by Cole McCade
“Evan?” Zero called plaintively through the fitting room door. “I don’t like it. I don’t want to come out looking like this.”
He lifted his head. “I’m sure you’re fine. Let me see.”
“No.”
“Don’t make me come in there.”
“You’re not allowed.”
“That wouldn’t stop me.”
With a disgusted sound, she muttered, “Fine.” The fitting room door creaked open a crack, then stopped. One slitted blue eye peered out at him, before with a scowl she shoved the door open and stepped out. “I feel ridiculous.”
Evan said nothing. He couldn’t, his mind escaping him as his gaze raked over her. She sure as hell didn’t look ridiculous. She looked like dynamite wrapped up in a neat little package, all that fire and wildness waiting to explode past the clean-cut edges of her slim little skirt suit. The skirt licked over her curves like oil, sleek and clinging, drawing his eye up over the flow of her hips—and nearly drawing his hands, until he clenched them as if that could still the tingling ache in his palms. He burned for contact. That red blouse drew him like a bull drawn to a flag, a glimpse of blood-bright color past the tightly-closed jacket; the buttons strained over her chest, barely able to close, and suddenly Evan could think of nothing but how the heavy, full weight of her breast had felt in his palm, warm and filling his hand.
Then she turned away to study herself in the full-length mirror and he groaned, closing his eyes against the tempting sight of her lush, curving bottom, cupped so perfectly by the formfitting skirt. If he wasn’t careful, he’d do something she’d hate him for. He barely heard the rustle of cloth as she fussed with her clothing, his head pounding with the throb of blood rushing in his veins.
“This feels weird,” she said petulantly.
He wasn’t quite sure how he struggled the words out, but he managed somehow, voice dry. “Weird how?”
“Stiff. Like I’m not allowed to move in it.”
He took a deep breath. Control. Get himself under control. He’d ruined the fragile truce between them enough times that he wasn’t going to act like an oversexed ape and do it again. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open. Professional. Detached.
Like he’d been detached since the moment he’d met her.
Fucking idiot.
He made himself pull back and study her clinically. She stood in the suit as if she’d been mummified in it, discomfort screaming in every rigid line of her body, in how she fidgeted and fussed at the fabric until it sat all wrong on her and bunched until she looked like a snake trying to molt an ill-fitting second skin. He stood and stepped behind her, for a moment studying their reflections in the mirror. She barely came up to his chest. So small, yet filled with enough fire for a man twice his size.
He tore his attention back to her clothing and only her clothing. Gently he settled his hands on her shoulders, wary of sending her skittering away from his touch. She stiffened, but held still as he coaxed her shoulders to straighten. “It’s all about posture,” he said. “You have to walk like you’re in control of the room.”
Her nose wrinkled. “But I’m not.”
“No one knows that but you. Here.” He let go of her shoulders and slid his fingers into her hair. He loved the way it felt pouring over his hands, cool and soft and luxuriant; he loved even more the catch of her breath as he gathered it gently, pulling it into a messy twist in the back, drawing it away from her face to leave those lovely blue eyes unshielded. Her exposed throat drew him, as if inviting him to touch, to taste—and he couldn’t look away from her even as he continued, “Lift your hair off your neck. Raise your chin. Shoulders back. You can’t walk into the office as Zero. Zero’s a punk, the underdog who has to fight her way up. You have to act like you’re already on top. You are Zoraya Blackwell. Confident. Brilliant. Formidable.”
Her eyes caught his in the mirror, wide above the flush of color in her cheeks. With unsteady hands, she straightened her coat. Squaring her shoulders, she licked her lips nervously. “I’m not so formidable.”
“You terrify me.”
A startled laugh burst past her lips. “I do not!”
“Seriously, I wouldn’t trust you around sharp objects.”
“Evan!” She pulled away from him, her hair tumbling from his hand to spill over her shoulders and back as she turned to shove him, grinning that minx’s grin that made her light up so brilliantly. He rocked back dutifully, staggering just a little extra for effect before catching himself with a laugh.
“Maybe I should say I don’t trust you with sharp objects around me.”
“You shouldn’t.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown anything at you yet.”
“The mercy of the goddess.”
“The common sense to avoid a lawsuit.” She tugged at the jacket and blouse. “I feel like it’s choking the life out of me.”
“You don’t have to button up so tight.” He couldn’t resist any longer. He stepped closer and caught the topmost button of her coat to tug it carefully open, his fingers brushing along the curve of her breast. He told himself he was only showing her, helping her, but he knew it was a lie. He wanted to touch her, in any way she would let him. “You have to be professional,” he murmured. “Not a spinster schoolteacher. You can be business-appropriate and still be a woman.”
His brain screamed at him to stop there, but his heart wasn’t listening. Not when that arresting stillness fell over her, and she looked up at him with her eyes so dark and smoky; not when he could feel the increased rate of her breathing in the repeated brush of the jacket against the backs of his knuckles; not when her body heat seemed to double, reaching out like grasping fingers. He knew the moment he lowered his eyes to the hard-beating throb of her pulse that he had already damned himself.
If he was to be damned, then he would do something to deserve it.
The second button of the jacket popped loose under his touch, and she sucked in an audible breath as it fell open. The soft sateen shirt was already warm from her body heat, soaking her in as he ached to; the buttons kissed cool against his skin as he ran his fingertips up the line of them to her throat. She’d buttoned the blouse much too high for his tastes, all the way up to the collar, hiding the sweet, smooth, dusky skin that made his mouth water for a taste of her.
As he found the top button, his fingers brushed her chin; she tilted her head up with a soft sound, an unspoken question darkening her eyes. When she looked at him that way, he could almost think she wanted him. Almost think she’d forgiven him, when she stood trembling and let him tug the button open to expose the soft dip at the base of her throat. Her eyes lidded with a low exhalation as he brushed the pad of his thumb against the smooth skin and felt its luscious fragility under his touch.
Another button. Another. Until he could see the fine birds-wing crests of her collarbones; until her next heaving breath pushed the V of the shirt open over a scalloped edge of lace and the sweet warmth of the plunging crevice between her breasts. He nearly trembled with the restraint it took not to touch skin to skin. Not to take her flesh into his palm, and let the fiery heat of her burn him.
It struck him like a physical blow when she pulled back, a trembling hand rising to pull the blouse closed. “Don’t,” she breathed. “Don’t do that.”
He let his hand fall. “Do what?”
“You know what.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You’re…you’re doing that thing again.”
With every word her blush stained deeper into her skin, like watching the sun set over dark earth. Her eyes flicked over him, until he felt as if she touched him with every look. His lips. His hands. His throat. Her breath came faster, ringing loud in the stillness between them. Hard peaks stood out against her shirt, thrusting against the sateen, nearly demanding that he sate his hunger by taking her flesh into his mouth until she gasped for him.
She wasn’t looking at him as if she hated him. She was looking at
him as if she craved him, and if he didn’t find some voice of reason soon he was going to do something very, very reckless.
“All I’m doing is standing here,” he murmured. “But that seems to be having an effect on you.”
“It’s not.” She shook her head fiercely, sending her hair dancing about her shoulders. “It’s not having an effect on me. You don’t have an effect on me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’d better.”
“Perhaps.” He closed the last distance between them with a single step. She backed away until her shoulders hit the outer wall of the changing room and she froze, staring up at him. He caught a lock of her hair and twined it around his fingertip. “But I don’t think I’m the one lying this time.”
Her breath fluttered swifter, like a captured bird’s. She reached up to rest her hands to his chest, and for a moment he thought she would shove him, but she only curled her fingers against his shirt. “Evan…”
He couldn’t kiss her. He couldn’t. Every instinct told him that flicker in her eyes was desire, hot and needy, smoky invitation—but there was that part of him that said it was doubt. Fear. Fear of him. And he had to listen to that part, not the raging heat in his body, not the cracked place inside him that needed her to fill the spaces he’d left empty for so very long.
Yet his hands moved of their own volition, curling around her waist, so tiny he thought he would crush her if he gripped too tight. He pulled her against him, the plush softness of her molding against his body, the heat of her melting him. He felt drugged, possessed, unable to stop himself when that little heated sound in her throat beckoned him and his breaths came so ragged they felt like claws scraping down into his lungs.
Control. Control. They were in public. He swallowed, wetting his dry mouth, and looked down into those wide eyes that both made him want to be a better man and made him hunger to become the devil. He couldn’t fuck this up, couldn’t betray her trust again. “I won’t do anything without your permission, Z,” he said raggedly. “Eyes open this time. No lies. I don’t want to be the mistake you regret in the morning. Not again.” His pulse thumped so hard he thought he would explode. He forced his fingers to loosen, relaxed his grip, gave her room to slip away. “Tell me no. I’m a horrible man, and I’m only going to hurt you. Tell me no.”
Tell me no before I make you hate me even more. Tell me no before I fall too hard, too fast, and break when I hit rock bottom.
She should have pushed him away. He wanted her to push him away, silently prayed she wouldn’t—and nearly buckled at the knees when she curled her soft, slender hands against the back of his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.
Evan groaned, leaning into her and slanting his mouth hard against hers, fitting their mouths together in a perfect lock of heated contact, drinking in her low gasps and those damnable sounds she kept making that made him feel like a very, very bad man for wanting to hear them again. And he did—God did he, struggling to breathe as he nipped and teased and stroked just to savor the way her sensuously full mouth gave against his, just to feel her fire as she bit him back with sweet wild taunts of stinging pain, just to know pure pleasure as she trembled against him and dug her nails in sharp little crescents against the nape of his neck.
This—this was fucking crazy. This was everything he’d told himself he wouldn’t do with her again, but she pulled on him something fierce and he couldn’t bear to be near her without wanting to touch her, kiss her, need her, show her with his lips and hands and body what she did to him when he failed every time he tried to show her with words.
Holding her was like trying to hold pure fire. They were too wild for this place—too wild for bored-looking mannequins and jacquard dresses and piped-in muzak over tinny department-store speakers—but he couldn’t wait. Not when she was willing and fierce in his arms, and kissed him like she needed every taste of him to survive. His lips ached, burning with her ferocity. He leaned into her, guiding her along the wall of the changing room until he found the door and nearly ripped it open. They fell inside, stumbling and slamming up against the wall, holding each other up with grasping hands and tangled bodies. He kicked the door shut, then snared up handfuls of that fucking jacket and dragged it down her arms to fling it away. He’d put her in the clothes, and now he goddamned well wanted her out of them.
The sweet slope of her throat begged to be tasted. Bitten. Marked, as if he could leave his claim and call her his. He closed his mouth over her pulse, and nearly lost his footing as the taste of her, the fragile flicker of her racing heartbeat against his tongue, dug bright needles of desire under his skin and tugged at the strings holding him up.
She keened softly, arching up against him, her fingers skimming over the back of his neck and leaving chills in their wake. “Evan…” She trailed off into a little moan, her eyes drifting closed. “Evan, not in here!”
With a groan, he pulled away from the sweet taste of her skin. “Why not?”
“It’s a fitting room!” she hissed, darting a furtive glance toward the door. “There are people outside! They might—”
She broke off with a gasp as he dipped to catch the firm peak of her nipple through her shirt, through her bra. Its hardness thrust against the fabric, roused against his tongue, and he traced its shape through the cloth before pulling the blouse aside hard enough to pop the buttons loose. Her breast spilled into his palm, searing to the touch, heavy. He dragged the lace cup of her bra down and sank his fingers into the soft flesh, shuddering at the delicious sensation of that fullness yielding under his touch. But when he bent his mouth to taste her, when he took her bared nipple past his lips to flick his tongue over it and roll its delectable hardness against his tongue, she gave him what he’d been aching for ever since the first time he’d touched her.
“Evan!” she gasped, breathy and rough, her body twisting against the wall, her lips parted and glistening so enticingly wet.
“I love when you say my name that way.” He grazed his thumb against the wet peak of her nipple, savoring the little catch of her breath. “Again.”
She shook her head with a desperate little whimper. “I can’t…”
“Again,” he growled, and dragged the hem of her skirt up, bunching it over her hips. Pale lace curved over her skin, and he gave in to that desperate, itching need to touch, making his hands burn for lack of contact. He slid his hand over her stomach, over the rumple of the skirt, then cupped her heat in his palm and stroked his middle finger against the warm wetness darkening the panties—sliding deeper on each stroke, deeper, until the fabric creased into soft folds and her warmth enveloped his finger with every slick glide. Velvet flesh gripped, burning hot and lusciously wet. She strained, gasping, lifting herself against him.
“Oh, God!” There was something painfully sexy about watching her struggle not to cry out, caging those little sounds in her throat, rolling her head back against the wall with her caramel skin flushed a lovely rose and her eyes nothing more than glittering, lost slits past the dark fringe of her lashes. “Evan…Evan!”
Why did he need that so much? Why did he care for the sound of his name on her lips? It poured over him until his blood pounded, throbbing so hot and so loud he could hardly hear anything else. He wanted her. He needed her. And he cursed having to pull so much as one finger away from her to dig out the condom he kept in his wallet, nearly fucking dropping it when he tried to rip it open with shaking fingers.
Her eyes slipped open, nearly burning underneath the shadow of her lashes, fixing on him. He’d never seen anything more beautiful than this woman leaning disheveled against the wall, her chest heaving, her hair a wild tumble, her lips swollen from his kiss and her clothing spilled every which way. He’d thought she would stop him. Thought she would come to her senses, God, how could she not? How could she not see how terrible he was for wanting her even now, when he had no right? He didn’t have the willpower, where she was concerned. Didn’t have the strength to do what was ri
ght. He needed her to say no, so he wouldn’t hate himself tomorrow.
But he needed even more that soft whisper of “Evan” that spilled past her lips as she curled her fingers in his coat, dragged him close, and kissed him once more.
The world fell away, leaving only the softness of her lips, the heat of her body. His hands moved on auto-pilot, tearing his jeans open, sliding the condom on, only half-aware he was even doing it when the taste of her drowned him. He delved deep, stealing the sounds from her lips, sharing her every breath, until all was quiet between them—this secret moment, stolen in the midst of the bustle and cry of a busy city, a crowded department store. None of that mattered. All that mattered was her arms around his neck, her lips parting for his, her fingers clutching at his back as he tugged her panties aside and fitted himself to her waiting heat.
And the way she arched her hips when he slid into her, driving slow and deep, made him feel as if he could spend his entire life never needing anything else.
Molten heat glided over him one shuddering inch at a time, drawing him deep, so deep. Her lips went slack against his; her head fell back against the wall, and he devoured that lost, blissful expression on her face as he brought them fully together. His breath burned in his chest, his body aching, hurting with the taut-straining pleasure of this. The firestorm of urgency that had filled him slowed and became lava in his blood, deep-burning and patient in its endless heat.
He moved to the rhythm of their breaths, flowed to the surge of her body rolling against his, lost himself in the sweet liquid inferno of her as mad hot friction poured over him with every stroke, until he could taste his pleasure on each rushing exhalation. Over and over he fell into her, consumed with every deep thrust that felt like diving into an endless sea of desire, plunging so far he could drown in this obsession—and yet he never wanted to come up for air. She was all he needed to breathe, and as her voice rose in soft, breathy cries he captured her lips and trapped this secret, this forbidden moment, for them and them alone.