by JC Harroway
The tiny room shrinks, compressing the air. The fluorescent tube buzzing overhead replicates the buzz in my nervous system, every sense on high alert.
My head vibrates the loudest, filling in the blanks. He’s furious I crossed the line. I’ve messed this up, before I’ve even started. I should never have gone to that hotel suite with him—my reaction to seeing him again in the restaurant on a date with another woman provided enough of a clue that I have chemistry with him.
But why is his stare filled with heat?
‘I...I was inappropriate—I’m really sorry. It’s just that it’s been a long time since I’ve felt desired.’ Even before Sam’s death. ‘Can’t we just...forget it?’ I’m happy to plead, not just for my potential job, which is literally slipping through my fingers like grains of rice, but for the intact memory of his friendship with Sam. I made this mess—time to clean up after myself.
‘Did you mean it?’ His mouth is still grim. He’s not even going to cut me a little slack, even for old times’ sake.
My shoulders collapse and I look at our feet, my Converse toe-to-toe with his brogues. ‘That I haven’t had sex for three years...?’ My voice trails away to a whisper. I clear my throat. ‘Of course I meant it.’ I’m not sure which mortification is worse—that I’m admitting my pathetic lack of a sex life to a man I don’t share a confessional kind of relationship with, or that, when I brought up a solution that night, I was deadly serious.
But neither matters.
He’s shown me over and over that he doesn’t see me that way. ‘I’m just lonely, probably. I haven’t had any time for making...friends yet.’ I should take a leaf out of his book. I should remember who he is—Sam’s friend—and that he’s the last man on earth likely to want something physical with me. No matter how temporary.
‘I mean...’ He steps closer. The toes of his shoes touch the toes of mine, and his body heat warms my breasts, my downturned face. ‘...About helping you out of your dry spell—did you mean it?’
The air thins. My lungs catch fire. I brazen it out, lifting my chin and latching on to his heated eye contact, only inches away. I shouldn’t want him. But I do.
My knees almost buckle with need to feel something other than second best.
I nod.
A single decisive gesture.
‘I—’ I don’t finish. Drake’s hands cup my face.
With a strangled whimper, I drop the whites and my bag and reach for his shoulders. He swoops his mouth down on mine, my feet straining on tiptoe so I can get closer to his kiss, which is hot and possessive and so welcome, the head rush gives me vertigo as he drags a sob of relief from me.
So long. So, so long since I’ve felt this heady physical connection to a man. So long since I’ve felt desired, wanted.
With an unintelligible growl, Drake’s lips encourage mine open, his tongue surging against mine before my brain has even registered I’m kissing Drake Faulkner. And he’s kissing me.
Madness.
Euphoria.
I need to stop.
But as soon as I pull away I’m right back there for a second addictive taste, my mouth seeking his once more as he walks me backwards and presses me up against the shelves at my back.
My mind, all my faculties, actually blink out for a few seconds, so heady is the feel of this big, strong man before me, his large hands tangled in my hair, his broad chest colliding with my nipples, his breath gusting in and out and his erection a rigid length against my belly.
Heat pools between my legs and my blood sings. It’s as if I’ve locked my femininity into a box and he’s turned the rusty key, setting me free. Three long years of doubt dissolve for a few giddy seconds.
When I open my eyes he’s looking down at me, his mouth still dragging moans from my throat. When he boldly palms my breast, as if he’s thought about doing it a thousand times, and thumbs my nipple into a hard peak through my shirt, I want to weep.
So good, I’m on the verge of combusting.
I gasp and pull away from his mouth, needing more oxygen to handle his touch. But I want more—this is too good to pass up. I push his jacket over his shoulders and slide my hands down his back, savouring every bump and ridge of muscle I skim over on the way to his arse. I cup his toned backside, shunting his hips forward until the hard tip of him nudges my clit through my clothes and I bite my lip, I’m so close to coming. From just a few forbidden kisses and an ungainly dry hump.
Drake dives for my mouth once more as if he knows what my body craves, and I tangle my hands in his hair, revelling in the contrast of the shorn strands at his nape, which scrape the sensitive pads of my fingers, and the longer, silky strands on top. And then I’m being hoisted onto the shelf and Drake is between my thighs, his mouth on my neck and his hand rubbing me through my jeans.
‘Fuck, Kenzie...’ he rasps against my skin, his stubble scraping.
‘Yes...’ I all but hiss. I gyrate my hips against his hand, all arguments about why this is the worst idea in the world drowned out by the hormones raging through me and how right this feels, which is heightened tenfold by the magic wielded by Drake’s hand and his mouth.
I need this. I want this, with him. Just one time. The perfect antidote to the years of feeling inferior. I deserve this, don’t I, just like I deserve to chase my dreams?
It’s not until this moment that I realise the shaky feeling deep inside is vulnerability. I trust Drake. My body chose him, seemingly independently of my psyche. He’s decent and considered and earnest. He’s not going to use me, dump his load and run or want anything from me that I can’t give.
Perhaps that’s why my subconscious chose him. Drake won’t want anything beyond the physical.
It’s an addictive, heady realisation. I lose myself in his kiss once more, blotting out reason, memories and any other thought that might drag me from the quicksand of desire I’m in up to my neck.
Voices on the other side of the door see Drake springing back like he’s been scalded and me helping him get there with a hefty push to the chest.
‘Fuck.’ He looks at me, panting. His mouth is red and his hair fucked by my fingers. He adjusts his cock and reality douses me like an ice-bucket challenge.
What did I do? To Sam’s friend Drake? I kissed Drake. I dry-humped Drake. I rode Drake’s hand. At work. On my very first day.
My thighs judder, the remnants of delicious pleasure tendrils fading to be replaced by the momentarily forgotten doubts.
Drake clears his throat and swoops down to collect my things from the floor. I take my bag from him with trembling fingers, eyes downcast. Shame lashes my skin, a million pinpricks, making way for the hollow swell of loneliness, twice the size of the burden I arrived with.
My throat is too tight to speak. I busy myself with folding the pristine white uniform I’ve already sullied. Not only have I just jeopardised my one chance at a job—in other words, even if I’m good enough, I’ve shown willing to shag the boss—but I’ve also just kissed a man. A man that isn’t Sam. Almost done more than simply kiss him, although there was nothing simple or innocent about what just transpired.
Would we have stopped, but for that interruption?
I bite my lip, my burning eyes flitting to anywhere but him. I fiddle with my ponytail and wipe the lip gloss from my chin in lieu of blurting out another pointless apology, or freeing the hot sobs clogging my throat.
Drake turns his back, silently giving me some seconds to compose myself, and then he opens the door. Drake is back together. His jacket donned, his tie straightened and his hair tamed.
As I pass him on the threshold he blocks my exit with his arm.
‘I’m in a board meeting until six tonight. Don’t leave until we’ve had another discussion.’ And with that he lowers his arm and strides back the way we came, leaving me shell-shocked, my good intentions ripped in two.
&nbs
p; CHAPTER FOUR
Drake
‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, she’s not here?’ I scan the chaotic kitchen, which is bustling with the prep for early-evening dining, my body temperature boiling over.
Rod slices shallots at the speed of light and shoots me a grin laced with malicious delight. ‘First day and already she’s upsetting the boss, eh? Shame...she’s not a bad worker.’ His lip curls like he wants to say more. Like he’s thinking more.
I make a fist, already teetering on the edge at finding Kenzie gone. One word. That’s all it would take for Rod to walk away from his position here minus his front teeth. But he must sense the quality of the ice he’s skating because he quickly amends his response.
‘She left an hour ago.’ He shrugs and turns back to his sizzling-hot pan.
But I’ve heard enough.
She’s gone. My plan to put a line under what happened and ensure it never happens again, even if I have to gouge out my eyes with a wooden spoon or chain myself to my office chair, peters out.
I should have shown better control. She’s probably devastated by the whole fan-fucking-tastic kissing thing. Mortified that a man who is supposed to be her husband’s best friend would stoop so low. Perhaps even grieving anew over Sam because of my behaviour...
My own stomach gripes. What was I thinking? I certainly wasn’t thinking about Sam.
Abandoning the kitchen, I storm back through the hotel and into the lift for the underground car park. The mirrored interior of the lift mocks me with my reflection. I wince, looking away from my own stupid face. I crossed the line so badly, fucking sprinted over it, in the end, for all my talk about keeping my distance, keeping my promises and despite every other excuse I’d invented to keep my hands off Kenzie Porter.
Every reservation frittered away like sand through a sieve, the moment I touched my mouth to hers. Not that kissing her hadn’t surpassed every single one of my fantasies of how she would taste or feel—soft lips moving against mine, the slide of her tongue, first hesitant and then voracious, as if her need consumed her as much as mine controlled me. Better than I’d ever imagined. And I’m an expert on Kenzie fantasies.
No—I took advantage. I need to make this right. Not for Sam, or for my own fresh well of guilt.
But for Kenzie. She deserves her chance after everything she’s been through.
I reach my car, gun the engine and roar from my parking space, the squeal of the tyres on the concrete welcome and matching the noise in my head.
I idle at the security barrier, cursing the seconds it takes to rise, but also wishing it would trap me inside for good. Because I should stay away and simply send a brief message—It will not happen again...
As today progressed and away from her temptation—the apple scent of her hair, the cute way her nose wrinkles and the sexy sound of her voice—I found perspective.
The kiss had been a vile imposition, a huge mistake—one of weakness on my part and, as she said, for her, one of loneliness. I slap the steering wheel. Of course she’d be lonely—she’s just moved to a new city. That she came to me for a fresh start fills me up and dries me to a husk in the same breath, I’m so conflicted. And what did I do? I fucked it up, at the very first hurdle. In one stupid, reckless move, I doubled my own guilt and put her in a compromising position, blurred the personal-professional line until it was little more than a grey smudge.
No wonder she ran out.
Sam’s best friend...?
I wince, hating that I took advantage of someone vulnerable. Someone I’m supposed to be looking out for. Someone I let down. But my role in this mess could be rectified with better control—I managed to keep my distance for three years; a couple of weeks should be a doddle. It’s not too late to forget that kiss. To forget that fantasy paled against the reality.
I grip the wheel like I’m trying to snap it in two, breaking a few speed limits. If my behaviour has tarnished the memory of Sam for her in some way, I’ll have to live with that knowledge. Another weight strapped to my back.
When I realise I’ve driven to Kenzie’s address, I sit in the car for five minutes until I have clarity.
Apologise.
Assure her that the fucking astounding kiss won’t happen again.
Leave and keep my distance.
The rap of my knuckles punctuates my resolve. She opens the door, flushed, hair damp from a shower and dressed only in a robe.
Shit. This is my punishment.
I suck it up, calling on deeply ingrained military training to keep my hands by my sides and my eyes from scouring the body I’d felt every inch of up close and personal earlier.
‘Are you going out? We need to talk.’ My voice, curt, gruff, is snagged somewhere between my brain and my tight vocal cords.
She shakes her head. ‘I just had a shower after work. It’s been a long day.’ Her eyes narrow at the arsehole standing on her doorstep wearing a scowl and berating her, when all he should be doing is swearing he’ll never touch her again and walking away.
I scrub a hand over my stubbled face and glance around the freezing, dingy hallway, which is decorated with linoleum that dates back to the seventies. My shoulders lift until they practically touch my ears. ‘Shouldn’t you be more safety conscious?’ I can’t help myself. That she lives here, in what looks like a tiny, one-bed, ground-floor flat, physically pains me. It’s not the dodgiest end of London, but neither is it the palace she deserves.
She crosses her arms over her chest and the robe slides open a fraction. ‘I have a spyhole—I saw you.’
That fraction, that sliver of creamy thigh, is all I need to send my pulse and blood pressure through the top of my head.
A bad fucking idea. Don’t go inside. Say what you have to say and get the fuck away from her.
She lifts her chin. ‘Are there any other reprimands, Lieutenant, or are we done?’
When I stay silent but also stay frozen in the doorway, she sighs. ‘Why don’t you come in so we can do this without my neighbours listening?’ She opens the door and, like an idiot, I step inside, taking in the flat in one swoop.
It’s minuscule but clean and homely. Kenzie has clearly given it a once-over, imprinting her style on the space with some art on the walls, coordinated cushions on the couch and soft lighting coming from several lamps. The tiny kitchen resembles a workspace, with equipment lining the bench and utensil racks on the walls. Something smells delicious—my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten dinner. But the way my gut twists and turns, food is the last thing I want.
‘Do you want a drink? I was just having one.’ She points to an open bottle of red on the coffee table. I drag in a calming breath. She looks tired, her eyes a little haunted. Because of the kiss? Have my actions reopened her grief?
I shake my head, wound too tight by the memories of her mouth on mine to tempt fate. My inhibitions are low enough. Despite the speech I’m about to deliver, I want to peel open the silky robe separating me from what I’m sure is nirvana, lay her back on the couch and plunge my tongue inside her and then suck on her clit until all I can think, taste and feel is Kenzie.
‘I’ve come to apologise. I won’t be staying long enough for a drink.’ Certainly not long enough for the stuff-of-dreams couch scenario...
Kenzie rounds those eyes on me and takes a generous sip of her wine. ‘For what?’ She stares over the rim and then her tongue catches the wine on her bottom lip.
I swallow, my balls rising up, ready for action. ‘For what happened this morning—it won’t happen again.’
But fuck, I’m not sorry.
If that was my one taste, I’ll take it, happy to pay the price for eternity. My only regret is that I might have caused her pain by betraying Sam’s memory.
Instead of sitting, she takes another slow swallow while she watches me, her lips parted and stained red. I want to kiss them so bad, taste
her again, lick the wine from her mouth and then explore every inch of her hiding under the robe.
‘Okay.’
Okay...? No accusations? No demands? No slap in the face?
She places her glass on the table and skirts me, giving me a wide berth. I keep my distance, swivelling on the spot to watch her path while my scalp prickles.
She opens the door and leans her hip on the edge. ‘So you don’t want a drink and you’ve apologised. I guess all that remains is to say goodbye. See you around some time.’ Sparks glitter in her eyes. Challenge and provocation.
Yes. Time to leave. But like this...?
She’s still angry with me. I’m half tempted to call her bluff and leave with a polite nod. That’s exactly what I should do...
‘I know you’re angry and you have every right—I shouldn’t have touched you.’
‘I’m not angry, Drake.’ Her voice is glacial. ‘I get it. You think you crossed a line. You think you took advantage of me—’
‘Didn’t I?’ Breathing actually hurts. Doesn’t she sense the danger, see what a terrible...fucking awesome...idea this is?
She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be stupid. I’m not a child.’ Her stare blazes, all woman.
Some sort of poltergeist has control of my vocal cords. ‘Were you looking for a relationship? Because I don’t do that.’
Not with you, and you don’t want that from me.
She laughs, the sound hollow. ‘Don’t tell me what I’m looking for and don’t flatter yourself. Perhaps I was lonely for physical contact. Perhaps the new me chose to seize the day. Perhaps I just wanted sex. No empty words. No promises. Just to feel wanted again. But if it’s not going to work for you...’ she shrugs ‘...no hard feelings.’ She glances out into the gloomy hallway while the seconds beat shock waves through my brain.
‘My door is still open.’ Her lips part, her chest rising and falling.
‘Are you baiting me?’ I step closer, my temperature soaring and my control fraying. She’s too close. Her warm, womanly scent a potent aphrodisiac.