We sit in silence for a few minutes as I imagine her finishing her drink and then going downstairs, back to the party where other men can admire her beautiful form, give her compliments, and brush their hands over her skin as they coax her into a reluctant dance.
I throw back my drink in single swallow, ignoring the burn in my throat, then get up to refill my glass.
“How was your meeting with Caleb?” Lana asks. I turn around with my refilled glass to see her leaning down to rub her feet.
She’s acting out of character. To see her making herself so comfortable in my office has my brow rising.
When she holds up her glass, I refill it and hand it back.
“I took him up on his offer for living accommodations,” I say, watching her as her slender fingers massage her heel.
“Don’t you already have a place to live?” She sounds curious, her gaze meeting mine behind the shaded rims that dull the uniqueness of her eyes.
I’m overcome with the urge to rip those glasses off her face.
“There were some…problems with it.”
She straightens up, then sips her drink.
I’m afraid to move from my position against the desk, not trusting myself. This isn’t the first or second drink of the evening. It’s heading toward ten o’clock, and I’ve had a few.
“Aren’t you going to go back to the party?” I finally ask, saying something to fill the silence that holds too many opportunities, all of which I might regret in the morning.
“I don’t want to.” She frowns into her drink.
When she doesn’t elaborate, I urge her, “So what, you’re going to hide out in my office all night?”
There’s a certain appeal to the idea.
This time, she gets up, and I see a flash of emotion on her face. She hides it, making her way to the small table where the scotch bottle awaits her desperate hands.
“At least you won’t hurl accusations at me,” she mutters.
Maybe I wasn’t supposed to hear that, but I do. The cold anger that unfurls inside me at the depth of hurt in Lana’s voice as she attempts to drink away whatever unkind words have been spoken to her this evening baffles me.
“Someone said something to you,” I say flatly, my eyes narrowed into slits.
She has poured her glass to the brim. Suddenly, I don’t want her finishing that drink. I don’t want her to have more reasons to resent herself in the morning.
A part of me wants to see her unravel, so I can put her back together again. To see the taut tension she carries inside her stunning body disappear.
Maybe it will give me a glimpse into the real Lana.
I stride over, then take the glass away from her before she can reach for it. “No.”
She gives me an insulted look, and I press my lips together. “Whatever has you bothered won’t be fixed by drinking.”
“How would you know?” Her expression is obstinate, which only she can make charming.
“Because I’ve done it consistently over the past two years,” I say softly, powerfully aware of what I’m letting slip.
Her eyes widen, then she glances down as if realizing why. “Your wife.”
“Yes.” I make a noncommittal sound, partly as if to agree with her assessment and partly in awe at the fact the dull ache that usually accompanies thoughts of Nyla isn’t there.
“Do you miss her?” she asks, the question so natural I answer without thinking.
“No.”
That seems to startle her, and she raises a brow. “Why not?”
I move away from her, not wanting to taint her with the memory of the woman who willingly chose to tear me apart. After I settle on the couch, I rest my elbows on my thighs as I stare at the carpet. “She was leaving me. She was pregnant with my child, and she was leaving me to be with her lover. I was in Canada for a meeting when I heard the news.”
There it was.
That dull throb.
The couch sinks next to me under Lana’s weight. I continue, having never told anybody the entire story and suddenly overcome by this urge to spill, let somebody else know I’m not the villain in this story.
“I didn’t even know she was leaving me,” I say numbly. “I didn’t even know she was pregnant. I just heard news of the crash, came flying back, then all the secrets, all the lies, came spilling out, one by one.”
My short laugh is bitter. “It was all right there, in my face. I just chose not to see the signs.”
Lana takes a heavy breath before she releases it with a sigh. “Well, that sucks.”
Chuckling, I cast her a sideways look. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”
“It sure beats my sad story,” she mutters.
I cock my head to study her. “I didn’t know you had one,” I say slowly.
“Of course I do.” She waves her hand. I can tell she’s buzzed, if only slightly. “Everyone has a sad story.” Then she leans forward, conspiratorially lowering her voice. “And if you don’t, you should always make one up. Makes you more human. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
Amused at that, I ask, “Is yours an actual sad story?”
“It’s not sad,” she rectifies after some thought. “Just annoying.”
I wait for her to tell me, and she doesn’t disappoint. “I’m the youngest and the only girl in my family. It has the consequence of being the only one who can reproduce. They all think I should be settled down with some nice man, keeping house, and making babies by the dozen.”
I choke at that, unable to imagine this fierce woman playing the role of an obedient housewife.
“That sounds awful,” I deadpan.
“It is,” she insists. “I’m earning more than any of my brothers. I’m successful. I’m good at what I do. But does that matter? No. No, it does not. According to them, I should be bending over backward to please a nonexistent husband. I should be the perfect example for a female. Achievements… what achievements? I should go put my baby maker to work.”
The words are crude, and her sadness makes her seem unbearably young and heartbroken.
I nudge her shoulder, murmuring, “I think you do a good job.”
She sniffles, giving me a watery smile, which instantly dissolves. “Tell that to the remaining finance department. I was cornered by a few who accused me of sleeping my way to the top since my job is still secure. After that, they started claiming if I were half as good at my job as I was at sleeping around, their friends would still have their jobs and they wouldn’t have to worry about theirs.”
My good humor disappears at the words she’s miserably spilling from her mouth.
“They said what?” My tone is thunderous.
She doesn’t answer, rambling on in a half-buzzed state. I’m forced to pay attention. “And the worst part is I’ve been stuck in a dry spell for over a year!”
I blink stupidly as she continues, “So, then I said, ‘I wish I had’, and now I wish I had just kept my damned mouth shut!” The last part ends on a wail.
I’m barely recovering from the shock of her revelation that she hasn’t had sex in over a year when the last part of the conversation throws me off, startling a laugh from me.
“Is that what you’re upset about?”
She looks so miserable I’m reduced to patting her on the back to comfort her. “There. There. I’m sure they won’t remember any of it in the morning.”
“This sucks.” She slouches against the couch. “I’m supposed to hate you, yet, here I am, spilling secrets to you.”
I follow her movement, propping my elbow on the back of the couch so my face hovers close to hers without it being awkward.
I’m feeling the effects of all that alcohol on an empty stomach. I reach out and pull off her glasses, wanting to see her eyes.
“You shouldn’t hate me.”
“Why not?” she retorts, not appearing bothered my actions.
“Because I have a sad story.” I grin.
After a moment, her lips curve i
nto a smile, then she’s laughing. If that’s not the most beautiful sound I have ever heard, I dazedly think.
She’s laughing hysterically, and my own shoulders shake at the contagious sound.
We’re both drunk and miserable.
I don’t know when we stop laughing.
I don’t know who makes the first move.
But suddenly, Lana’s mouth is on mine and I forget how to breathe.
6
Lana
It’s been a miserable evening.
My desire to be liked, to gain other people’s approval, is a hinderance, one of my biggest faults I can’t find a way to overcome. I know where this problem stems from. I took Psychology as a minor in college.
But when I find myself in Oliver’s company, the gorgeous man with a growling attitude, there is equality in the room. He doesn’t treat me like most of the men around me do. He regards me as an equal, challenges me, fights with me, and, when he’s wrong, he backs down.
My attraction to him is something I had sworn to myself I would never act upon, but seeing him like this, so human, I find myself slamming my mouth against his, suddenly wanting him with a desperation I can’t understand. Don’t want to understand.
I just want him.
In me, around me, possessing me.
He initially freezes, but the happy tingling in my body that comes from drinking at a stretch has me relaxed and compliant, so I kiss him, moving my lips against his still ones.
Just as I think this might be a one-sided thing, his hands slide around my waist. He grips me and pulls me onto him until I am straddling his lap.
I’ve not had a lover in a while, but, hazily, I think even the ones who have graced my bed pale in comparison to this man who’s running his hands up and down my back, his mouth moving against mine with a ravenous hunger that sparks my own.
The way his tongue pushes past my lips, the way he licks into my mouth, one hand going to my hair to grip it in a way that is firm and masterful, makes me moan into his mouth as he angles my head to suit him.
He sucks on my tongue in a way that makes me tremble, then he’s abandoning my mouth to deliver sharp bites to my jaw, my neck, trailing his lips over my skin as he sucks bruises on my neck. I can’t help but writhe in his grasp when his other hand cups my right breast.
I’m not wearing a bra because this is a strapless dress. When my nipple hardens, his sigh of appreciation ghosts over my throat, then a soft sound escapes me as he pinches it with his thumb and forefinger, his mouth still worshipping my skin.
His touch spreads fire across my body, as if he’s branding me, and I grow wetter when he licks the tops of my breasts, which are available for his viewing. There is something so filthy about the way he ravishes them that my mouth falls open and my back arches.
His hand releases its grip on my hair. I feel it trail lower and lower until he reaches the zipper.
The sound of the teeth dragging down is loud in its implications and finality.
We’re actually doing this, I think, drugged on this man’s kisses. And yet, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
“Are you sure, Lana?” His voice is hoarse as he forces me to meet his gaze, his fingers hovering over my newly exposed skin.
He’s trying to struggle with his morals, but I just dumped mine in the trash for tonight.
My dress has bunched at my waist, and I can feel the hard bulge in his pants against my panty-clad pussy. I rub against him in an attempt to find some relief.
His other hand now reaches for my hair, tangling in a painful grip, which dominant and yet makes me want to moan. His tone is harsh. “I want a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. Don’t play with me.”
Feeling rather defiant, I rub against his straining cock again. This time, he growls, “Is that a ‘yes’?”
“If you’re not going to do something about this,” I breathe out, “I’ll stuff my own fingers in my pussy. I’ll let you watch, though,” I taunt.
His darkly possessive look should have me worried. Instead, it makes me purr, suddenly excited.
Then, with his second breath, he yanks my dress down until it’s now bunched up around my waist. His mouth is on one nipple while his thick fingers tease the other, making my heart race at the deliberate motions. My breath catches as he sucks vehemently, biting it gently until I’m gasping and begging in the same breath.
He laughs lightly. When he gives the other nipple the same treatment, I’m twisting in his lap, the sensations so new, so exhilarating. His hands are on my waist, holding me steady, then he’s pulling up my dress. I obediently lift up my arms so he can toss it behind him.
I rub against him, my panties the only stitch of clothing I’m wearing.
My hands are on his vest now, suddenly wanting to feel the skin underneath. I roughly unbutton his shirt, my hands slipping, and I feel frustrated at my own inability.
“Why are you wearing so many clothes?” I snap, both annoyed and aroused.
“Let me,” he says with a husky laugh, pushing my hands away.
Within seconds, his vest is off and discarded on the ground next to my dress. His shirt follows. Suddenly, I’m staring at a broad chest. I curl my hands in the crisp blond hair, my fingers trailing over his nipples and his stomach.
Feeling awfully bold, I lean down and lick the flat disk of his nipple, making him hiss and grab my hair again.
“Behave,” he orders, and I nearly come in my panties at the authority in his voice.
However, as always, I’m not inclined to listen, so I do it again. In a flash, I feel fingers pushing aside the piece of clothing that protects my most private part, two fingers sliding inside my soaked pussy, making me mewl at the intrusion.
I whimper when he scissors his fingers inside me.
I’m no longer sitting on his lap. Instead, my weight is now on my knees above him, his face reaching my chest. I can feel his eyes on me as he fucks me with his fingers.
“Oliver…” I groan his name as his pace increases. I’m holding desperately onto his shoulders, wanting a release, feeling it building, helpless against the onslaught. “Oliver, please!”
His face rearranges into an intense look, his blue eyes gleaming as he pleasures me. “I love it when you say my name.”
He murmurs the words. I’m dangling on the edge, so close. “Oliver!”
I’m begging now, seeing white spectral sparks behind my eyes. “Oh. Oh!”
“What do you want, sweetheart?” he asks against my skin, pressing a tender kiss to my breast, his eyes on my blind ones as I move against him, seeking a release he’s not granting. “Tell me what you want. Ask for it.”
I’m shaking now.
He’s knuckle deep in me already. As he deliberately adds another finger, I make a keening sound. “Oh God! Let me come!” My voice cracks as he keeps slowing down every time I get close, a punishingly slow pace that’s driving me insane. “Oh, please,” I whisper into his ear, sucking on his lobe, my voice hoarse. “Please let me come.”
He groans. Suddenly, he twists his fingers inside me, and I see white. I barely feel his hand clamp over my mouth as I scream. His fingers guide me through my orgasm until I’m a sated mess. Leaning against him for support, I feel my breath go hard, my mind hazy.
He combs his fingers through my hair. “All right?”
There’s a teasing quality to his voice, along with an edge that has me blearily scanning him.
He looks hungry.
That look stirs my own appetite, and I reach for his belt. My fingers move quickly, efficiently for once, and I stand, yanking his pants off.
“Easy…” He laughs, but he’s the one rising, dragging me to him as soon as the pants are on the floor. Walking me backward, he doesn’t stop until my butt hits the desk. I see the gleam in his eyes as he lifts me until I’m sitting on it, then his hand pushes me back until I’m lying on top of paper.
I barely register the uncomfortable position before I feel his thick cock pushing into me.
I’ve never felt so full in my life.
“Move,” I demand, pushing my hips against his.
His eyes narrow, then he’s pounding into me, making a sound that’s almost a growl as he presses his mouth against every part of my body he can reach—biting and licking at my shoulders, my throat, my jaw. His tongue enters my mouth, swallowing my cries.
When he pulls away, his hand grips my jaw, forcing me to maintain eye contact as he tells me through gritted teeth, “Next time, I’ll put my mouth on you. I’ll sit you on this desk, and I’ll spend hours eating you out. I’ll use my fingers to open you up, then I’ll use my tongue to lap up everything you have to give. I’ll keep going until you’re screaming my name.”
The description is so vivid that I tighten around his cock almost instantly. He keeps going strong through my second orgasm, making my fingers scrabble on the desk to grasp something—anything—to give me leverage.
I can tell he’s pleased.
He’s fucking me so hard now, his mouth filling my ears with such wonderful filth, that I’m a victim to his dirty promises and my own imagination. I cry out his name.
I beg him.
I threaten him.
My fingers claw at his arms where he’s holding me down.
His hips are pistoning in and out of me at a pace I can’t keep up with, so I’ve settled for letting him use me any way he sees fit, all while moaning his name over and over again, my pleas falling on deaf ears.
And then I see him tense. One more thrust and I’m coming again, screaming his name.
He pulls out, and I feel the hot spurt of liquid on my stomach. He’s pulling me up, kissing me, his mouth moving against mine almost gently.
Legs weak, he propels me to the couch. This time, we’re wrapped around each other, bathing in soft kisses and murmurs that are almost meaningless until the world becomes dim and we’re tugged into sleep’s warm embrace.
* * *
I wake up to a warm weight on me, the urgency in my bladder forcing my eyes to open.
Resisting the Brit Page 5
