaying the pull between them.
For once, she wanted to give in.
And so she did.
Becca reached up, wrapped two hands in his T-shirt, and yanked hard.
Nothing happened.
“Bex?” he asked, glancing down at her clenched fists.
“This is so much easier in the movies,” she muttered, tugging the two halves again.
With a lopsided grin, Devon shrugged off his shirt. “Better?”
Her mouth watered, her head wobbled like one of those bobbleheads. Somehow, she had ended up still gripping the cotton T-shirt, probably because she hadn’t wanted to release him.
Now she dropped the slip of fabric like a stick of dynamite and touched… skin. Hot. Smooth. Skin. And muscles. A light dusting of hair covered his chest — except for three bare patches that were bisected by angry lines.
She swallowed hard at the sight, flicked her eyes away.
A finger under her chin. “Not your fault,” Devon murmured.
Blinking, she nodded, indicating the bald spots. “The guys are going to give you hell.”
He chuckled. “Yup. Except I get to play the hero card.”
“Yes, you do.” She leaned forward and gently kissed the red marks. The space between her thighs warmed at his rough inhale of breath. “You’ll have scars.”
He shrugged. “What’s another couple?”
God, she liked this man. Maybe even—
No. She pushed that aside and gave into the urge to kiss him.
It was coming home.
Their lips met, melded together. Heat zipped down her spine, lifted the hairs on her neck, her arms. She didn’t hesitate when his tongue touched the seam of her mouth, just parted and let him in.
The same as she’d let him invade the rest of her life. Her heart.
She gripped his shoulders and pulled him toward her, cognizant that he still might be sore, but needing him tight against her all the same.
He stretched out atop her, pressing her body into the cushions, parting her legs and resting his hips between her thighs.
He was hard. Everywhere.
Those were the last two thoughts she had before Devon ramped up the kiss. He plundered her mouth, delving deep inside and basically transforming her into a puddle of goo.
But just as things were starting to get really good, he softened the kiss and began to sit back.
Becca let him go. “Hurt?”
His mouth curled as he rested against the cushions. “Not in the way you mean.”
“Good.” She straddled his hips, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and licked his neck. “Because I don’t want to stop.”
“Bex—”
She kissed him, and since it felt so freaking good, rocked her pelvis against his.
He groaned and grabbed her waist, but instead of urging her on, his hands stayed her motion.
“We shouldn’t.”
They should. They definitely should. Especially since everything was going back to normal in two days.
And because she wanted. So dang — no, damn — much.
For once, she wanted to put her heart on the line.
Her hand slid down his bare chest, toyed with the waistband of his sweats.
He sucked in a breath.
“Devon. I’m saying yes. Please don’t say no.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DEVON STARED DOWN at Becca’s face, trying to judge her sincerity. Did she really want this? Had he somehow manipulated her? Shouldn’t he just wait one more week until Clarice was back—
Her finger brushed the tip of his erection, and things went hazy, really hazy.
“Please Devon?” She leaned forward and bit his neck, flicked her tongue against the tiny hurt.
And how in the hell was he supposed to resist that?
He tucked his hands under her ass — not minding the grip in the least — and stood. She gasped, held on tight to his neck.
“Your side,” she said, worry in her tone.
Yeah no. Worry was not what he was going for. If they were finally taking the plunge in this, then he wanted her boneless and limp, satiated and flushed. He walked to the firepla
ce and set her down on the rug.
But he had to be certain.
His mouth hovered an inch above hers. “You sure?”
A nod made him grin. “Kind of need the actual words, sweetheart.”
“I’m sure, Devon.” She touched his cheek. “I’m clean, I’m on the pill, and I’ve got a condom in my pocket. Can you get inside me already?”
Not a naughty word in sight, and yet that was the single sexiest thing a woman had ever said to him.
“Yes. I can do that.” Slipping his fingers under the hem of her sassy little button-down, he reveled in the silk-like texture of his skin. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember ever having touched something so soft. He lifted the material, pressed a kiss to her stomach, loving the way her breath hitched.
“Devon?” she asked when all he did was stroke the exposed skin.
“You’re overdressed,” he murmured and slipped the bottom button free. He touched his lips to the space just above her navel.
Another button. Another kiss. Another. Another. Another.
Until all that creamy skin was visible. Her breasts were swathed in pink lace. Pink see-through lace.
“I really want to curse right now,” he said, running a finger under the flimsy material, “in a good way.”
Becca’s cheeks were flushed, and she arched up, reaching behind her and unhooking the strap of her bra. “Me too…” A pause as she shrugged out of the lace. “…in the absolute best way.”
Then her breasts were in his hands, and Devon was spinning, curse words forgotten, nothing filling his mind except the drive to please Becca.
He flicked the button on her slacks and slid them down as she kicked off her shoes. The lace below wasn’t the same pink, but he couldn’t care less. He swept it off, stroking and caressing, kissing and licking every inch of her. Only when she was writhing and begging — and uttering his favorite curse word — did he pull off his pants and roll on the condom.
“Last chance,” he said, sweat beading his brow, his body aching… and not because of his healing wounds.
Becca was everything. If she said stop—
She grabbed his hips and pulled down, and fuck yeah, he was there.
The world went blank, nothing existed except the two of them and their race to the peak. He tried to go slow, wanted to draw their first time out, but it was impossible to fight his rising desire. Not when Becca was so sweetly sensual below him, meeting him thrust for thrust, holding on tight and making the hottest little moans in the back of her throat.