by RC Boldt
“What a wonderful greeting, Kavanaugh,” she mutters, interrupting my thoughts. I can see she interpreted my Fuck me as bad—as a Fuck me, she’s ugly as shit. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, damn it.
What the hell was I thinking? The answer’s simple. I wasn’t.
Rolling her eyes at me, they seem bluer, brighter, due to whatever makeup she used. And don’t even get me started on her lips. They’re a dark shade of pink—plump and glossy. I swear it’s far too easy to imagine them wrapped around my hard—
Fuck. Me.
Abruptly turning my eyes away from her, I thrust the package at her unceremoniously. “Here.”
She grabs it in the nick of time before it falls. I have to let go and turn away, feeling like the air is too thick, like everything’s closing in on me. I can’t look at her, not with her as breathtaking as she looks right now.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Just set it inside for later.” My answer is sharper than I mean for it to be, but I’m holding on by a thread. And right now, that thread feels frayed as fuck.
“O-kay.” She drags out the word, setting the package on the small entryway table by the door. I hear what she’s not saying; You’re acting weird as hell, Kavanaugh.
And it’s the truth.
“Set your alarm and let’s go.” I’m already walking down the stairs, my leather flip-flops slapping against the wooden steps.
“Such a charmer. I can see how you maintain your harem with charisma like that,” she mutters sarcastically. And while I don’t comment, I understand where she’s coming from. What she doesn’t know is that the “harem” she’s referring to hasn’t exactly been active for the last six months, because of a certain someone who’s managed to cast some damn voodoo spell over me. If anything, my hand’s been super active.
Though, I’m definitely keeping that information under wraps.
“Get in the truck, gorgeous.” I pull open the passenger side door for her, flashing a forced grin. “Is that better?”
She huffs, clearly dismissing my words, thinking the gorgeous comment was just for show.
It wasn’t.
Just as I’m tempted to say something else, making myself even clearer, the thought is wiped from my mind. In fact, every coherent thought is wiped from my mind because of the way she moves, the way the fabric of her dress shifts as she steps up into my truck. Watching her, my cock hardens. I feel like a horny teenager, gawking at the sight of a woman’s hips and ass.
But it isn’t just anyone’s body I’m lusting over like a prepubescent school boy. It’s Noelle Davis. My employee. My office manager. The one person who’s managed to help my business run smoother than anyone else. But my mind isn’t registering that. It keeps going back and forth between She’s so fucking hot and If I were to slide my hand beneath her dress, which is making it appear as though she’s not wearing panties… Which means only one thing.
It’s going to be a hell of a long night.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Noelle
“Noelle, darlin’. You’re quite the looker tonight,” Kane drawls, his Texan accent sounding thicker.
“Thanks, Kane.” I wink at him. “Not looking too shabby yourself, buddy.”
Kane is tall and built—as in built. He’s definitely one of those guys you see who has military written all over him, with his thick, muscular frame which appears intimidating as hell. He’s got these aquamarine eyes pulling you in, making you feel as though he can actually see your thoughts. Yeah, no doubt about it, Kane Windham is one hell of a charmer and a damn good-looking guy to boot.
But he doesn’t hold a candle to a certain someone. A someone who took the seat farthest away from me, as if I were contagious with Ebola or something. Yep, he’s a sweetheart like that.
Laney finishes singing up on stage before the karaoke DJ, Dean, announces he’s taking a break, putting a few songs in queue for everyone to dance to. The first song is one of my favorites, Chase Rice’s “Ride.” It’s in moments like this I wish I had someone to dance with. Someone to—
“Would you like to dance?”
Turning in surprise, I see a guy standing to my left. I estimate him to be in his late twenties, short blond hair with light brown eyes, tall and lanky. He definitely gets credit for coming over here and asking, because I’m sitting at a table with a handful of intimidating looking men. That takes balls of steel. And for that alone, I have to say yes. But just as my lips part to speak, I’m interrupted.
“Sorry, man, but she promised this dance to me.”
Hello, floor? Yeah, that’s me who’s slumped down onto you in a mushy heap. Because Foster Kavanaugh is the one who just said this. He’s now at my side, giving this guy a nasty look that clearly screams to back off.
The guy nods in understanding, and I feel like raising my hand in protest because, um, hello? I don’t even understand what’s going on right now.
“No worries. Another time,” the guy says before turning away to walk back to his seat.
“Not likely,” Foster growls under his breath. Holding out a hand to me, it’s as though I’m moving robotically, placing my hand in his large one, dazed by his actions. The instant our hands meet, I swear I feel a connection, electricity, that something. Tugging me up from my chair, leading me to the dance floor, he slides an arm around my waist, holding me close, our hands clasped as we sway.
In effort to remain calm and collected—as much as possible—I concentrate on the song, on the lyrics. Which is a big freaking mistake because they are sexy and a bit dirty. I don’t realize it until I begin to sing along softly. Second mistake? Letting my mind wander, thinking about those lyrics and combining them with Foster Kavanaugh.
Foster Kavanaugh, the same man whose thumb is driving me crazy with the way it’s grazing back and forth over the side of my hip. Pulling me closer, for once the top of my head comes up to his jaw due to my heels. Part of me craves to slide closer, to press my lips against the spot on his neck where I can see his pulse beating. That’s the only indication he might be feeling something right now. For me. His pulse is mesmerizing me—taunting me. I imagine darting my tongue out to taste it before running my teeth against it, grazing it before pressing my lips to it. That image is so clear in my mind—
“You’re killing me, you know that?” he utters in my ear, his hot breath sending shivers through my body. “That tongue of yours, the way it slides out to wet your lips, like you’re thinking about tasting me.”
Shit. I hadn’t realized I had done that.
“You didn’t realize it, did you?” he asks, his voice deep and husky. I can only manage to shake my head.
“You want to dance again tonight you tell me.” He pauses as if to let that sink in. “No one else but me.”
I lean back slightly, raising my eyes to meet his and his whiskey colored gaze glows with heat. “You want to dance with me?” My dubious tone can’t be missed. I can tell he notices it by the way his brows furrow.
Suddenly, I’m tugged closer to him, as close as we can possibly get and there’s no mistaking what I’m feeling. He’s hard—like really hard. For me. His lips brush against the outer shell of my ear. “I think it’s safe to say I want to do more than dance with you, Noelle.”
My breath is knocked right out of me. And it’s not because he just basically told me he wants to fuck me. It’s because he actually said my name. My first name. He said it. Noelle. He never says my name. I’m now realizing it was a good thing because the way it sounds, the way it rolls off his tongue, is like nothing I’ve ever heard. My name sounds so unbelievably sexy and soft the way he says it.
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I can compete with your harem. So there’s that.”
It’s true. Not to mention, I don’t want to be in the position to compete for anything. I know what I’m doing by saying this, and I’m certain he knows it, too. I’m putting distance between us again. Because it’s safer this way. I’m trying hard to remember Foste
r isn’t for me; the man who has a freaking legion of women who try and attach themselves to him like a succubus.
Before he can respond—if he were even going to, that is—the song ends and changes to a booty dancing tune. I can hear Laney squeal with the other women and I’m tugged from Foster’s embrace and pulled away to join her in dancing to Baby Bash’s, “Baby, I’m Back.”
And the entire time I’m dancing, I swear Foster’s touch lingers on my skin, my body. Where he touched me, where his breath washed over my skin when he spoke.
What’s even worse is there’s a part of me that misses it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Foster
I’m ignoring Doc and Kane. Miller’s too wrapped up in ogling his wife, Tate, while she’s out on the dance floor.
I’m on edge. It all started with the random dude coming over to ask Noelle to dance. I can’t explain what happened, what propelled me out of my seat to go and intervene. Shit, I just about tossed her over my shoulder in caveman mode and said, You. Me. Dance.
Classy. Real classy.
Now, watching all of the women dance, shaking their asses and having a blast—more importantly, watching Noelle shake her ass—has me teetering on the edge, awaiting free fall.
And Kane knows it, the bastard, because he gives me a pointed look, grin widening mischievously.
“It might be more helpful if you just piss all around her, in a circle,” Doc says, leaning in for me to hear him over the music. “Or you could do something wild and crazy and,” he pauses for emphasis, “tell her you like her, then ask her to prom.”
My eyes flick over to glare at him, flipping him the bird, but he’s not fazed in the least, the amusement in his green eyes grating on me.
My friends are assholes. It’s confirmed.
Kane slides out his chair, standing, and holds a hand to me. I stare at him in confusion, and he gives me an exasperated look. “Dance with me, asshole.”
“You’re not my type, Windham.”
He makes a face. “Whatever, darlin’.” He runs a hand down his chest before turning, putting on airs like he’s modeling. “You know I’m as irresistible as my famous seafood gumbo.”
The thing about Kane is that he loves his southern food and is known to make the best seafood gumbo, apparently passed down from his relatives in “Cajun Country,” a.k.a. Louisiana.
“Now, get your ass out there on the dance floor with me. We’ve got to show your woman that you can shake your saltshaker, darlin’.”
My head snaps to stare at Doc. “Did he just refer to my ass as a saltshaker?”
Doc’s unable to restrain his grin, widening farther and farther. “Yup.”
Running a hand over my face, I let out a slow, long exhale. “Shit.”
“Get your ass out there.” Kane waves a hand and starts heading over to our group of friends in time to hear “Bang Bang” by Ariana Grande, Jessie J, and Nicki Minaj start playing. The girls do their little happy squeal as they dance and sing along. Before I know it, my feet are carrying me over to them. I watch in amusement as Kane starts doing some sort of surprisingly acceptable dancing and actually knows all of the words.
The latter doesn’t surprise me. Of course he would know the lyrics to this song. Of course.
Kane casts out his imaginary fishing line for the classic dance move and tosses it my way. I don’t normally get into this kind of shit, but something makes me want to join in, to be carefree and ridiculous for once. So I go with it. I get “hooked” by Kane and allow him to try and reel me in on his imaginary fishing pole. He, of course, pretends like I’m not a good enough fish and tosses me back out to sea.
Douche.
Before I realize it, Kane and Miller are in their own dance off, trying to out-do one another and creating some crazy ass dances. One of them is a jumping jack that morphs into the Robot, into imaginary log drills from back in our early days of training qualifications. I, on the other hand, happily twirl a laughing Noelle out and back into my arms. I love how her face lights up for me when I add flair to the twirls by bowing slightly at given moments, or giving her a quick wink, seeing the blush spread across her cheeks.
We now have a circle around us, numerous patrons cheering us on as Miller and Kane continue with their crazy dance shenanigans, and I twirl the hell out of Noelle. It’s almost disappointing when Dean, the DJ, comes back from his break, and he announces the next person who’s up to sing.
Noelle. As if that’s not bad enough, I swear the song she’s chosen is a sign—Selena Gomez’s, “Hands To Myself.” She starts singing about how she can’t keep her hands to herself, which is when I make my decision … or have an epiphany. Whichever.
Selena’s got it right. Because I’m done.
I’m done trying to keep my damn hands to myself.
* * *
“You seemed like you actually had a good time tonight, Kavanaugh,” Noelle remarks as we walk along the sidewalk to where my truck is parked in a small lot nearby. “Like you almost, oh, I don’t know, had fun, maybe?”
She’s teasing me, I know. Before I can reply, her heel catches on something—likely, a crack in the uneven pavement—and she stumbles. Instantly steadying her, my hand goes around her waist. The way she looks up at me is nearly my undoing.
“Thank you.” Her voice comes out sounding a bit breathless and I can’t help but feel thankful for that since I’m feeling pretty off kilter right now.
Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve been feeling off kilter all night—for more than a year, really.
I don’t release my hold, but keep my arm around her waist as we walk the two yards to my truck. When I finally remove my arm from her waist, it borders on painful, instantly noting the absence as I press the key fob to unlock the truck before opening her door.
A gentleman would look away from the way her dress rides up her long, slim legs. But let’s be clear; I’m not one. Because I look, getting my fill before closing her door and getting in on my side.
It’s a quiet ride home with only the muted sound of the radio playing and when I pull into her driveway, I’m warring with myself. Because while I know I’m not right for Noelle, not good enough for her, I want her. It’s selfish as hell, but I want her.
No, that’s not entirely true. I feel as though I almost need her. There’s just something about her that makes that dead, dull part of me actually feel something I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
Alive.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Noelle
Something’s shifted between us tonight—or at least it feels that way. In fact, I could probably tell you exactly how many inches separate us right now in his truck. I’m that aware of him.
But I’m not entirely sure I can do this. If I can take that step and cross the line. Not only is he a confirmed bachelor and a manwhore, but he’s my freaking boss. My employer. The guy who signs off on my paychecks. I’m pretty sure that’s not the least bit legit. But my entire body is giving me the brush off as if to say, Whatevs.
And apparently my body now talks like some perky, flighty cheerleader. See what this man does to me? Ugh.
Once he parks in my driveway, I unbuckle my seatbelt only to realize he’s turned off the ignition, the silence within the truck nearly deafening. Turning, I offer what I’m certain is an overly bright smile.
“Thanks for the ride. And for basically strong-arming me into going tonight. I had fun. Drive safe.” My words come out rapidly as I fumble with my door handle like I haven’t been functioning as an intelligent human who gets in and out of a vehicle on a daily basis.
Smooth. Real smooth.
When I finally manage to get it open, I nearly fall out. Righting myself at the last minute, I adjust my small purse on my shoulder, and begin walking up the steps to my door. Get a grip, Noelle, I think to myself. Even if you did want to have sex with Foster Kavanaugh, it doesn’t mean he wants the same. Especially when he pretty much has his choice of women.
“Hey.
” His voice startles me, so lost in my own thoughts I hadn’t registered the sound of his footsteps following me up the stairs. Inhaling deeply, I turn to face him, the front door at my back.
“Thanks again. Drive safe.” Before I can turn back to unlock my door, Foster steps closer—far closer than I expect—crowding me. His eyes are watchful, intense while he raises one arm up, palm splayed against the door near my head.
“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” His lips—God, those lips—are mesmerizing, his head dipping until he’s so close there’s barely a hairsbreadth separating our lips.
“Tell me.” His lips brush against mine as he speaks. “To stop.” The conflict within his tone is evident. It’s as though a part of him is begging me to stop him while the other part is hoping to God I don’t.
“Don’t,” I see the effect that one word has on him before I hastily finish with, “stop.”
His lips come crashing down on mine, while both his hands cage me in against the door. I reach out to tug him closer, eliminating the remaining distance between us. Tipping his head to the side, angling it better to deepen the kiss, the moment his tongue slides inside to touch mine, I can’t withhold my moan. My nipples instantly harden against his chest and I arch instinctively, trying to get even closer to him.
One of his hands slides down, cupping my ass and pulling me toward him as he thrusts against me. Pressing into the apex of my thighs, he allows me to feel his arousal, how hard he is for me. Shamelessly, I rock against him, growing even wetter, imagining how his cock will feel inside of me.
Foster breaks the kiss, both of us breathing heavily, my own chest heaving as we hold each other’s gaze. His expression is conflicted, like he’s warring with himself and it’s in that moment I make my decision.
It’s been well over a year for me. Over a year of taking time for myself; no relationships, no men, no sex—no nothing. And while I’m not expecting an award for all that, the truth is I hadn’t—haven’t—found anyone to make me want to break my self-imposed embargo on men.