by Julia Kent
Angry tears filled her eyes. “Would you stop with the judgment?”
Judgment? “What?” He looked around the room helplessly, as if someone could save him, but it was for naught. Trapped by an unreasonable woman, all he could think to do was to offer chocolate and wine.
Neither of which he had.
“Lydia, honey, I don’t know what I did wrong here.” Admitting defeat was all he could do short of a box of Godivas and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
“I can’t—I can’t—” She sobbed, curling into herself, her face tight with tears, crumpled in emotional pain so strong it had to come out through her skin. Helpless, he stood and watched her, marveling at her beauty and her vulnerability. So few people were willing—or even able—to show their raw, true self when emotions surfaced that he was drawn just to watch her, observing something rare in the woman he was falling in love with.
Where did that thought come from?
He wrapped her into his arms, and she sobbed against his chest, her wet hair staining his sweatshirt. He didn’t care. Was beyond caring, given the way the last twenty-four hours had gone. This time yesterday they’d been playing at the campground. Now they were hiding in Mike’s bathroom after experiencing the most mind-blowing sexual experience of his life.
Lydia had been open, explorative, sensual and grounded, their shared experience into uncharted territory, for her, a new level of sexual commitment.
To what?
“We need to go. Grandma’s doing better and I need to see her.”
Jeremy looked down at her, cocooned in his arms, and he willed Mike away. Go away, he thought. Just leave.
Because if she has to pick, she’ll pick you.
A few shaky hiccups and then she released him, the withdrawal of her soft body from his arms like a rebuke. Nothing he had done was wrong, and no words were out of place. The simple, slippery sensation of having been bad, in a schoolboy way, wouldn’t subside. At some point everything between the two of them had slipped by a millimeter, a nanosecond, their rhythms out of sync just enough to leave him constantly breathless, ever impatient, unsure and in agony.
And then there was Mike.
The words bulged at the base of his throat, a large, swelling ball that gagged him. Are you okay? he wanted to ask. How does it feel to see Mike?
What he really wanted to ask, though, had an answer he likely did not want to hear.
And so he said nothing, retreating quietly to let her get dressed, his last view of her naked back so beautiful that his heart joined his throat, nearly swelling shut.
“She okay?” Mike’s voice was tight, eyes razor sharp with concern, but not worry. All Jeremy could do was nod.
Both expelled enormous sighs filled with frustration and impatience, their breath mingling in the air like a triggered forcefield, as if an unknown, ambiguous alarm system had just shifted to a heightened level, but they didn’t know what the measurements were or how it was calibrated. Too many unknowns for Jeremy made him itchy and ready to take off, to leave behind the anxiety that not knowing always brought.
“Where the hell have you been?” Jeremy’s words squeezed between his teeth, oozing through as his jaw clenched. The bite in his words seemed to make Mike go to attention, his back suddenly straightening, eyes piercing Jeremy’s, no emotion in them other than pure observation.
Which was emotional in its own way. Having Mike’s complete attention was never easy.
Fucking the woman he wanted....
“Around.”
“I don’t want to have the same damn circular conversation, Mike, so let’s cut the Abbott and Costello Who’s On First crap, and how about you tell me what happened. You broke her damn heart and now you show up after we’ve made love—”
“In my bed—”
“All right!” he growled back, feeling the words bounce like gravel against the back of his throat. “I ruined your bed! I’ll buy you a new one and hire some spiritualist to sage the room so the icky memory of me and Lydia having sex in here doesn’t sully your future relationships with”—he waved his hand—“whoever you’re with.”
“You know who I want to be with, Jeremy.”
The tug of war between them was strictly verbal, but that last sentence made his heart move three inches closer to Mike.
All his adult life, Jeremy had lived by one basic motto: tell the truth. At no point in any step of this mess had he lied (the lie of omission about Diane aside…), and, in fact, being emotionally honest generally got him the outcome he was aiming for. Except with Dana, of course.
That had led to a disaster.
Which was it? Trust his instincts and just flay himself before Mike, or keep hiding and fearing and freaking out on the inside over the very real, palpable worry that what he felt for Lydia wasn’t actually returned?
Grinding his teeth, he felt a rush of adrenaline pump through him as Mike stared him down. The guy had this uncanny ability to do that without flinching. Not a single muscle on his face would move, and you felt as if Gandalf himself—in younger, trimmer, more macho form—were commanding you from on high. Jeremy could see through it, normally, but not right now. Right now, Mike’s gaze did exactly what it was supposed to do.
It made him blink.
“I want to be with her, too.” The words hovered between them, simple words that he could have said about five or six other women they’d both found attractive over the years. Easy words to say to Mike, because this was Mike, for fuck’s sake. They shared a bond. They shared women. They shared cabs and basketball games and liters of beer and—
Could they share Lydia?
Fierce and protective, his hands flexed, his heart beat a strong, steady drum that resonated in his gut, and as the seconds ticked by with Mike just staring, without movement, Jeremy regained control of himself. The shtick wouldn’t work—ever—because Jeremy knew as Mike remained immobile and unyielding, that this was the man’s downfall.
The billionaire CEO alpha-male macho bullshit would never, in a million years, work on Lydia.
But it had.
That fucking voice intruded his thoughts just as Mike opened his mouth to say something. “I want—” and then he stopped, his throat clicking from hitting the brakes so hard.
The bathroom door opened and there stood Lydia, eyes hard and shut down, unable to look at Mike, barely glancing at Jeremy. She looked so tiny and defiant, made smaller by fear and overwhelm—the same issues that made his heart race and his mind splinter.
But her grandmother’s tenuous recovery, seeing Mike for the first time since he’d disappeared…those were taking a toll on her in ways even he couldn’t diminish.
Even if he desperately wanted to take some of the anguish off her soft, strong shoulders.
Stopping himself from doing anything—looking at Mike or Lydia, taking a step, making any sort of move—he took a few seconds to just breathe. Think. Process. Half an hour ago he’d been in that bed, the one in his peripheral vision now, sheets rumpled and covered in their scent and excitement. Thirty minutes ago he’d been in her, she’d moaned his name, they’d made love and gone to new places together, trusting and revealing themselves in a relationship that meant more to him than anything.
Anything.
Of course he was reeling. And Lydia had the compounding of her grandmother, and of Mike, on top of it all.
“Can we go?” Lydia asked no one in particular, forcing Jeremy to look at Mike, who just shrugged, faltering.
“Of course,” Jeremy said, taking a step closer and instinctively reaching a hand out to touch her back, then withdrawing it. Mike shot him a look that said, C’mon.
Jeremy flipped him the bird.
“We’ll talk,” Mike mouthed.
Jeremy nodded, thinking he should at least shake the guy’s hand, or that Lydia should—
“Mike?” she said, her voice turning up at the end, so quiet it was nearly a whisper.
“Yes?” Mike’s tone was clipped but pleasant.
“We’ll talk.”
Mike’s eyebrows shot up as Lydia walked across the living room, opened the front door and slipped out, clearly assuming Jeremy was behind her.
Scrambling to catch up, he turned back to see a stunned Mike staring at the doorway, his celebrity features grittier, more normalized, as if he’d recently become an average Joe and not Michael Bournham, playboy CEO.
Maybe he was an average guy after all—just like Jeremy.
Just when he thought all was clear, bruising fingers bit into his bicep, jarring him. Mike had moved with breakneck speed across the room, like a vampire in a cheesy B horror flick. Those eyes bored into Jeremy, the bright blue a series of gradated hues, all coming together to give the appearance of a cohesive mass, but really just fissured, tiny pieces that made up a mosaic masquerading as a whole.
“This isn’t a competition,” Mike said, fingertips biting into the ropy ridge of Jeremy’s now-taut biceps.
“Everything’s become a competition with you,” Jeremy said as evenly as possible.
Mike cocked one eyebrow. “Because of Dana? Because she wanted just me, and not both of us?”
“She wanted just you.”
Mike’s grip lessened. “And you’re worried that’s true with Lydia.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m worried about Lydia right now.” He shook the hand off him, hating the way his blood pounded in his chest and hands, feeling every bit like he did after punching Siggi.
After. Not before.
“Her grandmother’s in the hospital and she just saw you for the first time since…well…”
Mike tilted his head, studying Jeremy. “You’ve fallen hard, haven’t you?”
Silence.
“Just physically, or…?”
“Both.” Jeremy’s turn to give clipped answers. It made him feel like a character in a Bond film.
Mike’s long, slow draw of breath seemed like a white flag. Truce?
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Jeremy?” Lydia’s voice floated down the hall. Abandoning Mike, Jeremy strode out to the hall and down to Lydia, leaving Mike hanging.
Cliffhangers suck.
That was what Mike deserved, though, and he knew it.
And even a few days ago, he would have accepted Lydia’s desires and her departure with respect, thinking that holding himself back and doing what she asked was the right thing to do, under the circumstances. Even yesterday, he would have restrained himself and thought through, carefully, the options in front of him as he navigated this completely new terrain of being back in her life, however tangentially.
An hour ago, still, his approach to her would have been more refined and sophisticated, his willingness to comply with her wishes a difficult challenge, but one he would meet head-on and with determination.
Right now, though, that all went out the window as the vision of Lydia pounded through his eyes, his blood racing through his veins as if it were meeting some deadline that had been invented on the spot, the dull roar of his own pent-up need now becoming a loud thrashing in his ears as he stormed through his own open doorway and then ran, sprinting down the hall, the breath in his lungs pushing in and out like a heartbeat.
As if the rhythm would somehow get him closer to her if he could just get everything lined up.
Just so.
Too late! The damn elevator doors clicked shut with a half-inch to spare before he heard the ding! of the bell. Stairs.
Winding his way down, holding back from an ankle-snapping as he rushed to the ground floor, he was transported back in time to two other sets of stairs he’d fled down—the fire alarm, and the night they’d been caught on camera.
That night, that night, that night. The words chanted in his head as if planted there by someone else, the exertion from pumping his legs down and using fine muscles to coordinate surely enough to drive out his racing thoughts.
No such luck.
This was not how his first meeting with Lydia was supposed to work. Finding her in bed, naked, with his best friend wasn’t in his top ten scenarios under which they would have their reunion.
Not even in the top thousand.
And yet that fine body, so sumptuous in repose, spread across his bed sheets as if she owned the core of his personal space. Her tightly controlled reaction, which was too perfect. Too sarcastic.
Too much.
He’d hurt her so deeply, he knew. She’d frozen him out and he’d sought refuge in the one place that was supposed to be her sanctuary. More secrets. Too many lies.
He needed to come clean.
Now.
Right now.
Goddamn it. God. Damn. It. Whatever holiness he cherished in the world resided in that woman who, now, descended his building with Jeremy, the man he’d sent after her to protect, to listen, to—
And yes, to obey his directive.
“I want you to go to Iceland. I want you to find out how she’s doing. And I want you to discover why I don’t think I can live without her.” He had said those words a month ago.
Jeremy had obeyed, all right.
A little too well.
The thought slammed into his throat, driving the wind out of him, forcing him to grab on to the metal handrails and pause for a second, the room spinning with dizziness and kinetic motion, his eyeballs swimming. Why the rush? A phone call, a text, an appearance later, when Madge wasn’t in such precarious shape, was what Lydia wanted.
What she said she wanted.
Darting forward, he hit the ground floor and slammed the door open with such force it ricocheted off the outer wall and almost knocked him on his ass, but his arms countered with enough power to give him time to pivot through. The twin ding! of the elevator doors was music to his thumping ears as Lydia and Jeremy appeared before him, inch by agonizing inch as the doors opened and both took steps forward, deep in conversation, only noticing him when he rushed forward and swept Lydia into his arms, planting an overly athletic kiss on her cheek.
And then her mouth took his.
Chapter Eight
I hate you. The fire in her belly shot to three-foot flames of desire and relief, fury and need, as Mike’s buss on the cheek just wasn’t enough, her mouth seeking his to be claimed. How did this happen? She hated him. Despised him. He’d ruined her life and lied to her, made her a fool and deceived her in matters of the flesh, her career, her entire identity…
And yet the need was so palpable she had to touch him. Had to.
There was no choice.
The touch of him, his hands roaming her back, hungry and wanting only her, his lips pressing against hers with a taste so achingly familiar, and his scent, spicy with a citrusy musk. A keening inside her that had let loose when she’d left for Iceland started to mend, the tiniest outreach of healing beginning deep inside her where healing had no right to be.
He’d betrayed her so deeply.
But worse, she’d betrayed herself.
Or, at least, the self she thought she’d been.
Why was this so right? How could his commanding hands and insistent tongue be tracing her teeth and triggering a wellspring of passion and unrequited emotion? The man she’d wanted didn’t exist. The man she’d needed was someone entirely different. The man touching and teasing and caressing her was the one she craved.
And yet none of those men was the one who had made her start to feel whole again.
“Ahem,” said a voice, that kind of fake throat-clearing that people do when they’re too socially awkward to tell you you’re being an asshole. Or too polite.
Jeremy.
Oh, God—Jeremy! Wedging her hands between her own breasts and Mike’s sculpted chest, his skin so hot underneath the cotton of his shirts, her wrists burned as she pushed as hard as she could, their lips tearing apart, his footing strong even as she shoved with all her might, and her own back swayed with the torque of her push.
“No!” she gasped, catching herself, seeing Jeremy standing there, arm
s crossed over his chest, face a mask of barely suppressed rage.
“That’s not what your mouth just said, Lydia,” Mike said, completely ignoring Jeremy, who put a palm over his mouth and moved his fingers over the scruff of his unshaven face, tongue firmly inserted between his cheek and gum.
“But that’s what she just said,” Jeremy added forcefully, taking an aggressive step forward. He looked like he did the night he had punched Siggi: on alert, uncertain, but ready to act.
“I meant—it’s fine.” She sighed, taking the lead by inserting herself between them. “It’s not…I don’t know what this all is. The two of you confuse me deeply.”
“We have that effect on women sometimes,” Jeremy said, sharing a look with Mike.
“What the fuck does that mean?” she asked.
Bzzz.
Of all the times. Really? Snatching her phone from her front pocket, she checked the screen. Mom.
Get over here. She’s improving dramatically.
And that was it. Sandy’s terseness had an unspoken message: Stop fucking around. Literally.
Oh, Mom. If only you knew.
Jeremy held his hands up in a gentlemanly gesture toward Mike, as if deferring. “Why don’t you explain, Mike, given your need to converse with Lydia. Just use your tongue to talk this time.”
“Can we do this on the way to the car?” Impatience settled in where arousal had just fled. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Lydia had to push aside everything—her wonder at seeing Mike, how good he looked, how different he looked, the fact that he’d interrupted her and Jeremy after having sex, the fact that her mom now knew she and Jeremy had slipped off for sex—sex, sex, sex.
When had she become this Lydia?
And which Lydia was she, really?
Two sets of eyes looked expectantly at her, the pressure of being the decision maker the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“I do not have time for this. My grandmother is in the hospital, my mother’s texting me, you walked in on us having sex,” she said, preternatural calm taking over, her body infused with a surreal numbness as she looked at Mike, her eyes telescoping with focus, his features so sharp he might as well have been pixelated by a computer animator. “And having you waltz back into my life after so many layers of dysfunction and shock is so arrogant, so breathtakingly pretentious that I don’t even know where to start.”
