by Lex Martin
“Mmm,” is all I can utter as he presses his lips to my neck.
And then I’m surprised when he says, “Tell me about that other guy last night. Is he important to you?”
My insides are all aflutter that he seems genuinely concerned.
I cross my arms over his broad chest and look him straight in those warm honey eyes. “Nathan’s just a coworker. Last night, all he did was drop me off at home. Yes, I was interested in him…” I run my nose against his. “Right up until I met this sexy-as-hell guy at a coffee shop a few weeks ago, and he flashed me his abs.”
That gets me a laugh, and I smile down at him.
“So you guys were never an item?”
I shake my head and strip off my T-shirt. Because the way he’s looking at me right now makes me not care at all that there’s too much light streaming in my bedroom or that my boobs feel floppy.
His eyes dip to the girls, and that hunger in his expression grows, the groan rumbling in his chest making everything in me tighten.
Immediately, his hands grip my thighs and pull them up so I’m straddling his waist, where his impressive hard-on waits for me.
“I haven’t been able to get that image of you in my shirt out of my head all week. You might’ve missed your calling to be a pin-up girl, but that’s okay because I sure as fuck don’t want other men appreciating this.” He shakes his head. “And trust me, I get the irony of that statement.”
The idea of Josh being jealous—over me—makes my stomach flutter.
Those warm hands run up the back of my thighs to my rear where he squeezes and pulls me closer so I’m grinding against him.
“Baby, are you sore?”
“Hmm. A little, but I’m okay.” More than okay. That initial discomfort I felt between my legs this morning has been replaced with need and a pulsing ache.
My hands trail up those muscular shoulders, and I dip my mouth to his ear where I whisper, “It hurts in a different way now, and I really think you should make it better.” His cock thickens against me.
Electricity buzzes just beneath my skin, knowing I’m turning him on. Which prompts me to tell him something I’ve never uttered before. “You make me so wet.”
Delight consumes me when he grips my hair and yanks me to his mouth for a searing kiss. After a moment, he breaks away and whispers against my lips, “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve jerked off to you since we met? You were the inspiration behind everything I posted to the blog this week and then some.”
I laugh and thread my fingers through his soft, dark hair. “Probably not as many times as I touched myself.”
He stills. “You thought about me when you got off?”
Nodding, I rotate my hips to shift against him. To get some friction. To sate the throb.
A blinding need prompts me to sit up. He looks down and watches me glide over him, his hard cock nestled between my naked thighs, rubbing against the most intimate part of me. I reach down and part myself to get closer, and he growls, “Fuck, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
His hands grip my breasts, and I arch my back and pant, “Grab a condom.”
He reaches into my nightstand and rips the foil open. I take it from his hands and scoot down where I grip him.
Holy crap. I had this inside me? My hand can barely wrap around him. Now that I’m not buzzed, I can really appreciate the magnificence before me.
“Tell me. Do you like morning blow jobs?”
A smirk lifts his perfect mouth. “Every man does.”
I want to tell him that no, not every man does, but there’s no reason to bring up my ex. Smiling, I run my lips across his hard length. “So you’d like it if I put you in my mouth?” I ask and then trail my tongue across his swollen crown.
He swallows, his hand finds my cheek, and he nods.
It’s curious because I’ve always felt like doing this was a thankless job. All it ever did was make my jaw hurt and my mind wander to the endless errands I needed to do.
But now, this, being here with Josh, only fills me with the need to make him feel good and to keep him looking at me like this. And making him hot is turning me on like crazy.
The groan he releases when I suck him into my mouth makes me a little frantic. Those hazel eyes watch me, and I’m ablaze under his hungry stare. A big hand tangles in my hair, pulling it tight, and I smile around him. My mouth is full, brimming with him, and after a few minutes of working him over, I want more and unroll the condom over him. Thank God I listened to Kendall and stocked extra-large condoms this week as wishful thinking, because, whoa, Momma, this man needs them.
“Come here.” He motions for me, but I’m surprised when he pulls me to the bed and positions me on my side so I’m facing him. Instinctively I lift my knee to his hip and he hugs me to him, fitting my body against his, my curves snug against his hard planes. It’s an intimate position, which seems crazy because on some level, I realize sex is sex, any way you look at it. But the way he touches me, the way he’s holding me, the way he stayed the night—everything seems to suggest this is more than a fling.
“Babe, we’ll go slow. I know you’re sore.”
Cradling me in his arms, he looks into my eyes as he nudges against my entrance, teasing me, dipping in and out until I’m coming undone with lust and use my ankle to press against his back.
When he sinks into me, he reaches down to my ass, his fingers dropping down to where we meet and feeling me open around him. God, that’s hot.
As if reading my mind, he groans, “I want to worship you everywhere. With my hands and tongue and cock.”
I start panting as he finally pushes in. “Where do I sign up?”
We smile at each other, and I’m dazed and crazed and more than a little out of breath.
I’ve never done it in this position before, and he feels glorious between my thighs, each thrust stroking my clit.
I arch my back to press my hips closer, and his mouth opens around my nipple where he sucks hard and rocks against me, setting me off. Spots dance behind my eyes as I thrash, my orgasm tearing through me like a streak of lightning, but he holds me tight, thickening when he comes, setting off another orgasm.
A scream of pleasure rips from my throat. “Fuck, yes,” I cry, out of my mind as he jolts inside me.
It takes a few minutes to come down from the high. Somehow, I’ve rolled onto my back, and all six feet something of Josh Cartwright is wrapped around me. I thread my fingers through his hair, loving that he’s this affectionate.
“Now that’s a nice way to wake up,” I whisper because my throat is hoarse. From screaming.
He laughs against my chest. “Understatement of the year, baby.”
Hours later, after we’ve showered together and he’s made me breakfast and helped me organize half of my house and he’s kissing me goodbye on my doorstep like I’m his favorite person on the whole planet, a swell of emotion washes over me when I realize I don’t want our weekend to end.
But Josh quickly soothes that melancholy when he leans over me with a smile and asks when he can see me again.
I suggest dinner, maybe Wednesday or Thursday, but the real answer—the one I’m too embarrassed to admit because this is so new—is that’s not soon enough.
On Monday morning, nothing can put me in a bad mood. Not the cab that splashes my new shoes on the way to work. Not the coffee I dribble down my white blouse. Not the evil eye Angela shoots me when I ask Nate for a file.
I work all morning with a feverish energy and focus, only pausing when Josh texts me a sweet message about how he can’t wait to see me.
I’m humming like a bluebird in a Disney movie when Malcolm knocks on my office door around lunch time.
“Malcolm, come in,” I chirp. “Thanks again for inviting me on Saturday night. I had a wonderful time.”
Except for the whole Tiffany debacle and wanting to knee Josh in the balls. But that led to hot make-up sex, so I can’t complain. I mean, I guess that wa
s make-up sex even though we weren’t together. Not really. But I guess we are now, right?
“Gwen was delighted to see you. I’m sorry I made you wait so long to attend. I realize I can be a bastard like that. My wife laid into me this weekend for not inviting you last year.”
I wave him off, my happy-meter broken somewhere in the realm of Shake Your Ass, You Lucky Bitch, and Unicorns Are Farting Rainbows. “No worries, boss.”
I’m in too good a mood to care about anything at this point. My inner Madonna is still singing Dress You Up to Josh. Life is good. Life is really freaking good.
Malcolm chuckles and scratches his chin. “She wants to have you and Nathan over for brunch next weekend.” Like a record scratch, the music in my head stops. Wait… What did he say? “You guys make a cute couple. I didn’t realize you were dating.”
My mouth opens. “What? We’re not—”
“He’s a good catch, kiddo. Your dad will love Nate.”
A flush burns up my neck. “Sir, I don’t know why—”
“And before I forget,” he says, cutting me off, “I had a nice chat with Joshua Cartwright the other night.” He shakes his head like he’s embarrassed. “And apparently, he dazzled the other partners too. We’ve decided to represent him after all. Good job reeling him in. Now if we could rep his architecture firm, I’ll be even more delighted.”
He taps my desk and strolls out of my office like he didn’t just detonate the biggest What The Fuck Just Happened bomb in my face.
13
Josh
“Dude, you totally got laid. I’m calling it. Your cocktapus touched human flesh, and I’m not talking about the skin on your palm.”
“Fuck off, Drew.” I’m standing outside in the early morning drizzle, unlocking my office and pushing open the door. Since he is nowhere near housebroken, let alone civilized, Drew calls whenever the hell he wants, including well before eight in the morning. He was attempting to get me to join him for breakfast—chorizo and egg burritos at Luisa’s—but I refused. I’ve got work to do, and I’m not a slave to his stomach. Unlike him.
But he persists. “No. I can tell. The mopey-ass Joshua we’ve had to live with for months has taken a much-needed vacation to the Cayman Islands. Ladies and gentlemen, smiley emoji Josh-man has entered the building.”
Thing is, I am smiling, and I have entered my building. I can’t hide the cheer in my voice, even if he can’t see me through the phone. Frankly, I haven’t stopped grinning since I left Evie’s house yesterday. I’ve just felt happy.
Whatever I thought about her before—how smart she was, how funny, how beautiful—was nothing compared to the experience of getting to know her intimately. Seeing how responsive she was, how she didn’t hide anything from me, how frantic we were for each other. Multiple times. Once I kissed her, it was like I’d pushed an “on” button that I didn’t know existed in women generally, but especially not in her.
She’s different. Special. Gorgeous. And now that I’ve experienced all sides of her, I can’t let her go.
Even after I got home, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I found myself Googling architectural salvage stores in the greater Portland metropolitan area to see if there were any I didn’t know about. I even used that damned Pinterest account to look for inspiration for her restoration projects, starting a board for her. And last night’s blog post was dedicated to her, even though all I’d said was, “That dress was amazing. See what she did to me?”
That got tens of thousands of comments. First time I’d mentioned a woman since I started the blog.
I turn on the lights, then look around. No one here yet, of course. While I love my job, today I just want to spend all my time with her.
“Is there something you want?” I ask Drew, trying to muster annoyance, but I’m not really bothered. Even though he’s a pain in the ass, he’s my pain in the ass. Besides, I don’t think I could get rid of him if I tried.
“I could go for a five-foot-ten blonde with a libido the size of Canada. But since that won’t happen, guess I’ll have to settle for housemade pico de gallo.”
Heading down the hall to my office, I shrug off my suit jacket, hang it up behind the door, and turn on my computer, feeling the best I’ve felt about a Monday morning in a long time.
Even though he’s my best friend, I don’t want to tell him about Evie. She’s too amazing, and this is too new. But I know I can’t keep shit from him, so I’ll tell him something vague tonight. “I can’t do breakfast, but you can come by for dinner. Bring something.”
“Deal.” I hear him slurp on a straw. Seriously? A soda this early? He belches. “Have you found an attorney yet to represent your dick?”
Wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder, I sort through memos on my desk. “No. And I need one. I got the package with the contract emailed to me already.”
He laughs hard. “We already know you’ve got a package.”
I groan—thank God no one else can hear him—and pointedly ignore him. “And they are waiting for a snail-mail address to send the prototype kit. Guess I could get a P.O. box—”
“Prototype kit? To make your own dildo?”
“Yeah.”
If one had thought it was impossible for Drew to laugh any harder in the morning, one would’ve been wrong. I hold the phone away from my head to avoid hearing damage. When he finally calms down, I circle back to the point. “If you can find a referral, someone discreet, unlike you, I’d appreciate it.” But he knows I don’t mean the part about him not being discreet. While Drew is uncouth, he is one of the only people I trust. Guess not ratting each other out all those times in school when we put salt in the napkin dispenser led to an unspoken agreement: we will never tell each other’s secrets. He and I are in our own Fight Club. We do not share outside of ourselves.
“I’ll do that, then tonight Imma let you tell me all about the biddie who saw your mansnake,” he says, and I groan again.
“Do you have anything else you want to say, fool? Because some of us need to work.” I’m tempted to put the phone on speaker to free up my hands to type, but with him that’s too dangerous, even if no one’s in the office yet.
“You didn’t deny it, I see.”
At this point, I’m not sure why I put up with him. “Just fucking find me a lawyer, please?”
I hear the rattling of ice and the way his straw sucks on nothing. “Will do. And kebabs. Tonight, I’m bringing kebabs.”
“Awesome,” I say, and hang up.
A few hours later, the once-quiet office buzzes with the low din of keyboards typing and conversations, and is scented with the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, the third pot today. I’m absorbed in the movie theater design for that project in Sellwood when the buzz of my cell rouses me from a creative stupor.
It’s her.
“Evie,” I say, the smile still in my voice. Damn, it warms me up to hear from her. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
She pauses, then exhales, and I can immediately tell that something is off.
“What is it, babe?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Actually, it’s good news, I guess,” she says flatly. “It’s just big news. I’d rather tell you in person. Can you meet me at The Coffee Pot?”
I don’t need any more coffee, but I’ll meet her anywhere.
Twelve minutes later, I’m waiting in the same booth we met in before when she rushes into the restaurant in high heels, a silk blouse, and a black pencil skirt, holding a slim leather business case. Her hair is dark and tousled, and she’s not wearing much makeup, just lip gloss. She looks stunning.
She approaches the table, and I stand, suddenly uncertain how to act around her. What I really want to do is kiss her until she makes those little sounds that drive me crazy. In public, though, I don’t think I can maul her. It’s not just the Cartwright reputation—I really don’t give a rat’s ass who sees me with her. But she’s dressed for the office, and I’m not sure what her c
omfort level is with PDA.
“Hey,” I say, pulling her to me for a hug.
That seems safe. We’re friends. Friends hug.
Except she’s stiff in my arms.
When I release her, she has the oddest expression. “Hey, Josh. Thank you for meeting me.”
And she’s oddly formal.
I want to ask her why she’s being distant, but almost immediately, the same waitress we had before comes up and hands us menus while smacking her gum. “Two coffees,” I say, even though I don’t want any. Evie nods her assent, and we both silently watch the waitress slump away, fill two diner mugs, and return, plunking them down on our table. I think neither one of us wants to start talking and be interrupted by the waitress.
But now that she’s gone, and we’re alone, I have to know. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?” Is she having reservations about what happened between us this weekend?
Toying with the handle of the mug, she looks up at me, and those gray eyes make me want to do all the things. Repeatedly. Not just what we already did. More. Judging by the look on her face, though, we’re not doing that any time soon.
She doesn’t sip her coffee and instead asks, “Did you talk to any of my partners at the party on Saturday?”
I don’t drink my coffee either. “Yeah, I spoke with Waller and his wife. His wife and my mom are old friends. I’m sure I spoke to a few other partners that night too.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You made quite an impression on him. Now they’ve asked me to give you this.” And she pulls a long, thin envelope out from her case. “It’s an engagement letter. My firm would like to take on your representation.”
I’m thrilled. I have law firm representation. Finally, I can get moving on these business plans. But it takes me time to process, and I realize there’s a big problem here. Especially once I see her downcast expression. “If I’m your client, can I still see you? I mean, the way I saw you this weekend.”
She shakes her head slowly. “See, that’s the issue. Lawyers are not supposed to be”—her voice drops—“sexually involved with their clients. It’s highly unethical. We technically didn’t breach any rules because you weren’t my client when this started, but the rule is in place so that being with you doesn’t cloud my legal judgment. A lawyer has a fiduciary duty to her client. This means that the client’s needs are placed first, above her own. And—”
