by Lola Darling
“Gee, thanks.” I laugh.
“No, it looks good on you!” she protests, before stopping dead, her cheeks reddening. “I mean. It suits your face, is all. Very proportionate.”
“You’re quite proportionate yourself, Chloe,” I reply, leaning across the table toward her. She does the blushing thing again, and I can see, now that I’m a little closer, that her breath hitches in her chest. Her lips part, faintly, and then I realize I’m staring at her lips, and I force myself to meet her eyes again, except she’s looking at my mouth instead.
“Are you done?” she asks suddenly, reaching between us to grab my empty plate. “I’ll take these inside.”
Before I can say anything, she springs out of her seat, plates in hand. As she sashays into the house, I stare after her, unable to tear my gaze from her ass, the way her long legs unfold, and her hips sway enticingly with every step she takes. I want to run my hands over her, trace every inch of her unbelievable body, memorize her the way I’d study a case file. Until I memorize her body, backwards and forwards. Until I can feel her on my fingertips without even touching her.
I close my eyes for a minute, squeeze them tight. Pull it together, man. We went down this road once already today. She freaked the fuck out. I need to keep my baser urges under control, especially now.
I pour us both a second glass of wine, and I make sure it’s a healthy, generous pour.
It’s fine. Ignoring our attraction worked for most of the day. It will work for another day and a half. Then we’ll be out of this place, back to the city, back to the daily grind of work, and we can both forget this trip ever happened.
Fifteen
Chloe
Shit. On top of everything else, does Max freaking Davis have to be so goddamn easy to talk to? I forgot myself back there at dinner. Let myself treat him like I would any other extremely attractive man who started to open up to me about his life, the overworked feelings, the daydreaming about vacations he’d like to take, escapes he’d like to go on. His family history…
But Max isn’t just some hot guy who I feel more and more close to the more I talk to him. Max is the asshole I freaking hated at the office up until we were shoved together to work on this stupid project in the first place. Max is the office manwhore, and I need to not let myself fall in line to become his next one-night stand.
Besides, in all my years working for this company, I have never once broken the no-fraternizing clause in our contracts. I don’t intend to start now. Not with so much on the line—this case, the publicity that will come along with it. A chance at being considered next for partner.
I need to keep my head in the game, now more than ever. That means not thinking about the way Max’s green eyes lit up when they caught mine at the dinner table, or the way his cheeks dimple when he laughs, or how carefree and contagious that laughter sounds.
And then, of course, there’s his body. His very muscular, very lean, very sexy body.
His huge cock, my animal brain adds. And the fact that he might have been thinking about you in that bathroom, when he was jacking off earlier.
Probably not. It was probably just the stupid Suzie Steel videos with all the gym-buff babes he’s into that got him all hot and bothered. Or so I keep telling myself.
Part of me already knows I’m lying. But it’s not like a guy like Max would be looking for anything more than a quick fuck, so why do I care?
Why the hell are you even thinking about something more? asks animal brain. Can’t we settle for just fucking him?
But the truth is, I don’t really want to settle for that. Not anymore. I mean, not like I’m looking for something ultra-serious, but I also don’t want to just hook up, either. So Max is absolutely the wrong guy to be daydreaming about.
For a million reasons.
And yet.
As I walk back through the house, having loaded all of our cookware into the dishwasher, and having no other excuse to leave him out on the balcony alone anymore, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Fantasizing about me and him and that balcony furniture. The table looked pretty sturdy … or there’s our beds upstairs, both of which are plenty large enough to roll around in…
Gah. Clearly seeing him in the bathroom earlier triggered the same need in me. Can women get blue balls? I think I’m feeling the pinch right now, if so.
I step out onto the balcony and force an easy smile in his direction. Oh good. He’s refilled the wine glasses, too. With very large pours.
Smart man.
I scoop mine up before I even finish taking a seat. “Here’s to hoping you take that trip someday,” I say. We both drink, and somehow our eyes won’t unlock from one another’s. His bore into me, so penetrating I can almost feel his gaze, as if he were touching me.
Fuck, I wish he were touching me.
“You never answered my question earlier,” he says, as we set our glasses down. “Where would you go?”
I smile, just a little bit, still watching him. Watching those piercing green eyes. “I don’t know. There’s a ton of places I want to see. I never know how to decide. So then I end up going to none of them.” I grimace.
“Well, list a few places you want to visit, then.” His smile is easy, compelling. It makes me want to tell him the answer to anything he asks me.
Your pants, I think. Out loud, I reply, “All the European highlights. You know. Paris, London, Rome, Berlin. I studied abroad in Madrid in college, but I never really traveled around. I regret that.”
“Too busy with coursework?” He lifts an eyebrow, sarcastic.
“Guess some people never change,” I say as I nod. “Once a workaholic, always a workaholic.”
“Okay, so European highlight tour. Where else would you go?”
“Thailand.”
“That’s interesting. Why there?”
“I saw a travel video about it one time. With my mom. She always wanted to go, used to talk about taking me with her, before…” I bite my lip.
His hand slides across the table to catch mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t need to ask what happened. I’m sure that’s obvious from my facial expression right now.
I shake my head. “It’s fine. It’s been years.” Seven, in fact, since my mom passed away.
Wow. Time flies when you aren’t paying attention.
I swallow hard, to control the little lump that rises in my throat every time I think too long about her. “Anyway. I guess I want to visit for her. To make up for not getting there with her.”
“Sounds like that should really be the top of your list,” he says, his voice lower now, concerned.
He’s still holding my hand. I don’t want him to let go.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Book a trip.” He tugs on one of my fingers. My pinkie. He unfolds it, and wraps his pinkie around mine, his skin warm as the sun on mine. “Come on. Pinkie swear. As soon as this case is finished, you’ll book a flight to Thailand. Agreed?”
In spite of myself, I grin back at him. It’s impossible to look at Max’s smile and not grin yourself. I clench my pinkie finger around his. “Agreed. One flight to Thailand, coming right up. Soon as we finish this job.”
“Good. Now that’s settled.” He winks.
“But,” I add, clenching my pinkie again before he can pull away. “You need to make a promise too.”
He catches my eye. Gazes into my own, straight past my eyes and into my heart. “Anything,” he says, and I swear he must be able to hear my heart pounding in my chest.
My throat contracts, but I force it open again to reply. “Go to Italy. If I’m going to Thailand, you need to take your trip too.”
He laughs, softly. “Deal.”
“And bring your mom,” I add, lifting my other hand to wag my finger at him.
He catches that hand in his too, so both of our hands are wrapped around one another’s, and he’s so casually strong that I feel safe just like this, just having his hands on mine and knowing he’s here, beside
me, for whatever I need.
Anything, he said. He’d do anything I asked.
“I can do that,” he’s saying, but I hardly even hear the words. I can’t tear my eyes from his mouth.
Suddenly, his hands are lifting mine, drawing my arms up in the air, lifting me from the chair, because we’re both standing up, and he’s stepping around the table, there’s nothing between us anymore but air, and not even a lot of that.
Then he lets go of my hands, and I gasp for a second, only a second, though, because he only let go to pull me into his arms. I wrap mine around his neck, and it’s twilight now, dark enough that I can only see his eyes, his face, not the forest or the fields around us.
For a breath, we hang there like the lights twinkling around us, frozen, our lips inches apart, his head bent down to mine, our chests pressed against each other, rising and falling with every breath we take. Then I can’t stand it anymore, and I push myself up on tiptoe to press my lips to his.
That’s all it takes to crack him. Max tightens his strong arms around me, crushes me to his chest, lifting me half an inch from the deck as he kisses me back, hard. The day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks scratches my palm as I run my hand over his chiseled cheekbone, then bury both of my hands in his hair. I lift one leg around his waist, as he spins us both around to press my back against the side of the house. I’m pinned between him and the wall, the hard press of his cock digging into my stomach, as huge as he looked earlier, and every inch as eager.
His hands are all over me—my hips, my ass, my neck, my hair. He clenches one fist in my hair and pulls me deeper into the kiss, our lips parting as we devour each other, tongues entwined, both our hips rocking. His cock pulses against my stomach, and I twist around to press my clit against that bulge, gasping at the sensations that rush over me. He smells salty and savory and sexy as fuck all at once.
He sucks my lip into his mouth, grazes his teeth along my lower lip as his other hand slides up my waist to grip my breast through my shirt. He runs his thumb over my nipple, so hard it’s visible through my bra, and I groan into his kiss, a shiver of want running through my entire body. His hands trace along my back, down my sides, settling at the small of my back to pull me harder against him.
I want him to take me, right here, right now, in the open against the side of the house. My hands are already moving down his muscular back, along his sides, reaching for the hem of his jeans, when I realize what I’m doing.
Who I’m thinking about doing.
I drop my leg from his waist and pull away from our kiss, even as a moan of frustration escapes me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low and deep. The dark has settled more firmly around us—I can hardly see the table or the wine glasses now. I can’t make out the expression on his face, either, or what’s in his eyes as they fix on mine.
“I … I’m sorry, I just…”
He eases me to the ground, releases his grip on me, though he doesn’t step away from me, or take his hands from my sides. Not yet. “Don’t apologize,” he says, but I’m already forcing myself to turn away, pull out of his arms, even though it’s the last thing I want to do.
“I can’t do this. I—.” I flee into the house before I have time to second-guess myself. Inside, I pick up my pace, until I’m practically running up the stairs. I don’t stop until I’m locked in my room, the bathroom door locked too.
I fling myself face-first onto the bed, stuffing one of the pillows over my mouth as I scream into it with frustration.
All I can taste is him. All I can smell is him, on my skin, on my clothes. All I can see, when I close my eyes, are his eyes above me, his stark profile as he leans in to kiss me, hard. All I can feel is the hard press of his cock at my stomach, his hips arching into mine, wanting the same thing I do.
With the pillow still pressed against my mouth, I drop my hand to my jeans. Slide my fingers beneath them, pushing beneath my panties and lower until I reach my opening.
I’m soaking wet, just from the thought of him. Fuck.
I let myself fall into the fantasy. Pretend I hadn’t run away from him. Pretend he kept kissing me, devouring me, his mouth on my neck, my chest, my breasts, sucking and letting his teeth graze against my nipple the way he bit at my lip.
Pretend he kept me pressed against that wall, pinned against it, helpless, and I had both legs wrapped around him as he pulled my jeans and his down. Imagine that hard, long, thick cock of his toying with my clit, him pressing the tip against me hard until I gasped, and then running his length along my slit, soaking himself in my slick heat.
I trace my finger across my lips the way I wish he’d run his cock, back and forth, slow, until my finger is soaked. Then I press slowly into myself, imagining it’s him instead, imagining how that thick head of his would stretch my walls, make me feel so full I’d have to gasp for breath.
I imagine him thrusting hard into me, the wall digging into my back as he fucks me, our hips crashing together every time he pulls out and thrusts back in. I let a stifled moan escape into the pillow as my fingers thrust deep, and my thumb presses my clit, pressing until it throws me over the edge. I bite my lip and suppress the urge to cry out, keeping as quiet as I can as the orgasm rocks through my body, making my pussy clench and spasm.
For a moment afterwards I just lie there, face still buried in the pillow, panting, Relief pouring from me, but it’s still not enough. It doesn’t even come close to comparing to the real thing.
I want to fuck Max Davis. And no amount of getting myself off is going to change that fact.
Shit.
Sixteen
Max
That night I dream about her. Repeatedly. The first one is us on a beach in Thailand, curled up in a hammock that’s swaying in a cool evening breeze. There’s no one else around for miles. It’s sunset, and she’s lying beside me, her cool, smooth skin pressed against mine, wearing a tiny excuse for a bikini. I wrap her in my arms, the same way I did on the balcony tonight, pull her on top of me, and brace myself with one foot on the sand as I finger the crotch of her bikini, teasing until she moans and grinds against my hand, seeking more friction. I yank it aside and lift her onto my rock hard cock.
God, she so fucking wet, feels so fucking tight around me…
But all too quickly that dream fades, and now I’m standing with her in the hallway of a grocery store, both of us fully clothed, and I want to bend her over the stupid display of paper towels and fuck her right there, except I can’t, and why are we in a grocery store anyway?
The dream shifts again, and we’re both in one of Suzie’s work out videos, except whenever Suzie tells us to “rub it in,” I stand behind Chloe, wrap my arms around her hips, shove my hand down the front of her snug workout shorts, and circle my finger against the hard little nub of her clit. She moans in my ear, the same way she moaned earlier when we kissed, with a sexy little gasp in her voice that drives me crazy, makes me want to make her come again and again and again just so I can hear what she sounds like when she gives herself over, gives up control and lets an orgasm rule her body.
I wake up tangled in my sheets, covered in sweat … and sticky.
Fuck. I haven’t done that since I was a teenager.
To make matters worse, the door to the bathroom is shut, and I can hear the shower running inside, and all I can picture is Chloe, naked, the water cascading over her bare body, the way her nipples would stand at attention, her full breasts soapy and begging to be licked and sucked until she’s moaning my name. My name.
Fucking hell. I’m hard as a rock. I cast another glance at the door separating me from her. I wrap my fist around my cock as I picture flinging it open, pushing her against that shower wall. I’d lift her up by that tight, perky ass, her long legs wrapped around my waist as I thrust into her.
It doesn’t take me long to come, with the mental image of her naked tits bouncing with every thrust of my hips, my balls slapping against her … “Fuck,” I groan as I pain
t my stomach and abs with my release.
Maybe that will help relieve some of the tension this morning, since she and I have a breakfast conference call with Suzie to update her on our progress.
Somehow, though, I doubt it will help. So far nothing has managed to get her off my mind. She’s wedged in there too deep, and it doesn’t help that every time I see her, she seems to have gotten more irresistible since the last time we spoke. Or maybe I’ve just started noticing. Like the way she sucks her lower lip between her teeth and worries at it when she’s trying to concentrate. Or the way she throws her head back when she’s laughing—really laughing. Every now and then I’ll get that reaction from her to some stupid joke I make, and it feels so good to watch her let go for a second. She doesn’t do that enough.
I could really help her let go, if she’d let me.
How did we get to this point? Just a few weeks ago, the only things I knew about Chloe MacIntyre were that she’s a talented litigator, and that she had nothing but utter disdain for me.
I pull on jeans and a T-shirt—I’ve given up standing on pretense, with nobody here but Chloe to see. When I clomp downstairs for breakfast, I notice that she’s taken the same approach. The yoga pants and tank top she’s wearing are the most casual thing I’ve seen Chloe wear in … well, ever.
Somehow she looks even sexier dressed down than she does in her suits and pressed blouses.
I swallow hard as I take a seat across from her at the dining room table.
“Cereal?” She offers the box she’s just poured into a bowl—Wheaties.
I shake my head. “Not really a breakfast kind of guy,” I say.
She clucks her tongue. “It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.” Then she grabs another bowl and starts to pour me a bowl, despite my protest. “You provided for us last night,” she says with a small smile. “My turn to make a meal.”
Who can say no to that?
I dig my spoon into the cereal and take a bite, mostly to placate her. I am rewarded with that broad smile of hers, though, her perfect lips parting over her pearly whites so happily that it’s worth suffering through this bowl of wheat germ. Seriously, does anyone think these taste good?
