by Meg Maguire
“Noted.”
“—you’d probably feel the same way about me the next day.”
“And as a stereotypical woman you’d find that infuriating.”
“Likely. Hence the restraining order.”
Mercer crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “You’re right. You’d definitely feel different about me the next day. I’m even better at sex than I am at kissing.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Sorry. I’ll quit it.” He paused a moment before going on. “And I’m with you, incidentally. I think us messing around is a lousy idea, too. It’s just fun winding you up.”
Though she forced herself to nod and say, “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Jenna felt a pang to hear Mercer agree. She knew in her head that made no sense, but a tiny, illogical part of her couldn’t help but think, How can it be terrible, when it feels so wonderful?
They ate on the couch, the empty cushion between them taunting. So far, yet so close. Jenna found a news special on TV covering a very bloody civil war. If that couldn’t kill the restlessness warming her body, nothing would. Sadly, she caught herself glancing Mercer’s way every minute or two, remembering everything that had happened on that end of the couch, twenty-four hours earlier. Clearly, her attraction was more potent than violent overseas unrest.
Mercer had gone quiet, and stayed that way through the meal. He was rattled, and from what, she couldn’t be sure. By her fessing up to the fact that there was no such thing as strings-free sex to her? Surely that would give a man like Mercer much-needed pause. Or perhaps from the simple fact that his entire life had been turned upside down in the past four days. By her. Also a distinct possibility, and an ugly one. Guilt soured Jenna’s stomach.
When dinner was done Mercer took her plate, and Jenna honored their restraining order and let him do the dishes alone. Though she did steal a couple glances at his shoulders as he worked, those swells of muscle highlighted by the kitchen’s overhead bulbs. Oops.
She changed into lounge pants and a T-shirt and cardigan and got cozy on her end of the couch. There was a pre-grand-opening client recruitment party to organize for mid-September, and now was the perfect time to fill her head with lists. Get her mind off the man sharing her home.
When Mercer finished cleaning the kitchen, he eyed her for a moment before announcing, “I’m gonna head downstairs for a little while.”
“If I don’t see you before I go to bed, good night.”
He nodded, filled a water bottle from the sink and left, dead bolt snapping behind him. Jenna released a held breath.
She should have gone to bed at ten. By eleven, surely. Yet when quarter to midnight rolled around, she was still watching TV, barely taking in the program. She wasn’t preoccupied by party to-dos, either. Her list was exactly one item long. Hire assistant. No, it was still Mercer, keeping her distracted, her feelings for him pacing low in her belly, a restless, reckless awareness.
But at twelve-thirty, curiosity became concern. Mercer’s “little while” was now pushing three hours, and the gym was long closed for the night.
She grabbed her keys, slid into flip-flops and went down to the first floor. The office was dark, but the stairs to the gym were lit.
She heard Mercer before she saw him, the thump of his fist and the hiss of his sharp breaths. The space felt huge in the darkness, its smell mysterious, heady and foreign as a jungle.
Only the lights illuminating the row of heavy bags along one wall were switched on. Mercer was dressed in shorts, barefoot and shirtless, gloves on his hands. The bulbs cast him in harsh, dramatic shadows, his shoulders shining with sweat. The bag was suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain, and it jangled with every kick and punch, every knee and elbow he whacked it with. He danced from foot to foot, lost in his own world, in his imaginary battle.
Jenna’s legs went wobbly, heat pooling in traitorous places. This man didn’t waste any of the physical gifts humans were born with, every muscle honed and disciplined and punished, day after day, until he made violence look like art. That this workout was likely inspired by the angst she’d roused in him dampened her pleasure.
After another minute’s assault, Mercer paused to grab a bottle of water from the mat beside him. Jenna approached.
When he set the bottle down, she caught his eye and he started. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on me when I’m wearing these.” He held up his gloved hands.
“Sorry. What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?”
“If I had to guess, you’re working off how annoyed you must be at me.”
He blinked, looking more startled than when he’d spotted her.
“We can talk about it, if you want. But maybe this is how you prefer to—”
“I’m not angry at you.” He looked troubled. “I’m definitely not down here wailing on something because I wish I could wail on you.”
“No, I didn’t think that.”
“I’m trying to wear myself out.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Three times he opened his mouth, poised to say something, only to close it again.
“What?”
He shook his head. “It’ll sound like flirting and you’ll chew me out again, so forget it.”
“No, what?”
He huffed a breath through his nose. “I’m down here wearing myself out, so the second I put my head on the pillow I’ll be unconscious. ’Cause if I don’t, my brain’s gonna be full of thoughts that probably violate some mental restraining order you didn’t tell me about.”
Jenna’s turn to start. For a split second her mind supplied a vision of such a thing, of Mercer succumbing to fantasies about whatever inappropriate things he felt she was denying them. She shoved the image away. His body was dangerous and distracting enough, here in reality. No good could come of hypothesizing about the few bits of him she’d yet to lay her eyes—or hands—on.
With a huff, Mercer sat cross-legged on the mat. He ripped the Velcro straps from his wrists and tugged off his gloves. His hands were wrapped in white tape, and he ran them over his head, blowing out a heavy breath.
Jenna sat a few paces away, hugging her knees.
“Maybe I should just move out now,” Mercer said.
“To where?”
“I dunno. Sublet somewhere, cash in a favor and crash on somebody’s couch till I find a place I can afford. It was nice of you to let me stay, but that was before we knew we’re...”
“Allergic to each other?” It earned her a grudging smile.
“I know you think this is simple for me,” he said. “Like I think sex is as incidental as a movie we might watch together. I wish it was. But you’re my mentor’s daughter. And the woman who turned up here prepared to end my life as I know it.”
Unsure what to say to that, she kept her mouth shut.
“I dunno what the hell to make of you, Jenna. My body has plans for yours—plans I can usually take or leave, because sex doesn’t come first for me, believe it or not. My responsibilities do, and you’re the worst possible woman I could let myself get distracted by.”
“I’m sure.” She was spacey, lost in what he’d said about his body having plans for hers. She felt strangely honored to be singled out, maybe targeted, curious beyond belief.
“What I joked with you about in the kitchen was bullshit. This isn’t simple to me at all.”
Not sure how to process what he was telling her, she looked to his legs, to the red smear streaked along one shin. “You’re bleeding.”
He glanced down. “Oh, right. I’ve got no feeling left there anymore. No decent kickboxer does.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met. Why don’t you come upstairs and get cleaned up?”
A monstrous sigh. “Yeah, fine. I can barely move now, so my work here’s probably done.”
Jenna stood and offered him a hand. He clasped it in his wrapped one and she helped haul him to his feet. T
he cotton tape felt exotic against her palm, his hand big and scarred and fascinating as always. Allergic indeed.
She was ready to take her hand back, but he held it in his grip, his eyes on hers. “Why’d you come down here, anyway?”
“To see if you were okay.”
“I really seemed like that much of a mess?”
She nodded.
“Better work on my game face.”
He dropped his gaze and her hand, then wandered to grab his water bottle and shirt, slipped flip-flops on his feet. She tried and failed to keep her eyes off his bare chest and stomach and arms, that body looking as reckless as the urges it inspired in her. But they were in firm agreement on one fact—hooking up was a terrible idea. It nearly disappointed her. If Mercer had kept that door open on his end, she just might have let herself be yanked inside.
He hit the lights and locked up, and they trudged up the two flights and down the hall to the apartment.
She shut the door behind them and it felt as if something ought to be said. An apology tendered, or even a joke to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
“That’s a really nerdy sweater,” Mercer said.
She laughed, relieved by his levity but pretending offense. She looked down at her argyle cardigan. “It’s librarian chic.”
Neither spoke for a moment, though she knew he was struggling for the next quip, same as her. Words came, but not ones she’d expected.
“I don’t want you to move out. I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you have to move out sooner than we’d discussed.”
“It might make everything simpler.”
“It might. But I’m already turning your life upside down by even being here. You’re acting a lot more civil about us coexisting than most people would, knowing what could happen come January. If letting you live here makes the transition easier, it’s the least I can do.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
She sighed, staring at their feet, if only to keep her eyes off the more arousing bits of Mercer. Even with her gaze preoccupied, his scent was all around her, heady and exciting, as thrilling as a physical touch.
“This is going to be complicated, no matter what we do,” he murmured. “No matter if I stay or go, or whatever rules we invent to keep from sexually assaulting each other, or how hard we try to rationalize everything.”
She nodded.
“So it can’t actually get much worse.”
“Not that I can foresee,” she said.
“Right.”
She sensed it as he stood a little straighter, and she raised her chin to scan his face. He still looked beat, but there was a glimmer of resolution. He’d made peace with their situation.
“I’m gonna kiss you now.”
She started. “Excuse me?”
“Things between us can’t get any worse, so I’m gonna go ahead and make a move on you. Only way I’ll be able to get any sleep tonight.”
“Don’t do that.” Do it. Do it.
He put his wrapped hand to her jaw, leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. He kept it slow to start, giving Jenna a chance to protest, a chance to cling to her charade of propriety.
No way in hell.
She kissed him back, tasting salt on his lips—the flavor of a man who’d spent the past few hours trying to beat the desire out of his body. Desire for her. His tongue brushed hers and she grabbed his arm, thrilling anew at its hardness, its size. He kissed her until soft moans hummed from his throat, until he’d backed her against the door and her palms had slid south, from his chest to his stomach to his hips. Next and final stop—Bad Decisionville.
He broke away, taking a step back. The look in his eyes was wild and his tongue traced the corner of his lips. He began unwinding the tape from his hands, exciting as a striptease. Jenna held her breath until he spoke.
“I’m gonna take a shower. That gives you ten minutes to change your mind about where this is heading. If you come to your senses, shut your bedroom door. If you’re as stupid as me, leave it open, and we’ll find out what the hell else is supposed to happen between us.”
6
JENNA WAS FROZEN, dumbfounded as she watched Mercer turn the corner to the bathroom. Ten minutes? Ten minutes wasn’t nearly enough time to decide what to do.
Then again, ten minutes was plenty of time to change into cuter underwear, and wasn’t that her answer, right there?
She jogged to her room and flung her suitcase open, rifling for anything that matched, preferably involving lace. Quick as a pit crew, she stripped and changed into her best bra and boy shorts, found a black camisole and yanked her pj’s back up her legs. It’d be dumb to pretend this was any kind of smooth seduction, so she didn’t bother wishing for candles, for a chance to freshen her makeup. All they needed was a bed.
Actually, all they probably needed was a floor.
Oh crap, and condoms—which she didn’t have.
Maybe that was for the best. She wasn’t going to follow the Spark guidelines for how far and how fast to go with a man, but she didn’t need to go all the way before even making it to date number one.
The water running in the bathroom shut off and panic—exciting and pleasurable panic—gripped her. She lowered the dimmer and sat on her bed, heart in her throat, until she heard the bathroom door open. Footsteps, then silence, more footsteps and the kitchen went dark.
Footsteps, and Mercer was in the threshold in a T-shirt and boxers. He looked her in the eye. “This door get blown open?”
“No. I guess I left it open.”
“Guess you did.” And that was all anyone said for a little while.
She’d been afraid it would be awkward now, with intention behind whatever was coming, instead of those earlier mutual, spontaneous lapses in good sense. But it wasn’t awkward. It was mindless and fast, wholly instinctual.
He was on her in seconds, pushing her onto her back, his weight feeling sinful against her hips as he braced himself above her. She welcomed his kiss, deep and aggressive and everything Mercer, as primal as a man ought to be. He lit her up like no one ever had, on a pure and animal level, a connection no measure of logic could predict.
He got his knees between hers and she swept her palms down his body, filled her lungs with the smell of his soap, felt the beads of water still clinging to his bare arms. Between her legs she could feel him, stiff and ready. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had boundaries to establish. She commanded her mouth to find a purpose outside of tasting his, and tore her lips away.
“How far are we going?”
“Won’t know till we get there.”
“I haven’t got any condoms.” She gasped, unsure how she’d gone from lying on her back to being held to his chest, legs wrapped around his waist. He stood and carried her out of the room and past the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Faster than bringing the condoms to you.” He pushed the door to his dark room open with his shoulder and set her on his bed. It felt sexy, sitting there, smelling him everywhere in this private space. Still, Jenna wasn’t sure how comfortable she actually wanted to get.
As he rooted through a dresser drawer, she said, “I wasn’t upset about not having condoms.”
He turned to her, streetlight glinting off the shiny plastic square in his hand. “Oh?”
“Give it to me.”
He crossed to the bed and handed it over. Jenna tucked it beneath a pillow. “I’m in charge of when that thing gets used. If it gets used.”
“The woman always is.”
“Good.”
“Where were we?”
In a breath they were on their sides, legs tangling, hands exploring. The kissing grew shallow and their breathing heavy. Everything about him was sexy. His wet hair, the firmness of his shoulders and his chest, the heat of his skin. Memories flashed through her head, of watching him in the gym not even an hour before. He could do extraordinary things to an opponent with that deadly body. What on earth could he do to her?
She sighed as Mercer cupped her breast and edged his body lower, kissing her collarbone as he fondled her. She shifted her legs, welcoming the taunting brush of his erection against her thigh. She tugged the front of his shirt up a few inches and stroked her palm over his bare, hard stomach, fingertips brushing his waistband and the soft hair hiding just behind it.
“Jenna.”
There was a rasp to his voice, the same gruffness she imagined might possess him as he stepped into a ring. Damn, she was objectifying him again. But she’d never moved this fast with a guy before, and he was the perfect man—the perfect body—to be reckless with. Whatever they had, it was bigger than either of them.
Charged with lust, she tugged until he peeled his shirt away. With a coaxing push, he rolled onto his back. Jenna slung a leg over his waist to straddle him. She couldn’t get close enough to this man.
He swore, hands flying to her hips to hold their bodies tight, center to center. She pulled her camisole up and off. They were bathed in yellowy streetlight, harsh and gritty and urban, just like the man beneath her. The honk of a car horn, the screech of brakes, the quarreling of strangers below on the sidewalk...bring it on. Whatever happened, she wanted the quintessential Boston experience, as brash and unapologetic as this fling.
Mercer’s hands slid up her belly to her breasts, kneading as she undulated her hips, torturing them both with the friction through her damnable pajama bottoms.
“Let your hair down,” he said.
She tugged the elastic from her ponytail.
“Jesus, you’re sexy.”
And you’re extraordinary, she wanted to tell him, as she memorized every exceptional, intimidating contour of his bare body. She missed his hand wraps, even fantasized what those padded gym mats would feel like under her back... There she went again, with the fetish she hadn’t even known she had.
“Take those frigging pants off, for the love of Christ.” He tugged at the drawstring and she rolled to the side, both of them fighting to be the one to strip them away. No man had ever made her feel this wanted before, as if he couldn’t control himself, nor had any man made her feel the same in return. A need this fierce and primal.
