by Laura Kaye
He was really fucking lonely.
When you’d spent your entire adult life living in close quarters with a bunch of other men in your unit, so close in friendship and purpose that you thought of one another as brothers, getting out of the military and living alone was an unexpectedly devastating blow.
And here Billy had thought it would be nice to have some privacy and quiet, to not have to listen to his asshole brothers snore and bitch and Skype with their loved ones back home. It was possible he’d never been more wrong.
So coming home to dinner and people and conversation, not to mention how enthusiastic and passionate Shayna had been in talking about her job…it all made him feel good in a way he hadn’t in so long. So long that it’d fucked with his head.
Clearly.
For just a split second, he’d let himself imagine that that could be his life. And he’d said and done things he never should’ve allowed.
Which was why he didn’t step foot out of his room the rest of the night until he heard her go to bed. And then he waited another fifteen minutes just to be sure.
He’d never really noticed before how quietly the stone treads allowed him to move down the steps, but he was glad for it as he made for the kitchen to clean up from dinner.
Downstairs, he hit the lights for the kitchen and stopped short.
Everything was clean. The dishes that had been in the sink and on the counter were gone. The counter and stove top had been scrubbed down. The dishwasher had been run. As if the whole dinner had never happened.
Billy was torn between gratitude that she’d taken care of his space just as he would, and…something that felt a whole lot like regret that there was nothing left to remind him how nice their evening had been. Until he’d gone and ruined it.
And he had ruined it.
Because, Christ, he could still picture her pressed up against the living room wall. Her hair mussed from his hands, her lips red from the hunger of his kisses, a flush high in her cheeks, and a lust-drunk softness to the cast of her eyes when she’d offered herself to him.
He wasn’t sure how the hell he’d pulled himself away.
He wasn’t sure how he’d ever forget the way she’d looked, the sound of her moan, or that she’d wanted him.
And he also wasn’t sure how she was going to forgive him—first for taking advantage, and second for walking away. Both had been dickish in their own way. He just hoped he hadn’t gone and made her feel uncomfortable living here.
It was one big fucking mess of his own making. And if Ryan ever found out about any of it, he’d have Billy’s head. And Billy wouldn’t blame him.
He scrubbed his hands through his hair and smacked off the lights. His body felt almost heavy as he hit the upstairs hallway.
A high-pitched noise caught his ear.
Billy froze and cocked his head.
There it was again. Was that…crying? Oh, Jesus, had he made her cry?
His gaze swung to Shayna’s door.
He heard it again. Prickles ran down his spine. God, he had.
Frowning at her door, he went closer. And closer. Until he was standing right outside of it, his fist poised to knock.
Which was close enough to know that it wasn’t crying, it was moaning. And it wasn’t Shayna. He was hearing something…something she was watching.
Something with rhythmic moans and a man’s rough, commanding voice.
Billy swallowed thickly against the wave of white-hot lust that slammed into him. His cock ached and his ears strained. Because Shayna was apparently watching porn.
Just a few hours after they’d made out. When she’d made it clear she wanted more. And he’d turned her down.
And because Billy had seen Shayna naked and seen her aroused, he could too fucking easily imagine what she might look like right now. Laid out on her bed much as she’d been plastered against the wall. Pink nipples erect and those red-brown curls between her legs wet as her hand worked at her clit.
He released a harsh breath and fisted his hands against the urge to touch himself. Or knock. Or open the door.
He willed himself to leave, but his feet were suddenly cemented to the floor. And then finally he forced himself to step away—just like he had before.
The floor creaked under his foot, just the littlest bit.
Nearly holding his breath, Billy froze. Shayna’s room went quiet.
Son of a fuck.
Billy Parrish had jumped out of perfectly good airplanes and faced down terrorists who wanted nothing more than to see him dead, but at that moment, the idea that Shayna might find him standing there had a really goddamned high pucker factor. Because whether she was outraged that he was invading her privacy or came at him with more of that invitation in her eyes and on her lips, it would be bad.
So he held still. And prayed that door did not open.
After a few seconds, the sounds started again, although softer now, and Billy high-tailed it out of that hallway and closed himself inside his room like his life depended on it.
On a harsh exhale, he thunked his head against the molding next to his door.
Which did nothing to ratchet down his arousal. Or keep him from ripping open his button-fly. Or from taking the aching length of his cock in hand.
Billy leaned his other forearm against his door, rested his head against it, and gave his erection one tight stroke up and down.
His teeth clenched against how fucking good it felt.
And as his eyes fell closed on the next stroke, he told himself not to do it—not to picture it. But that was the thing about your brain. Trying not to think about something was the surest way to make sure it was all you could think about.
Which was why Shayna Curtis was the only goddamned thing he could see.
And finally he couldn’t do anything but give in to the urgent need. He jacked himself on tight, demanding, almost punishing strokes. Choking his root to hold back the orgasm that already threatened. Gritting his teeth every time his palm twisted around the fat head of his dick. Thrusting his hips forward so that he was fucking his hand.
It might’ve been perverted that he was so damn turned on by the knowledge that she was masturbating at the other end of the hallway. And without question it was a million per cent inappropriate that he was getting himself off on that fact.
But Jesus fucking Christ, it was the hottest thing he’d experienced in a long-ass time.
And that was no sleight whatsoever to the other partners he’d had. Billy didn’t need sex to mean something to have a helluva good time—and to make sure his lovers did, too. But there was just something about knowing that they were both so turned on by what’d happened earlier that they had to come.
Was she picturing him, too?
The question shot sensation down his spine and into his balls.
And then he imagined himself leaning against her door instead of his own, and his orgasm nailed him in the back and shot into his hand and against the door. On a strangled shout, Billy stroked his cock through it, making a mess of himself and the door and the fly of his jeans. But all of that was really damn hard to care about when his head went spinny and his heart threatened to beat the fuck out of his chest.
Jesus.
Jesus fucknugget.
Yes, Shayna, for fucking sure.
Still braced against the door, Billy blew out a long, shuddering breath and admitted the obvious. “This woman is so far under my fucking skin.”
He wasn’t sure how that had happened in a few days’ time, but there wasn’t any question about it. That much was clear.
And if he wanted to do right by her and by the best friend who’d asked him to take care of her, Billy was going to have to steer clear of her until he got his head screwed on tight again. Both of them.
Which was why, after he cleaned up, he logged into his email, opened the message from a new prospective client that had hit his inbox earlier that afternoon, and agreed to a meeting to talk about the marital infidelity sur
veillance work she wanted to hire him to do.
If he had to stay out of his house for a few days to get his shit together, he fucking would.
“Hey, Shayna. Some of us are going out after work. Would you like to come?” Havana Jones asked.
Shayna looked away from the photo editing project she’d been assigned, surprised to see that it was already nearly five o’clock. “Wow, where did the day go already?” she said, smiling at the woman who was quickly becoming one of her favorite people at work.
Havana had worked for the paper’s graphic arts department for about nine months and always had such a warm smile and a big laugh that she immediately put you at ease. Plus the fact that she’d grown up and gone to college in DC meant that she knew all the best places to go.
“I don’t even know, but it’s a good thing when time at your job flies by.” Havana leaned her hip against the desk. “So, you in?”
“I’d love to join. Thanks. When did you want to go?” Shayna asked, wondering if she could finish her work on the two remaining photographs.
She’d been assigned to the team of news editor, Joe Daniels, and picture editor, Rose Kim, and these photos were part of her second editing assignment for her new bosses. This particular community feature wasn’t running until next week, so she had a few days to finish them. Still, it would be good to get in the habit of working ahead of deadline.
“Maybe half an hour? I’m gonna round up some other folks and then we can officially celebrate the fact that it’s Friday.” Havana’s tight black curls moved as she rounded Shay’s desk.
“Sounds good,” Shayna said, excited to be getting to know people better and to make some friends. Especially since it’d been so quiet around her house all week. Billy had taken some surveillance job that necessitated he work nights, which meant that their schedules were complete opposites.
She hadn’t seen him for more than five minutes since The. Kiss.
Oh, man, the kiss.
A kiss that had literally been the stuff of which dreams were made. Because she couldn’t stop thinking about it, even when she was asleep. And when she was awake, just the memory of how good it’d been was enough to turn her on, which was probably why she’d gotten herself off thinking about it—and him—three times in the past five days.
It was as if, with just one hit of him, she’d become an addict, incapable of thinking about or wanting anything else. It was bad.
But, on the plus side, at least there hadn’t been much opportunity for things to be weird between her and Billy, who no doubt had long forgotten what’d happened. The guy was older, a hero with a Purple Heart, a world traveler, and hot as hell. Shay wouldn’t be surprised if their little moment ranked way down his list of hottest-things-that’d-ever-happened.
Meanwhile, despite the fact that she’d had more than a few boyfriends and two no-strings-attached, on-again/off-again fuck buddies in her day, her up-against-the-wall make-out session with Billy ranked somewhere close to the top of hers.
Le sigh.
“Stop thinking of the stupid fuckstick, Shay,” she whispered to herself. But, then, of course, She. Could. Only. Think. About. Billy’s. Fuck. Stick. For. Fuck’s. Sake.
On a sigh, she dropped her head forward and heaved a deep breath.
In her mind’s eye, she saw that old Seinfeld episode. No fucksticks for you! Come back one year!
And that was precisely when she knew her Friday night was going to require alcohol. Copious amounts of alcohol. All. The. Alcohol.
An hour later, she and five other new and newish Gazette staff members crowded around a high-boy table in a bar a few blocks from the office. The place was popular and the music was loud, so they were all leaning close just to be able to hear one another.
“To surviving your orientation week,” Havana said, raising her glass.
Shayna joined the others in raising her strawberry mojito and clinking. “Here, here,” she said, everyone laughing and joking.
Leah Scott, Malik Morrison, and Rob Cho were among the other newbies who had started the week with Shayna, and of them, only Rob had been assigned to her team. So it was good to have the chance to spend more time with them out.
“Did you all hear that reporter in the newsroom earlier?” Leah asked. Petite with a short, pixie-like haircut, she was loud and funny and talked non-stop, and was one of the new reporters.
“Who? Maxwell?” Bran Morgan asked. Shayna had just met him on the way to the bar, and all she knew of him was that he was a sports reporter.
“I think so,” Leah said. “Short, bald guy.”
Next to her, Rob pushed up black glasses that matched his short hair. “Yeah, that’s him. I met him yesterday.”
Bran nodded. “That’s Maxwell. Was he shouting?”
Leah’s blue eyes went wide. “Yeah, how’d you—”
“Maxwell always shouts,” both Havana and Bran said at the same time before laughing.
Bran grinned. “One time I heard him yell, “I’m not shouting! I’m saying things loudly!’ in the middle of a meeting. And everyone in the newsroom tried not to laugh.”
“I remember that,” Havana agreed. “Do you remember the time that Chief asked him if he was on drugs and he yelled, ‘You and I both know I don’t make enough money to take drugs!’”
Everyone laughed, and Shayna knew that the stories were good-natured because Maxwell was also one of the reporters that all the younger journalists revered for how long he’d been in the business and how many big stories he’d broken. He held the byline on more than one of the framed stories around the office.
“But, let’s be real,” Havana said with a smirk, “with the amount of coffee and cigarettes most of the reporters have in their system, and news breaking every other minute, it’s a wonder there’s not more screaming, shouting, and general madness.”
“And alcohol, too?” Shayna asked, raising her glass again, and just about needing another.
Hannah clinked with her and nodded. “Absolutely. Drinking, smoking, and digging up dirt on people. That’s pretty much what journalists do.”
Laughing, Shayna nodded. “Well, I don’t smoke, but otherwise I’m right on track,” she said as she waved down the waiter and indicated that she wanted another.
“I’ll have another, too,” Malik said from where he stood right beside her. A good-looking man with warm brown skin and striking hazel eyes, he was a new reporter for the business and financial section who was also said to be scary smart. “Where are you from, Shayna?”
“New York,” she said.
“The city?” he asked, leaning in.
“Upstate. Near Albany.”
He nodded. “Ah, I grew up in the city. Then I worked on Wall Street for a couple years, but I never made it up to Albany,” he said.
“So how did you make the transition from Wall Street to journalism?” she asked, curious since she’d made a similar shift.
Malik’s smile was legitimately beautiful as he nodded and spoke. “The longer I worked in the financial sector, the more clear it became that money was at the heart of nearly every story. Politics. Government. Business. Culture. Hell, even sports. And I just got less interested in growing other people’s bank accounts and more interested in telling stories that can be hard to tell and complicated for a lot of people to understand.”
“It’s not really at the same level, but I left working for a museum where I photographed and digitized the collections because I felt like I wanted to capture history in the making rather than preserve the existing record,” she said, adding a thanks to the waiter as he dropped off their drinks.
Malik raised his beer. “I hear you. To telling all the stories.”
Shayna grinned and toasted. “I’ll drink to that.”
Bran leaned in. “Enjoy the idea of the noble grandeur of the profession while you can because as soon as people see your first byline or photo credit, they’ll be all like, let me show you the incredibly important pothole on my street. It’s an ou
trage!” They all laughed.
And that was the way the rest of the evening went. Havana and Bran told war stories from around the office, while the rest of them hung on every word and got to know each other over a constant flow of drinks and more than a few fried appetizers.
By the time the party broke up, it was nearly eleven o’clock and Shayna was buzzing enough to feel warm and fuzzy but not so much that she was couldn’t handle herself.
“You gonna be okay getting home?” Havana asked her when they spilled out onto the sidewalk into the muggy September night.
“Yeah, but I’m not attempting the metro and bus. Uber will provide my chariot,” she said, pulling out her phone and swiping to find the app.
“Where do you live? Maybe we could split one,” Malik said. When they worked it out, they found it made sense.
“There’s one only four minutes away,” she said. “Perfect.” The two of them said good-bye to the others, who left them to wait. “I need to spend some time learning my way around the city so I have my bearings and feel comfortable getting around on the metro.”
“The subway here is pretty easy to figure out. Not as many lines or stops as in New York.” He stepped out into the street. “This is us, I think.”
The minivan matching the info in the app stopped in front of them, and they got in and greeted the driver. They made small talk about their plans for the weekend, and Malik was so easy to talk to that it made the fifteen-minute drive to her house go quickly.
“This is me,” she said when they pulled to the curb. She did a double take at the house. Lights were on inside. If that meant Billy was home, it was his first night in the house all week. She smiled back at Malik. “Thanks for sharing the ride.”
He nodded. “Any time. If, uh, if you want company exploring the city at any point, shoot me a text.”
Shayna grinned. “I’ll do that. Have a good weekend.” She waved as she got out, then turned to watch the minivan pull away. She’d had a truly good time at the bar and felt pretty damn good about finishing out her first week at her dream job, so it was possible she floated to the door. Or maybe that was the alcohol.
Either way, she was having one of those rare moments—especially given her past two years—where she felt a little like she was on top of the world. Invincible. Strong. Ready for anything.
