Her Favorite Rival

by Sarah Mayberry

  It was the last thing he’d expected to find beneath her crisply tailored clothes. Totally out of keeping with the woman he’d always assumed she was.

  He grabbed a pair of cargo shorts from the chest of drawers to his right, tugging them on as she stepped into her dress. He moved forward to zip her up, feeling a definite twinge of regret as the dress closed over the pale, smooth skin of her back.

  She was glancing around again, looking for something else. He grinned and stepped out into the hallway. Her panties lay in a small silken pool beside his abandoned running shorts. Had she forgotten the way she’d shoved first his, then her own, underwear down so that they could cut to the chase?

  He hadn’t. The memory would stay with him for a very long time.

  He collected her panties, noting the softness of the ivory silk before returning to the bedroom and handing them over to her. Her cheeks were pink as she bent to pull them on.

  “Kitchen’s this way,” he said, gesturing with a jerk of his head.

  He could feel her following him up the hallway, could hear the swish of her full skirt. He flicked on lights as he entered the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge.

  “This is nice.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to find her surveying the white cabinets and dark granite counters.

  “It’s okay. Needs updating, though.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you could see the kitchen in my place.” She pulled a face. “The seventies are alive and well. I even have burnt-orange countertops.”

  “Hang on to them long enough, they’ll be cool again. Genuine vintage.”

  “I’m not sure I have the stomach for it.”

  He opened the fridge and sent a little prayer of thanks out to the universe when he saw he had a carton of eggs. He also had some cherry tomatoes and feta cheese. Dinner was officially sorted.

  She slid onto one of the two stools on the other side of the counter as he set out ingredients and reached for the chopping board.

  “I didn’t realize you cooked,” she said.

  He shot her a look. “What did you imagine I did, pry cans open with my bare teeth?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever it is that swinging bachelors do. Eat a lot of takeout, go to a lot of restaurants. Get their women to cook for them.”

  “I eat my fair share of takeout, I’ll own that. But you have an inflated view of my social life.”

  She combed her fingers through her hair, trying to restore order. A futile task, since she still looked enticingly bed-rumpled.

  “I bet it’s better than mine.” She sounded rueful.

  “Not much time left for anything else when you start at seven and finish at eight,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then there’s the catch-up work on the weekend.”

  “And still my in-tray has a hernia.”

  He smiled as he started cutting the tomatoes into quarters. “You’re pretty funny, you know that?”

  “Am I?”

  He glanced at her. She looked uncomfortable, perched there on the other side of the counter. As though she’d rather be anywhere else.

  Maybe it had been a mistake, asking her to stay for dinner. They both knew what this was, after all. Sex. A mutual satisfying of desire and curiosity. So why had he tried to parlay it into a meal and conversation?

  “Listen, if you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to,” he said.

  She blinked. “Is that you giving me my marching orders or you letting me off the hook?”

  “Option B. I didn’t want to send you home hungry, but it wasn’t meant to be purgatory.”

  A small smile curved her lips. “It isn’t. Not even close. I’m just...out of practice, I guess. And maybe a little worried.”

  “That I’m going to go to work and let everyone know how I put Audrey Mathews away on the weekend?”

  She made a rude noise. “‘Put away.’ I’ve always hated that saying. What does it mean, anyway? Put me away where?”

  “What would you prefer, then?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Took care of her’? ‘Slipped her a bone’?”

  He laughed, because he knew she wasn’t remotely serious. “Okay. You think I’m going to be bragging all over the office on Monday about how I slipped Audrey Mathews a bone?”

  She was struggling not to smile. “No. You don’t gossip.”

  She said it with absolute certainty.

  “Neither do you.”

  Unlike many of their colleagues, Audrey avoided watercooler speculation.

  “Only with Megan, and she doesn’t count because she’s a vault. What goes in, stays in.”

  “So if I’m not going to be wearing a T-shirt on Monday letting everyone know I ‘took care of you,’ what are you worried about?”

  The smile faded from her mouth as she considered his question. “I don’t know. That I’ll act differently around you and people will be able to tell. That Whitman will take one look at us and know. That this was a really bad idea.”

  “Hey, we both knew that going in.”

  “I haven’t forgotten your timely reminder, don’t worry.”

  “Probably would have been more effective if I’d issued it before I invaded your underwear, huh?”

  “You think?”

  He moved to the stove and put a frying pan on the burner.

  “Don’t worry about work. It’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yeah, I do. We both care about our jobs too much for it to be any other way.”

  “God, I hope you’re right.”

  He whisked the eggs before pouring them into the pan. “Stop worrying. Tell me about something else instead.”

  “You want me to talk about the weather?”

  “Tell me something I don’t know about you. Like how you got that tattoo, for example.”

  She frowned. “I should get it removed, but I figure having to look at it in the mirror for the rest of my life is a fitting punishment for being stupid enough to get it in the first place.”

  There was a world of self-recrimination in her tone. “You don’t like it?”

  “A fuzzy, badly inked version of Tweetie Bird? What’s not to love about that?”

  He couldn’t help but smile at her sarcasm.

  “How old were you when you got it?”

  Her gaze slid away from his. “Sixteen.”

  It wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. “That’s pretty young.”

  “It is.”

  She didn’t say any more, and he decided not to push.

  “I was going to get one when I was eighteen, but I know too many junkies with ink to ever trust a tattoo needle.”

  He said it without thinking, wanting to put her at her ease. Then her eyebrows shot up with surprise and he registered what he’d done.

  “That’s a nice neighborhood you grew up in,” she said after a short pause.

  “The mean streets of Footscray. You want some toast with this?”

  He could feel heat in his face, hoped that she’d assume it was because he was standing over the stove and not because he was suddenly feeling burningly self-conscious.

  Audrey was the last person he wanted to know about his background. Her parents were doctors. The world he knew, that he’d grown up in, would be as foreign to her as another country. There was no way she could even begin to understand...and he didn’t want her to. He wanted her to continue to see him as the guy in the nice suit and the great car who’d done well for himself. That was the important part of who he was. The part that was available for public consumption, anyway. It was why he’d lied to her that night in the bar, telling her both his parents were dead rather than having to shuffle around telling a bunch more lies to cover the truth about his mother.

  That part of his life didn’t belong in this part. It was separate. A different world.

  “Toast sounds good. I can take care of it if you tell me where the bread lives.”

&nbs
p; She slipped off the stool and looked at him expectantly, and the tension inside him eased. She wasn’t going to pursue his slipup.

  “In the fridge. Bottom shelf. Toaster is behind that door on the right.”

  He pulled out two plates while she slotted bread into the toaster and returned to the fridge for butter. Twice they bumped hips as they maneuvered around each other, and both times he had to fight the totally inappropriate urge to grin like an idiot.

  Who would have ever thought he’d be jostling for space with Audrey while they rustled up a meal together? Not him, that was for sure.

  Five minutes later they sat at the kitchen counter to a meal of buttered toast and omelet. He’d never been particularly fussed about his cooking skills in the past, but he watched warily as she took the first bite.

  “Oh, that’s good. I never would have thought to put feta in an omelet.” She closed her eyes briefly to savor the flavors, and he felt a ridiculous surge of achievement.

  It was only a bloody omelet, after all. Glorified scrambled eggs.

  “Anything goes when it comes to omelets as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “If it’s in the fridge and not moving or furry with mold, it’s fair game.”

  “Interesting philosophy.”

  “I’m all about what works.”

  “Except for this.” She indicated the two of them.

  “Except for this,” he agreed.

  They were silent as they ate. He glanced at her, full of questions now that his brain could move past the stunning fact that she’d arrived on his doorstep with sin on her mind.

  Like, what had happened today to bring her here?

  Because something had. He had no doubt about that. There had been an almost frantic light in her eyes when he’d opened the door, as though she was running from something. Or, perhaps, seeking something.

  Distraction? Release? He had no idea. All he knew was that her arrival had felt like a cosmic gift, especially considering he’d already punished himself with a ten-kilometer run and about a million push-ups in an attempt to get her out of his head. Opening the door to find her standing there, barefoot and gorgeous and wild for it, had almost blown his mind.

  He swallowed his questions with his food, aware that his curiosity would not be welcome. Why would it be? She’d offered him her body and her passion for a few short hours, not a free pass into her life. Which was why he hadn’t pushed about the tattoo, and why she hadn’t pursued his comment about junkies.

  They both were well aware that this was a blip. A time-out. And it was about to end, because she’d finished her meal and so had he. He slid off the stool and took both their plates to the sink.

  “Something to drink? Coffee? Wine?” he offered.

  “Water would be great.”

  He ran them both a glass from the tap and stood on the other side of the counter as she drank it, studying her, remembering this moment for later.

  Her eye makeup was smudged from their nap, her mouth bare of lipstick. Her hair was tousled, far from its usual smoothness. She looked approachable and soft and more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her before. He remembered the way she’d watched him as he’d kissed his way down her belly. The way she’d clenched her hands into the sheets as though she was afraid of reaching out for what she really wanted.

  She set down her glass. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Guess.”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “We agreed this was a one-off.”

  “We did. The moment you walk out the door, that agreement takes effect.”

  She glanced down, her eyelashes sweeping her cheeks. The corner of her mouth curled up into a small, provocative smile. “In that case...”

  She stood, one hand smoothing down her skirt in an age-old feminine gesture. She walked slowly around the counter, stopping only when she was in front of him. Her gaze on his until the last possible moment, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. He felt her mouth open, felt the wetness of her tongue and the subtle pressure of her teeth. She lifted her head and took a step back. She threw him a challenging look as she braced her hands on the counter and boosted herself up so she was sitting on the edge.

  “Come here,” she said, her voice rough with desire.

  He was already hard, more than ready to accept the invitation, and he stepped into her embrace. They found each other’s mouths unerringly, tongues stroking. Her hands gripped his upper arms before sliding onto his chest to find his nipples. She teased him a little before sliding a hand farther south and gripping him through the fabric of his shorts.

  She was so hot. He loved the way she’d taken the lead, and he especially loved what she was doing with her hand. He went on his own roaming expedition, shaping her breasts before sliding his hands beneath the fabric of her skirt. Her thighs were already spread wide to accommodate him, and he smoothed his hands all the way to the top of her thighs. He could feel how wet she was through the silk of her underwear and he stroked her with his thumbs, teasing her. She made an approving sound and started fumbling with the stud on his cargo shorts.

  Within seconds he was in her hand and she was stroking him confidently. More than anything he wanted to push aside her panties and slide inside her again, but the condoms were back in his bedroom.

  “Audrey...”

  “Relax.”

  She lifted a hand to the bodice of her dress and removed a small foil square from inside her bra. It took him a second to understand that she must have grabbed it when they were dressing.

  “A little presumptuous, don’t you think?” he said as she went to work opening the pack and smoothing the latex onto his erection.

  “Are you worried I might think you’re easy?” she said, glancing up from her important work.

  “I’m worried that if you don’t hurry, this is going to be a sad waste of a condom.”

  She laughed, the sound wicked and saucy and earthy. Then she wriggled closer to the edge of the counter.

  “Better do something about these, then,” she said, indicating her underwear.

  He had them off her in seconds. Seconds after that he was inside her, sheathed in her wet heat. She gusted out her breath and gripped his biceps, her nails digging in.

  “Okay?” he asked, worried he’d been too rough, too fast.

  “Yes.”

  She bit her lip and he realized she’d been bracing herself, anticipating what was to come. It was tempting to live up to that, to pound into her and rush them toward completion. But this was the last time he’d have her, and he wanted to savor it. To wring every last second of enjoyment from the encounter.

  So instead of driving hard, he withdrew till only the tip of him was inside her, only to nudge forward into her again a few shallow inches. He repeated the action, very deliberate, watching her face, loving the way her breathing hitched and the hectic color that flooded her cheeks.

  “Still okay?” he asked.

  She gave him a look, her mouth quirking up at the corner. “The worst ever.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  His own needs firmly in hand, he set himself to the task of driving Audrey wild.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HE WAS KILLING her. Destroying her inch by inch with his slow, shallow strokes. Audrey could feel the tension coiling inside, could feel her climax building, but it was so slow, each second drawn out until the pleasure was almost pain.

  She bit her lip, trying to hold back the plea that was rising in her throat. This was so good, but she needed more. Needed the slap of his body against hers. Needed the urgency of it.

  Finally she couldn’t hold back a second longer. “Zach...”

  “Yes?”

  He watched her, was enjoying torturing her.

  “Stop messing with me.”

  “Slow and steady wins the race. Didn’t you know that?”

  “I want hard and fast,” she said.

  “I’m not done here yet.”

  There was something infuria
tingly sexy about the way he said it. An absolute acknowledgment that she was at his mercy.

  “Zach...”

  “Do you have any idea how freaking hot you are?” he said. “How much I love watching you?”

  She followed his gaze to where they were joined, watched the slow slide of his body into hers, the equally slow withdrawal. Her inner muscles tightened, her heart rate kicking up another notch as a deeper, dirtier excitement gripped her.

  “You feel so good. So tight. So wet.”

  He slid inside her again, the friction and his voice and his words and the sight of him inside her all combining to push her closer to the edge. He grinned, and she knew that he knew what he was doing to her.

  And still he kept it slow, drawing out her climax so that it built second by second, until she was almost scared of how good it felt.

  “Come for me. Do it for me, Audrey,” he said, his eyes heavy-lidded and demanding, his dark hair spilling across his brow, his body tense with self control.

  It was too much. The final straw. Her climax swept over her, wringing a wordless cry from her throat, making her clench her knees around his hips. It seemed to last forever, tiny, delicious aftershocks rocketing through her as he continued his slow, steady stroking inside her.

  Afterward she was limp, utterly spent—and he was still inside her, his grip on her hips possessive. She could see he was close, but she could also see he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

  Well, two could play at the game.

  “You feel so good inside me,” she told him, hooking one leg around his hips. “So big and hard.”

  His mouth hitched at the corner. He knew what she was doing, but she kept it up anyway, telling him how hot he made her, how much she loved his body, loved having him inside her. How she couldn’t get enough of him, how beautiful he was.

  By the time she was done the veins stood out in his neck, he was keeping such a tight rein on himself.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked.

  “This.”

  He found her with his thumb, then started to pound into her with a primitive, urgent rhythm. She was so sensitized, so aroused she screamed as she came again as Zach rammed himself home one last time, his head dropping back as he called out her name.