by Cathryn Fox
I make use of the bathroom and wash my hands. I’m not sure I can be bothered to go back to my hotel and change for my date, especially now the weather has turned. A look in the mirror confirms that my gold silk blouse and russet skirt are satisfactory. Reflected me looks good. I carry the self-satisfied aura of a successful professional woman. At thirty, I have plenty of time to find lasting love and marriage and make my own family. When you’re the last born to a big family, everything feels like a competition driven by sibling rivalry. Out of the five of us, I’m the only divorcee. The only one without children.
My biggest regret is that my mother died thinking all of us were happy and settled with life partners. And then, a few months after she passed, my marriage collapsed. I let her down.
I shake off my fit of melancholy. I just wish she were still here... I’ll make her proud one day.
I slide my fingers through my hair, teasing the mass into a sexy tousle, unsure if it’s for my date or for Hudson. But my body knows. My pulse kicks up with the excitement I can’t muster for a man I’ve never met. My cheeks are flushed with arousal and a pulse flutters between my legs. Hudson’s company does that to me. For some reason that I can only attribute to his excellent Scotch, and even better easy-on-the-eye company, I slip open the top button of my blouse, revealing just a hint of lace-bordered cleavage.
It’s just teasing, but I live by the rule of ‘go hard or go home.’
When I return to the office Hudson has produced a platter of tiny bite-sized sushi rolls from somewhere, refreshed our drinks and dimmed the lighting to a more intimate level, which makes the darkening sky and wild weather outside more ominous.
I shiver. ‘Oh, wow—the weather’s changing quickly.’ I watch the many city lights of Tokyo’s business district, shimmering and distorted by the torrential rain now lashing the windows. Then I glance back at Hudson.
‘Yes. The wind has unexpectedly altered direction. Typhoon Kano is now headed directly towards Tokyo.’ He’s switched the wall-mounted TV to a news broadcast.
We watch the report, although my Japanese is virtually non-existent. His radiant body heat and his command of the language provide comfort against my growing uncertainty—I’ve never experienced a typhoon before.
‘Should I worry? Are we safe?’ Hudson’s office feels like a warm and cosy modern fortress at the top of a skyscraper. I inch closer, catching the clean linen smell of his shirt.
‘Japan is hit by several typhoons a year—more typically in the summer, though.’ He shoots me a reassuring smile and mutes the TV.
‘So you put this one on especially for me? You shouldn’t have.’ I smile but a relieved sigh escapes—I wouldn’t want to be alone in my hotel room right now.
‘I secretly hoped to trap you here.’ His laughter settles the butterflies in my stomach. I trust him. ‘Don’t worry, Dove. We’re perfectly safe here.’
He winks and my pulse trips with desire. We might be safe from the elements, but his proximity, the new awareness of him, makes me feel reckless.
We retake our places on the sofa. Only now his every move seems to brush against my sensitised skin. He’s removed his tie, revealing a tantalising glimpse of dark hair as his shirt pulls across his well-defined chest. I have a violent urge to snuggle into him. To press my face to his neck and see if he smells as good close-up...
Instead I select a mini sushi, dip it in the Japanese mayonnaise and pop it in my mouth. My stomach groans in appreciation at the delicious flavours and textures. The silence as we eat should be comfortable. It always has been in the past. Only tonight there’s a looming sense of anticipation heightened by the impending storm. It’s as if I’m a human barometer and he’s a low-pressure system, pulling me in.
Right, blame the atmospheric conditions for your reaction to him...
My appetite dwindles as we watch the storm and watch each other. I should distract myself with business small-talk about tomorrow’s schedule or the Japanese Business Awards dinner at which Hudson has been invited to speak.
But there’s only one distraction I want.
Hudson’s phone emits a bleep. ‘Excuse me.’ He pulls it from his pocket and reads the screen.
I sip my drink and watch his angular face, the dark swoop of his eyelashes, his sexy mouth. What am I doing?
‘Looks like my date has cancelled.’ He tosses the phone aside and returns the full beam of his attention to me.
‘What a shame.’ Fingers of delight skitter down my spine. ‘It does look pretty wild.’
As wild as I feel. Am I seriously contemplating crossing the very well-demarcated line between us?
‘It does—the situation is changing rapidly.’ He leans over me to reach for the remote control to un-mute the TV for an update.
Somehow it feels as if he’s sitting closer. I hold myself still, and licks of anticipation mixed with fear heat my skin.
Hudson translates the news report—strong winds, flooding, damage expected. My heart thuds. Fear of the impending typhoon, or fear of missing what now feels like the golden opportunity Mother Nature has presented?
Something major is happening out there in the dark.
We look back at each other at the exact same moment. My breath stutters. Something major is happening between us too.
‘I think you should stay here tonight, Dove.’ A small frown pinches his brows together. ‘It’s currently classified as a yellow warning, but they predict it will soon get to red. You don’t want to be blown off your feet and soaked through to the skin.’
The dangerous power of the elements is mirrored in the tumultuous veering of my resolve. The universe has delivered the ultimate temptation. I want him.
I cling to our banter, playfully rolling my eyes. ‘The lengths some people will go to avoid being alone.’ I hold my breath to correctly interpret his suggestive stillness and the lust in his stare.
‘I’m used to being alone.’ His pupils dilate. ‘But if I had to be trapped by a storm I’d want it to be with you.’
I swallow hard, putting up a feeble last fight. ‘My hotel’s not that far away... But perhaps you’re right. I’ll text my date to cancel.’ Even if the tension building between us goes nowhere, I’d rather be with him than on a blind date.
‘Good, that’s settled.’ With a satisfied smile, he switches off the TV and retrieves something from a concealed closet near the door: a fine, cashmere throw. He shakes it out and drapes it over my lap.
‘I noticed you shiver,’ he says, pressing another remote so the contemporary fireplace built into the wall flickers to life. The heat and intensity of his stare could get a woman into trouble unless, like me, she knows what’s behind that sinful expression—the promise of a good time.
‘They’re shivers of anticipation.’ And delight. ‘Storms make me nervous.’ I retrieve my almost empty tumbler from the table, ridiculously touched that he thought of my comfort but a little disappointed I’ll have no excuse to snuggle and steal his body heat.
‘No need to be nervous. We could make some progress on tomorrow’s schedule to take your mind off it.’
‘I have a better plan.’ I hold the glass up between us so the liquid catches the glinting gold reflection from the fire. ‘How much Scotch do you have left?’ I take a slow sip and lick my lips.
‘Enough. But how else will we pass the time if not with business?’ He’s onto me and my thinly veiled seduction. He shifts, his body inching closer.
I have so many sexual suggestions, I almost choke on my next sip of Scotch. But we’re trapped here for the night. There’s no rush, unlike the last time we played with this fire.
‘Do you have a pack of cards?’
‘Of course.’ He opens a drawer in a low coffee table and retrieves a brand-new pack.
A thrill shudders through me as I exhale. ‘What better way to ride out a storm?’ I open the pack and s
huffle. ‘Poker work for you, Black?’
‘I can think of more entertaining games,’ he replies with that trademark confidence and challenge sparking in his stare. ‘But bring it on.’
Oh, I intend to.
Copyright © 2021 by JC Harroway
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ISBN-13: 9780369702395
Devoured
Copyright © 2021 by Cathryn Fox
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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