Going Down
By Sukie Chapin
I glance out my window at the vicious storm, wishing I’d gone home with everyone else hours ago. It’s the type of storm that downs power lines and threatens tornadoes, but, crazy as it sounds, it’s not scary.
The entire floor is dark, with the only light coming from the big corner office with the gorgeous view. And by gorgeous view, I don’t mean the Dallas skyline. No, I mean the view of my boss, Mr. Edward Hawkinson. He doesn’t sparkle, but he should. Seriously, he’s that hot.
As he’d helped me clean up after I’d face-planted in front of him my first week here, my coffee splattering all over his shoes and expensive slacks, he’d told me to call him Hawk. Honestly, the nickname fits him about seven million times better, because it sounds a little badass. And Hawk’s nothing if not badass.
Badass and kind, because he’s the type of guy who tries to help a girl save a little face after humiliating herself.
I do that a lot in front of him.
I hate the idea of riding the elevator alone—almost enough to make me knock on Hawk’s door and beg him to ride with me. But that would be nuts, and I’m pretty sure he already thinks I’m a little unstable, what with all the falling and spilling and the way his presence seems to dissolve my ability to sensor my thoughts. I’ve told him all sorts of things no one should ever tell their boss, including all about that disastrous bachelorette party with too much tequila, a sex toy shop, and a double-dare.
While most bosses would probably fire me, Hawk seems to find my outbursts highly amusing, which is probably saving my ass from the chopping block. That and I’m damn good at my job. And I really do try to control my mouth around him.
I just fail miserably most of the time.
But asking him to babysit me would reveal my mushy side—and I don’t do vulnerable. Not with people at work. Not with friends. Especially not with men. So, I pluck up my courage and jab the down button. The doors slide open and a shiver runs down my spine as I step between them.
Almost nothing scares me. My four older brothers were hell-bent on making sure of that. Heights, fire, snakes, spiders. All noes. My thing, my one completely irrational, totally paralyzing fear is elevators, and my job on the fourteenth floor of Dallas’s premier security company gives me a chance to practice my fight-or-flight daily. Fun times.
I haven’t traveled a full floor when a screech like something straight from hell shakes my sardine can of a ride. The elevator stops with a jerk, and I’m plunged into complete darkness. No emergency lights come on. No doors open. No nothing.
My heart pounds my rib cage, I can’t catch my breath, and my palms are slicked with sweat, but I can’t make myself move. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. I can see the headlines: Isn’t it Ironic? Woman Dies of Only Fear—Slow Suffocation in Elevator. They’d interview Hawk. He’d say, “Nice girl. Hard worker. Always brought cookies for the break room and told me about her vibrator mishaps.”
And then I snap, because that is absolutely not how I want Hawk to remember me.
I try to pry the door open. I scream. I pound. I mash buttons. I grab my phone to call 911 then remember it went dead during our conference call. The one where I could barely concentrate because Hawk was wearing a suit that hugged all six-foot-four of him.
I yell so long my voice is hoarse, and panic is making me light-headed, but finally, finally, I hear a voice on the other side of those hell-mouth elevator doors. It’s of the deep, rough variety, and it definitely belongs to Hawk.
“Hallie? Is that you?”
It takes a minute to get over the fact he knows it’s me just from my shouting. “Yeah, it’s me.” I try to steady my warbly voice. “I’m, I’m stuck. Do you think…could you call someone?”
“Sit tight. I’m going to figure something out.”
I feel sick. I don’t love the idea of my boss seeing me so wimpy and shaken—there’s that whole vulnerable thing again.
“Maybe you could just call 911,” I say, going for nonchalant but knowing I failed.
“The lines are down. Even cell service is out. Hallie,” he pauses, “can you make it until the power comes back on?”
He’s talking to me the way I talked to my cat when I found him on the street, back when he shrunk back every time I reached for him. Panic crushes my chest. “No. No, I can’t stay in here. I’m sorry. I can’t. This is my thing. My one thing. I’m not a chicken, I swear to God. I’m seriously only afraid of one damn thing, and this is it. So, no. No, I can’t stay in here. I really can’t…”
At this point I’m spewing words at him and hoping something catches, because I can’t form coherent thoughts anymore.
“Okay,” he says gently after the longest seconds of my life. “Okay, I’m going to get you out.” Then a moment later he adds, “Keep talking to me, okay? I’m right here.”
The elevator trembles, and I break out in a cold sweat.
“I can’t breathe,” I whisper, desperate.
“Hey, you’re okay.” There’s an edge to his voice now that makes me think I’ve scared him. “Put your head between your legs for me, okay? Focus on my voice and just one breath.”
The sound of metal on metal grates the air, and I’m going to puke. “Okay,” I whisper, doing as he says. The tightness in my chest eases fractionally.
“Better? Now talk to me. How’s Mr. Scruffles?”
Ah, my cat. The one who ate a plastic mouse last month and needed a three thousand dollar surgery. I’d been humiliatingly near tears at work, talking to the lady at the clinic about payment plans, when Hawk had intervened. He drove Mr. Scruffles and me to his friend, a vet in a swanky office downtown, who did the surgery for five hundred bucks and saved both my cat and my miniscule savings account.
It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for me.
“He’s great. Back to sitting on my face in the middle of the night.” No! Why do I say stuff like that? I shouldn’t talk about any kind of face sitting with my boss, cat or otherwise. I cringe and feel my cheeks heat.
But then the elevator gives another shake, and that tightness comes back to my chest, distracting me.
Hawk chuckles. “I’m glad he’s back to his old self,” he says. “Any plans this weekend?”
“Um.” I can barely think. “Working—I’m on a roll with the Komatsu case.”
There’s another groan of metal and some small clinks.
“Hallie, you can do better than that,” he says reprovingly, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “What are you doing that isn’t work?”
Minus the smile, that tone is enough to fell most of the employees here. People are quietly terrified of Hawk, even though he’s an amazing boss—encouraging and supportive. But people whisper that he was a criminal before he started the security company, and that’s why he’s so good at what he does. Though I don’t care what he used to be.
The truth is, I have a mad crush on the guy.
“Hallie,” he says again, and this time there’s a little more force behind my name, and a shiver skitters up my spine.
I don’t want to tell him that my big weekend plans include Netflix, cookie dough, and Mr. Scruffles, but there’s that whole lack-of-a-filter thing I have going with him. Once, I ran into him outside the bathroom and, when he asked casually about my weekend, I blurted all about my horrible date and how long it had been since I’d had sex. I’d ducked into the ladies to die, slowly and painfully of embarrassment, but not before I caught a darkening in Hawk’s unbelievable hazel eyes—like he was pissed my date tried to feel me up even after I’d said no, like he wanted to rip the guy’s head off with his giant hands and squish it like an overripe melon.
I’ll never forget that look.
His voice pulls me from my thoughts again. “Hallie, I need you to keep talking to me, so I know you’re okay.”
Damn, that’s sweet.
“Not much,” I say. “Just Netflix and chill.”
I free
ze.
Really, Hallie? You had to add the “and chill” part?
“Wait, no,” I say, fumbling. “Not the chill part. I mean I’m going to chill, but not like that. Not like…with someone, if you know what I mean.”
Forget plummeting to by death, I’m slowly dying of humiliation.
“Right,” he says, and I’m pretty sure there’s laughter in his voice.
Then another thought barrels into me. “Oh. Whoa! Whoa, not by myself either. I’m not trying to tell you about me masturbating.”
Oh, no...
“Oh God, Hawk,” I say, my voice high. “I said ‘masturbating’ to you.”
And it’s that exact moment that the elevator doors give way, and I see his ridiculously handsome face right in front of me, complete with the grin he’s not trying to hide.
“You can tell me anything you like as long as it keeps you from hyperventilating in there,” he says.
And I flush.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, he’s hot. He could be another Hemsworth brother. Hell, he could be the good looking Hemsworth, as far as I’m concerned. I swear I start to salivate when I see he’s taken off his jacket and tie, unbuttoned the top couple of buttons of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. And what the hell is that snaking up his arms? No way...
Hawk…Mr. Hawkinson…my boss…has tattoos covering his thick, muscular forearms.
I’m staring, but I can’t help myself. All I can think is how much I want to get up close and personal with those arms. What did he care enough about to put on his body until death do they part?
I really want to know.
A rattle from my tin-can-of-death reminds me that it’s bad form to ogle your rescuer. Or your boss.
The elevator’s resting between floors. Hawk crouches on the upper floor, the front of his pants right in my line of sight, and I can’t help myself when I imagine what’s behind that tight fly. I bet he has a monster—
“Hey,” he says, and I feel heat rush to my cheeks. I hadn’t said that out loud, right? Oh dear. “It’s safer if you slide out of the bottom, okay? Give me two minutes. Don’t move.”
“Is that an order?” I say, cheeky as hell, and stunned that it’s come out of my mouth. Does shock make you feel drunk? Because I feel a little tipsy.
His smile is quick and filthy, and it punches all the air from my lungs. “Oh, love, if only you were into taking orders.”
“Who says I’m not?” I fire back.
Now, we’re both shocked. With ourselves, with each other.
Hawk clears his throat. “Okay,” he says, his voice huskier than normal. “Two minutes.”
I nod as he disappears toward the stairs, but I’m surprised by how much I don’t want him to leave me. And it’s not just because of the elevator situation. No, I genuinely want to be around him, and that realization slams into me like a freightliner.
A moment later, my heart leaps when I see the light from his flashlight as he jogs to me, now on the lower floor.
“I trust your trip down was more enjoyable than mine?” I ask, going for breezy, because I’ve just freaked myself out worse than this elevator ever dreamed.
“Other than worrying about you hyperventilating, this has been the best night I’ve had in forever. But I imagine you don’t feel the same, so let’s get you out.”
I try hard not to be secretly thrilled that he’s enjoying this time with me—and fail fantastically.
I hesitate when I realize how tight the space between the ceiling and the bottom of the elevator is. To scoot out, I can either go backwards and stick my ass in Hawk’s face, or I can go face-to-face with him, which will include a lot of…contact.
“Erm, how should I…? I hate to stick my butt in your face,” I say, and then I’m treated to his grin again—that same dirty smirk from before.
“I’m good with your ass in my face,” he says. “But face-to-face is better. At least, the first time.”
Holy innuendo, Batman.
The tension between us is so electric we could power this building. I want his hands on me. His mouth. And I want him to keep playing with me this way.
“I’m filing that away,” I say, kicking my shoes off somewhere to Hawk’s left. I couldn’t miss his eyes on my legs if I tried.
My ass is balanced on the floor of the elevator, legs dangling, and he grabs my hips to help me out. As I slide forward, my skirt rucks up indecently, and my vagina basically does a slow slide down his face. My cheeks flame. Obviously, I’m wearing panties, utilitarian white cotton ones to be precise…Jesus. But still. I never imagined that my vagina and Hawk’s mouth would be anything but relative strangers.
He hugs my body tight to his as I slide slowly out and down, down, down the length of him. And, because my brain is a jerk, I start to wonder what it would be like to feel the long slow slide of him inside me.
My escape is the hottest contact I’ve had with a man in forever, and I’m disappointed when my feet touch the floor.
My arms are around his neck, and he feels absolutely amazing against me. His shoulders and back are thick with muscles that jump under my hands, and his chest is as hard as mine is soft. Touching him is bliss, and I really don’t want to stop. And I never, ever want him to stop looking at me the way he is right now, like he doesn’t want to stop touching me either and would like to touch more of me, in fact.
“Need a cigarette after that?” I ask to distract myself.
But it backfires.
He laughs, and it buzzes through me, punching me in the ovaries on its way down. Rough hands hold me tighter to him, and some of the guardedness in his eyes, that I hadn’t even noticed until right now, slips away. “Oh, love, I haven’t even started yet.”
His nearness, his hands, his breath against my skin, and his words themselves, scramble my brain, and it happens again. My filter slips, and I’m saying things I absolutely shouldn’t.
I swallow. “No time like the present.”
It’s his turn to swallow, big throat muscles working, and it’s hot as hell. “Hallie,” he says, and I hear the restraint. “You get what you’re saying, right?”
I nod and press my breasts against his hard body. “One hundred percent.”
That’s when he snaps. This has been building and building between us for a long time. I just didn’t want to admit it. His hand cups the back of my neck like he’s afraid I might try to get away, and oh, he’s so wrong to worry. I’m not going anywhere as he leans down, and his lips touch mine.
At first, it’s a question, just a gentle brushing of our mouths, but when I moan and press myself against him, Hawk has all the green light he needs. His mouth opens in an assault. There’s nothing gentle here, no stoking of a quiet fire. No, it’s throwing a match in a powder keg, and I’m happy to burn. His tongue caresses mine, one hand in my hair and the other on my ass, rubbing me against the erection that is most definitely there. His hands are big and bossy and hot, just like him, but there’s something gentle in the way he holds me. Like he’s been waiting forever to get them on me, and now he can’t bear the idea of letting go.
He backs me into the wall and wedges a leg between mine. I gasp as his hard thigh presses in just the right place, and I reach for his belt.
But his hands capture mine, stilling me. “Not here,” he says.
I’m legit panting, but I don’t feel bad because so is Hawk. “Okay,” I say. “My place. Not far.”
Complete sentences are for shmucks who aren’t about to have mind-blowing sex with crazy-hot men.
The next thing I know, Hawk’s pulling me down the stairs, my hand small and fragile in his. We don’t say much; he asks me if I’m sure and I assure him by reaching for his pants again. He just laughs and pulls me faster.
It’s a grueling trip down, but we finally make it to the car where we stop to paw at each other. And the ride to my place isn’t much better, but we finally make it through my front door, and the gloves come off.
His mouth crashes into mine, and
I’m doing my level best to climb him. Huge hands grab my ass and lift me, and my legs find the spot they’ve been aching for—wrapped around his hips. My back hits the door and rattles by teeth, but I can’t get enough of his rough bossiness, and I grind against him. Hands find my breasts, feel the weight of them, seek my nipples through the layers of fabric. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.
In the next moment, my shirt’s buttons scatter all over the floor, grabbing the interest of Mr. Scruffles, who dashes after them spastically. Minus the manic cat, it’s an excellent imitation of office porn. Hawk stops short, staring at the buttons and the fluffy cat chasing them. I don’t have time to worry he’s rethinking this, because he barks out a laugh.
“Sorry,” he says, catching his breath, his forehead pressed to mine and his eyes smiling. Then he swallows hard, licks his lips. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
It’s my turn to swallow. “Me, too.”
When he kisses me again, he’s slower, gentler. His tongue teases mine and my fingers go for his buttons. We shed clothes in a steady stream as I direct him toward my bedroom, bumping into furniture and walls as he carries me, clinging to him like a monkey. My now buttonless shirt lands on the kitchen table, and Hawk loses his when we knock over a lamp in the living room.
“Want me to get that?” he asks, glancing back.
I pull his face back to mine. “Like hell.”
He laughs against my lips and reaches for my bra.
“I can’t fucking wait to see you,” he says, his voice a raw rasp.
Everything in my belly goes hot and tight. The bra drops right outside my bedroom, and his greedy gaze ravages my breasts.
“You’re perfect,” he says simply, and those words do all kinds of things to my already mushy insides.
Hawk makes a break for my bed, and we crash onto the mattress, tongues tangled, fingers reaching for bare skin. He heads straight for my breasts, and I’m so down with this plan. He captures one nipple between hungry lips, and pleasure shoots through me. I moan and arch into him, my fingers in his soft hair, as he nibbles one hard peak while rolling the other between his fingers.
Stranded (Boys Behaving Badly Book 4) Page 23