The Contract

by Avril Tremayne

  And then…the kicker. A problem with premature ejaculation. So straight-faced, so earnest and wise and understanding and forgiving.

  The worst of it was he finally had some sympathy for the original premature ejaculator, DeWayne the Douchebag, because Adam was fairly certain he’d shoot like a rocket within seconds the first time he was inside her.

  A problem with premature ejaculation. Only Lane could make that sound like it was an algorithm to work out.

  And suddenly he started to laugh. And laugh, and laugh, and laugh. He laughed so hard he had to pull over to the side of the road because he was sure he was going to have an accident, his convulsions were so violent.

  Gradually, the laugher stopped, and he started frowning.

  He’d been too frazzled to answer her intelligently at the end. And he was fairly certain he’d done something wrong. Put things badly. Made her feel…inadequate—when she was anything but.

  He didn’t want her to feel like that.

  She’d said something about needing his help so she didn’t have that effect on other men. Like she’d done something monumentally wrong.

  Other men.

  Whoa. Other men.

  David.

  Adam realized he didn’t like the thought that someone else was going to be doing to Lane what he’d done today. Doing everything to her that Adam had done so far.

  Adam shifted in his seat.

  Uh-oh. This was not good.

  Chapter Nine

  Four days was a long time to stew over how exactly you had managed to so monumentally ruin the experience of your first teacher-student orgasm.

  Lane had no idea what to expect from Adam when he arrived, test results in hand, on Wednesday night, as scheduled. But she’d put on one of her new dresses, and had left her hair out the way Adam seemed to like it. Then she had a quick nip of Erica’s vodka, and figured she was as ready as she would ever be to face whatever Adam was going to throw at her.

  So it was anticlimactic to answer the knock on her door twenty minutes before Adam was due to arrive and see her brother.

  “New clothes. Nice,” Brad said, eyes running quickly, impatiently, over her.

  Without waiting for an invitation, he shuffled past her, into the house. “Lane…” he began, as she closed the door, giving her the look she knew so well. Half sheepish, half defiant.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “A thousand.”

  “You promised you’d stop gambling.”

  “And I will. As soon as I pay the bookie, I’m done.”

  Lane checked her watch. “I’ve got a…a date. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  The momentousness of Lane having an actual date was lost on Brad. “I have to pay it tonight, Lane. They’re kind of…looking for me.”

  “I don’t have a thousand dollars on me, Brad,” she said.

  “But you can get it, right?”

  “I told you, I have a date.”

  “Please, Lane.”

  Lane blew out a long sigh. “I’ll have to go to a money machine.” She checked her watch again. Adam would be here in fifteen minutes and she didn’t want the two men to meet. “Come with me.”

  “Can’t I wait here? I’m kind of hungry, so I can just grab something to eat while you’re gone, and I’ll be out of your hair the moment you’re back.”

  Insisting would make Brad dig in his heels—he was like that. Which would waste more time. So Lane simply grabbed her car keys and left the house. She should be able to get the money and clear Brad out of the house before Adam arrived.

  A few minutes later, she pulled up in front of the closest ATM and noted the red “closed” flag with a sinking heart. She restarted the car and headed for the next one.

  * * *

  Adam stepped back in surprise as a strange man jerked open Lane’s door before he could knock, demanding, “Have you got it?”

  “Got what?” Adam asked.

  The man—no, he was more like a sulky teenager—frowned. “Nothing. I thought you were Lane. You’re her date, then.”

  Adam recognized the face now. It was the man in the photograph in Lane’s bedroom. “Yes. Adam Quinn. And you are…her brother.” He reached into his memory banks for the name. “Brad, right?”

  “Yep.” Brad made for the dining room, leaving it up to Adam whether he followed or not. No way was Adam not going to follow—he was curious as hell—but after he detoured to put the champagne he’d brought in the kitchen.

  Brad lifted a bulging sandwich off a small plate, shedding ingredients over the glass tabletop with a fine disregard for the fact this was not his house.

  A horrible thought hit Adam. “You’re not joining us tonight, are you?”

  It was clearly a mutual feeling of horror, because Brad said a revolted, “No way.”

  Whew. But then, Adam should have known better. Lane wanted to keep him separate from everyone in her life. Colleagues. Friends. Family. David, for sure.

  David—hell.

  Maybe he should ask Lane about David. Sometime, anyway. Just to make sure he wasn’t a brick-the-redhead-up-in-the-cellar kind of guy.

  Brad took another sloppy bite of his sandwich as Adam sat opposite him. “Lane owes me some money. I’m just here to collect.”

  Even after knowing Lane for just over two weeks, Adam knew that wasn’t right. “Owes you money? Lane?”

  Brad shrugged dismissively. “It’s a family matter.” Then, dropping his sandwich—shedding a little more crap on the table—he got to his feet. Because the front door was opening.

  And then Lane’s out-of-breath voice was calling out from the hallway. “Adam? Brad?”

  “In here,” Adam called.

  A moment later, she was there, in the doorway, looking amazing in the sunflower yellow spandex dress she’d bought on Saturday—the one she couldn’t wear a bra with, God help him.

  Then Adam looked more closely at her face, and he saw that she was, for once, completely overwrought.

  Brad strode towards her. “Have you got it?”

  With an apologetic look in Adam’s direction, Lane beckoned her brother through the doorway. It looked to Adam as though Lane wanted to usher Brad farther away; Brad, however, was mutinous and going nowhere.

  This was a new side of Lane. So nervous she could barely make her lips behave. If she looked at him, just once, Adam would be leaping to his feet and pulling her protectively behind him.

  Adam couldn’t hear the low conversation between Lane and her brother, but he could see the distress on Lane’s face as she handed over a bundle of notes. He saw Brad cutting her off, shoving the money into his pocket, holding Lane’s hand off his sleeve when she would have clutched at it.

  By the time Lane had seen Brad out and returned to the kitchen, her face was set in its usual smooth lines. But that didn’t fool Adam. He stood, walked over to her.

  “My brother—I guess you know that,” she said. “He… He just needed a…a loan.”

  “A loan.” Adam didn’t bother to hide his disbelief.

  “You didn’t…you didn’t…tell him. About the contract, I mean. He… He’d…”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Lane.”

  Lane let out a relieved breath, closing her eyes briefly. “I know you wouldn’t say anything—not deliberately. I’m sorry. It’s just that he—they—already think I’m—” She broke off, looked up at him briefly, lowered her eyes again. “I don’t need any help to look ridiculous to my family.”

  Ah, the mommy dearest complex making an appearance. Adam didn’t like it. Didn’t like to see Lane out of control.

  He blinked as that thought registered. Because it was absurd. He wanted her out of control. Wasn’t that the whole point of why he’d signed her damned contract? To shove her out of control?

  But only with me.

  Another blink as that truth galloped home.

  Oh, boy.

  “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you some tea,” Lane said. “Or coffee, if you’d
prefer.”

  Adam followed her into the kitchen, but before she could do anything, he took her in his arms for a long, leisurely kiss. “I’ve got something better than tea or coffee,” he said when he released her. He motioned to the champagne bottle.

  She checked for an instant then laughed. “If only you knew how close you came to being offered champagne along with the smoked salmon that first night.”

  “You don’t like champagne?”

  “I love it, but I’m sure you would have thought I was planning happily-ever-after instead of three months, and I would never have got you to sign. But now—perfect. You’re all clear, then.”

  “Yep.” He popped the cork. “And you?”

  Lane nodded. “I’ll get the glasses.”

  But Adam couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her long enough to get the champagne process under way. When she reached up into the cupboard, he kissed the back of her neck. She reached for the bottle, and he grasped her hand, kissing first the back then turning her palm to his lips. As she turned slightly to pick up the bottle with her other hand and pour the champagne, he ran his palms over her shoulders, kneading them gently, then toyed with her hair.

  “You look great in that dress.”

  Lane turned all the way and handed him his glass. “Left to my own devices, I’m still a zero out of ten on the Lesson Three fashion scoreboard, though, given you picked it out—well, given you picked all the clothes.”

  Adam kissed her, full on the mouth. He could almost taste her arousal and was frustrated beyond belief that despite the passion he saw in her eyes, she wouldn’t take the initiative and touch him.

  * * *

  Lane took a somewhat desperate sip from her glass, wondering how she managed to keep standing after such a greeting. Every time he touched her, she felt like melting at his feet. There was something different about him tonight. She could almost believe he couldn’t help touching her, that it wasn’t just a paid job. Fantasy. Because of course it was just a lesson. Lessons were all she was paying him for. All he wanted to give. And yet… And yet, for a while—just for a little while, she promised herself—she would let herself believe he was really hers, that he wanted her, maybe even that he—

  The champagne glass was pried from her fingers. She heard the thunk of her glass, and his, being placed on the bench, saw the lambent heat in Adam’s dark eyes…then she was being kissed again, only this time she was tugged against him, so close she could feel the hardness of his arousal, large and straining, as his hands ran feverishly down her back, forcing her still closer.

  She felt his hands in her hair, stroking, tangling.

  He stepped away, looking down at her. “I’ve been imagining you naked, with your beautiful hair hanging here—” and he touched the tips of her breasts through the yellow cloth “—and the color of it here—” one hand sliding down over her mound.

  “Take off your dress,” he said, voice thick.

  Something flashed in Lane—shock, followed closely by excitement.

  She looked around. “B-But we’re in the kitchen.”

  “Lesson One. Anywhere, any time.”

  She swallowed. Sensing this was it at last, and willing—oh, more than willing—to follow where he led.

  She grasped the hem of her dress, raised it slowly and heard his breath catch as she pulled it over her head. She stood before him, naked except for her panties, fervently glad they were the new cream silk and lace ones she’d bought at lunchtime today with him in mind.

  “I haven’t given you the champagne lesson yet,” he murmured, and proceeded to dip his finger into his glass then trace circles around her nipples.

  She sucked in her breath at the sensation, only to exhale in a rush as his warm tongue proceeded to lick the champagne back off.

  “You’re delicious,” Adam told her, dipping his finger back in the glass.

  Lane couldn’t find her voice, didn’t know what she’d say if she could. His finger was tracing her nipples again.

  “Do you like that, Lane?”

  “Yes,” she managed to breathe out.

  “Do you want me, Lane?”

  “Yes.” His touch was driving her… Ahh. Oh. “Yes, I do.”

  * * *

  Adam knew he’d reached the point where he could no longer deny either of them. He wanted her with a desperation that was staggering. And she wanted him. He only had to look at her. See the flushed passion on her face. Feel the fine trembling of her body. Hear the whimpering in the back of her throat each time he touched her. He’d burrowed his way under her skin. Like he’d planned. And now it was time.

  He drew her into his arms. Heard her sigh his name as he kissed her temple. Oh, she wanted him all right.

  Something in his chest constricted as he reiterated those words in his mind.

  She wanted him.

  Those words were…wrong, somehow.

  He tried to shake off the vague dissatisfaction. Kissed her again. She’d told him she wanted him. What more was there to know? There was nothing wrong with being wanted just for sex. It was perfect for someone like him. Mr. Love-’em-and-leave-’em Adam Quinn. Perfect. They were both going to get what they wanted—each other’s body for a while. It was enough.

  Like hell it was! “Lane?’

  “Hmm…?”

  “We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Lane froze, the thrilling fantasy of Adam finally wanting her shattering. “Talk?”

  “About the contract. The lessons.”

  Lane blinked. Back to the contract. Blinked again. Back to the lessons. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted only to feel. His breath against her skin, his tongue and his hands working their magic on her body.

  If they were really a couple, there would be nothing to talk about. No contract. No lessons. If they were really a couple, this would be about—

  She stopped herself. What was she thinking? They weren’t a couple. Adam didn’t even particularly want her—although she guessed he must be pretty frustrated after two weeks without sex, given what she’d heard about his pre-Lane love life. And she was only doing this for David Bennett.

  If she could only manage to remember David whenever Adam touched her!

  But she couldn’t. God help her. When Adam touched her, the only thing she could think of was Adam.

  Lane turned away, scooping her dress off the floor, avoiding Adam’s eyes. She slid the dress over her head, smoothed it into place. Trying—desperately trying—to not want him so much. “All right. Do you want me to just start chatting or is this to be a question and answer session?”

  Adam frowned. “I—”

  “Do you want,” Lane continued too-brightly before he could speak, “to talk about how cold I am? So cold, no man would ever want to touch me, even for money?”

  “I just—”

  “I wasn’t born cold, you know,” she interrupted again. Her voice shook. “But I—I’ve had to learn some hard lessons over the years. Not to ask for too much attention. Not to let it show, how much I want—” Her breath hitched. “How much I care when—” Another hitch, and she stopped. “Let’s just leave it at the fact that I’m a good student. I’ve learned not to beg for what I can’t have, and that’s what you see as cold.”

  Adam moved toward her, as though he would take her in his arms, but Lane stepped away from him and continued. “The thing is, I can’t turn it off, even though I know that—I know how—” She stopped, jerking in a breath. “How unsexy it is.”

  “Lane, please—”

  Again she cut him off. “That’s what the lessons are about. To teach me. Teach me how to turn men on, not off. But they’re not working, are they? You told me, that first night, a stud like you needs it regularly—and this is not regular. So what do you need?”

  Adam reached out to her. She pulled away.

  “Lane, you’re not cold.”

  “You told me I was.”

  “I’m an idiot.”

  But she wasn’t liste
ning. “Actually, you said that night you needed it good and regular. And I’m not any good, am I?” She whirled away from him. “I know you’d have done it to me by now if you were even remotely interested. I don’t even know why you’re sticking with this, sticking with me.”

  “Because I care about what happens to you—I mean, what happens next.”

  Lane closed her eyes. There wouldn’t be a “next” at this rate. There was only now, and her total failure. Because Adam had stopped to talk. Again. Two weeks of stopping and talking, with Adam finding excuse after excuse not to do what she wanted. She opened her eyes and turned to face him. “Well, stop caring about what happens next,” she said. “I’m not paying you to—”

  Adam grabbed her arms before she could finish, pulled her close. “Don’t you dare start talking about what you’re paying me for!”

  She pulled her arms free. “Yes, yes, Lesson Six. Men are proud bastards. But the fact is that I am paying you. Handsomely. The perfect arrangement—you get a willing body, and a fee, and you don’t even have to make a commitment, because I don’t want one—not from you.” She took a slow, quaking breath. “It should be so easy for you. So why do you stop, when we’re finally there, to talk?”

  “Ah, Lane, don’t you get it? Don’t you see—”

  “I do see,” she said, cutting him off. “This arrangement is not working, no matter how many so-called lessons you invent to cover up the fact.”

  Adam wanted to refute that—but how could he? He had invented lessons, with nothing more noble in mind than paying her back for not being sufficiently attracted to him to suit his ego!

  Lane touched her fingers to her lips as though to control them. But when she spoke, her voice was firm. “Just tell me now, right now, Adam…. Is it ever going to happen? Or will you always find a reason to stop?”

  Adam was under no illusion that she had just given him an ultimatum. He had come here tonight so jauntily, so assured that he had only to say “Now” and everything would come together. He wanted her. She wanted him. It should have been simple. But, oh, no, her wanting him hadn’t been enough for him, had it? It hadn’t felt right for him! He wanted more. And more. And more.

  And in return for wanting everything she had to give, what was he willing to offer in return? Not much, from her perspective. Not the one thing she kept asking for, the one thing for which she was paying him, the one thing she had a right to expect.