Pucker Up: (Kiss Talent Agency Series, Book Four)

by Virna DePaul

  “So we definitely learned you like nipple clamps.”

  I bite down on his finger and he laughs then gently spanks my ass.

  “What a surprise you are,” he mutters to himself.

  He sounds sleepy, and we both shift to our sides so that he’s spooning me.

  Almost immediately, I start to do what I hadn’t been able to focus on doing before.

  I start worrying. About what just happened. And why it just happened.

  After all these years, what had prompted Lee to come storming in my apartment, my bathroom, and step inside the tub with me?

  “Lee?”

  “Hmm,” he grumbles sleepily into the nape of my neck.

  “Lee, hey, you had wine tonight, right?” I ask. “On your date?”

  “Course.”

  That was it. An explanation that made more sense than thinking Lee had always wanted me, maybe even loved me, and hadn’t been able to hold back any longer.

  “You shared a bottle?” I asked.

  “A very nice vintage Chablis from France.” He pulls me in tighter, like a sleepy child with a teddy bear. “Very pretentious. Very expensive.”

  So half a bottle of wine. At least.

  “And she didn’t even like it,” he complains. “You would have liked it, Jenna.”

  Right. If she didn’t finish the bottle, he certainly did.

  So fine. He’d been drunk, which explains why he’d come here and fucked me.

  Mystery solved, I think to myself.

  In the morning we’ll laugh about this, drink a cup of coffee with red cheeks, avoiding each other’s eyes, and go right back to the way things were. He’ll tell me he was drunk. That he’s sorry. And I’ll insist it’s fine.

  But until then I allow myself to enjoy the protective embrace of his arms around me. I pretend like this is real, that this is the fulfillment of everything that I’ve ever wanted in life.

  I allow myself to believe he is really mine.

  Chapter 8

  Lee

  * * *

  I wake up to vanilla-scented hair tickling my nose. Jenna lays on her side, facing away from me in her bed. I'm surprised to see myself cuddled up next to her, when there's plenty of space on the mattress behind me to spread out. But her skin is so soft, so warm.

  I had sex with Jenna.

  Jenna.

  Jenna, whose pigtails I’d tugged on the playground. Jenna, who Bryce and I had locked out of the tree house. Jenna, who’d locked me out when she decided to make her own tree house. Jenna, who was so smart and independent and driven. Jenna, who was so untouchable.

  And here I was, finally touching her.

  I’d done more than touch her. I’d fucked her. Hard.

  She’d loved it just as much as I had.

  But what was going to happen now?

  Was what we’d done a one-night thing, or would she want more?

  Would she want to keep things casual or would she be open to seeing where things went?

  Would she give us a chance to see if she could develop feelings for me?

  Because I wanted it all. Not just her body but her heart too. I’ve wanted them for a long time. And maybe it was time I told her that. Put myself out there. Stopped being so fucking scared that she didn’t reciprocate my feelings and give her the chance to decide whether we could be more.

  Her brother Bryce wasn’t a factor. Hell, he’d pretty much told me at her birthday dinner he was okay with me finally taking my shot with her. So no more fucking excuses.

  When Jenna wakes up, we’ll talk.

  And in the meantime…

  I stifle a groan.

  With everything that had happened with Jenna, I’d managed to block out the fact some anonymous blogger had thrown down and, in doing so, had possibly fucked things up for me with the potential investors for a new restaurant. They’d emailed me and texted me and blown up my phone yesterday, as had my agent Owen Kiss, who was probably wondering why the hell he’d taken me on as client in the first place, but I’d wanted to talk to Jenna about my legal options before I dealt with them.

  I need to at least touch base, though.

  I start to reach for my phone on the bedside table, until I remember my phone isn't there. My phone is in the pocket of my pants. The pants I soaked in bathwater.

  Jenna's laptop is on the floor next to the bed. I figure she won't mind me using it, since she’s let me use it before. The mattress creaks when I lean over, and I pause to make sure Jenna doesn't wake up. Her breathing remains the same, so I snatch up the laptop and wiggle up against the pillows.

  Flipping the screen up, I move the cursor and am about to open a new tab when I see the food blog. Maybe Jenna was reading it over again for a laugh. But no… It’s different. It's not the published blog. Everything looks like it could be editable. And there's administrator privileges, which means ...

  I gawk at the tangle of hair sprawled out on the pillow next to me. Jenna sighs in her sleep.

  What the fuck?

  Jenna is the anonymous food critic who tore me a new one?

  Anger bubbles up inside me as I look from the screen to Jenna and back again, trying to add it all up. How could she do this to me? She made me a laughing stock. She opened me up to a wave of criticism and placed a spotlight on my personal life.

  She did all that with just the click of a button.

  My heart starts to pound, and my chest gets tight. A vein in my neck is pulsing and throbbing.

  I just don't get it. She’s so damn smart. She must have known all the embarrassment it would bring to me and my life's work. Had she been trying to hurt me?

  Should I shake her awake and confront her with the damning evidence? Should I just leave? Should I yell and ignore whatever lame excuse she tries to dish out? What would I say?

  Perhaps a bit of biting humor to start out with?

  Well, I guess we both got to fuck and get fucked, Jenna. Is that what you wanted?

  How could I make her feel the most terrible? The sad angle?

  I thought we were friends, Jenna. They always say the ones you love cut the deepest.

  The silent treatment? Maybe I won't say anything at all. Or I'll just shake my head. The 'I'm so mad I can't even speak' approach?

  I… I mean… Just what… I can't…

  The vengeful take?

  Maybe the world wants to know who this anonymous food critic phenom is, huh, Jenna?

  I'm brimming with anger and hurt and, yes, still a boner, because she just turned in her sleep and the covers just slipped from her chest and her tits are so delicious.

  I’m just about to confront her when I spot a saved draft on the menu bar. Curiosity, as well as the excuse to stare at her naked skin one more minute before laying into her, wins over. I'll just check out this draft really quick. After I read it, I'll paint a mental picture of her hair falling against the fullness of her breast to jack off to later.

  And then I'll bring the wrath of the gods down upon her like I'm Zeus flinging lightning bolts. With the youth and body of Achilles, of course. Basically, that actor Brad but better.

  I click on the little icon and a Word document pops up, filled with red zig-zags highlighting spelling errors. I listen to Jenna's even, peaceful breathing for a second, then start to read.

  This draft is also about me, my food, my life. It includes those vivid descriptions of my body. It also stings.

  But it’s much more personal. It's clearly written by someone who knows me closely. Someone who cares. Jenna wrote that she believes I can be so much more. It's harsh and critical, but behind it is a supreme hope for me and my potential.

  I’m an acclaimed chef. I'm used to flattery and praise and nonstop ooh-ing and aww-ing. I’m not used to having people push me. But Jenna sees not just who I am, but who I could be. And as I read, I realize that's who I want to be.

  I return to the original food blog page and close the screen and place the laptop back on the floor, adjusting it a little bit to
get it in the exact spot. I slide back under the covers and pull her into me.

  She cares for me, I think sleepily. I didn’t imagine the love I saw in her eyes before. Because the only explanation for what Jenna wrote, given the timing of what she wrote, is that she was jealous of Sonya. Just like I’d been jealous of William. Only neither of us had been willing to admit it. Neither of us had been willing to put ourselves out there and tell the other how we really felt.

  I’m ready now, but I don’t think Jenna is.

  And I’m not taking any chances that she’ll do a repeat of that spring break beach trip, pretending like she’s open to more, but bailing on me in the end.

  Nope, I’m not giving her the chance to bail.

  I’m going to play things cool, and even though the whole blog thing has complicated matters, Jenna and I are just going to have to see how it plays out.

  Together.

  Jenna

  * * *

  I wake up to the sound of pots and pans gently clanging away in the kitchen. And humming. Who’s humming? Who’s cooking food that smells like heaven?

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Lee.

  I try to calm myself and stare blankly up at the ceiling.

  Fact: I had sex with Lee last night. Multiple times.

  Fact: I want to have more sex with Lee. Every night. Multiple times every night.

  Fact: I want even more than just sex, and yes, it was mind blowing, toe-curling sex, but I want more than that.

  Fact: Lee doesn’t.

  At least, I assume he doesn’t.

  He isn’t the relationship type, let alone the relationship-with-me type.

  Okay, breathe. This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to go out there and play casual. I won’t make him be the one to tell me it was a mistake, or he didn’t want to hurt me.

  I’m not hurt. And it wasn’t a mistake.

  It was just sex. Really, really, really great sex. The kind I wanted all along with him …

  Oh, and the blog. I’m going to tell him about that, too. He’ll be angry. Maybe even hate me. But at least I won’t have to see that pitying look on his face when he tells me he’s not interested in more. I hate pity.

  When I can’t find my robe, I throw on a T-shirt and shorts and walk out to the kitchen.

  My heart almost stops when I see him. His hair disheveled. His muscular, taut body showcased in…

  “Is that my ratty grey robe?”

  He turns around with a smile. “Clothes are drying.”

  “Right, right.”

  I nod as we stare at each other in silence. I open my mouth to tell him thanks for the night of casual sex. Or to tell him I ruined his career with my stupid drunken blog. Instead, I blurt out, “You’re bigger than I imagined.”

  He laughs and returns to his cooking.

  Rattled yet somewhat mesmerized by this morning-after sexiness and the shivers his laugh causes inside me, I slip onto a barstool and watch him flip pancakes.

  “So, you were imagining my penis, eh?” He grins over his shoulder.

  Great. Good. I’m so happy we’re not making a big deal about this. I’ll eat my pancakes and go to work and it’ll be over.

  “I figured you had to be overcompensating for something,” I say. “It’s usually the penis.”

  “Or … I’m just that amazing.”

  “Or … I was really drunk and I’m remembering incorrectly.”

  He turns around and lifts the robe without hesitation.

  “Lee!”

  “Well?”

  I nab a grape from a bowl on the counter and throw it at him. He laughs again and returns to the griddle.

  I squirm in my seat.

  Lordy. I did not remember incorrectly. He’s long and thick and wide and just…yummy.

  I clear my throat, deciding how to venture into awkward territory. As much as I want to, we’re going to have to discuss what happened last night sometime. Before I can spin out of control, I finally manage to get out, “So that was one train-wreck of a date, huh? I mean it must have been if you were willing to leave early, turn down model sex, and come talk to me about the blog.”

  He looks over his shoulder again. “The blog?”

  “That’s why you came back, right?” To hide how anxiously I’m awaiting his answer, I munch on a grape as casually as I can. Part of me is dying for Lee to say no. I’m begging for him to say that he came back for me. But I keep my face blank as he studies me.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he finally says. “The blog.”

  I crush the feelings of disappointment that he hadn’t come back for me, because this is for the best. A little hurt now will save a whole lot of pain later.

  “Um, about the blog …” I start. I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell him.

  But Lee jumps in before I can. “I had some investors back out because of it.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, heard from them this morning. My agent is trying to do some damage control with the folks at the food network, but that’s probably off the table now, too.”

  Oh no. Despite the fact he’s been off his game for a while, Lee is an amazing chef. And he’s one of my best friends. And I’d screwed things up for him, all because I hadn’t been able to handle seeing him with Sonya. “Lee, I am so sorry.”

  Lee puts a plate in front of me. “For what? You didn’t do anything.”

  Right now. I should tell him right now. “I’m still sorry.”

  I’m terrible. I’m absolutely terrible. That was my moment to come clean and I balked.

  “Eat your pancakes, Jenna,” he says. “I’ll worry about the blog.”

  No amount of syrup will make this bite sweet.

  “You know, who knows what will come of this. Life has a way of revealing everything in time.”

  I glance up at him. His expression is thoughtful. His eyes on me dark and fiery. In their depths, I almost imagine he’s replaying everything we did to one another last night.

  Suddenly, my head is filled with the same images. Or more precisely, my mind focuses once again on the images that never quite left it. I’m swamped by the memories of Lee’s touch, and how he felt and tasted and sounded as we gave ourselves to one another.

  I want him again, and I almost stand and reach for him.

  I barely manage to stop myself.

  He’d said he’d come back for the blog, not for me.

  What happened between us had just been the product of too much wine and him walking in on me while I was in the tub.

  In any event, I didn’t deserve to have more with Lee. I’d ruined things with his investors and I’d lied to him.

  I look away from his penetrating gaze and stuff a bite of pancake in my mouth. It tastes delicious but I barely manage to swallow it down. When I’m done, I wipe my mouth and hastily get up.

  “Thanks, Lee, but I have to get to work. Afterward, let’s talk. About the blog. About your investors. How I can help.”

  He remains silent for so long that I’m finally forced to look up at him.

  His expression is almost tender as he stares at me. He looks like he wants to say something. Something that’s going to rock my world forever. Then he simply smiles and nods. “Okay, Jenna. Go to work. I’ll do the same—I’m actually late. And then we’ll talk. About you. And me. And the blog.”

  Chapter 9

  Jenna

  * * *

  I don't think it's a good sign that everything in my office reminds me of Lee's body. That stapler there? His dick. The spines of the books lined up on my shelf? His washboard abs. The blue ink? His eyes, deep and dark in the candle light of the bathroom.

  The door handle? His dick. The three-hole punch? His dick. Hell, the leg of my couch? His dick, his dick, his dick.

  I lift the massive law reference book up closer to my face and try to bury myself in the yellowed pages and the tiny black print, but I just keep reading one word over and over again.

  Dick
.

  Dick.

  Oh, here's a different one: penis.

  I groan and slam the book on my desk and spin around in my chair. Okay, staring out the floor to ceiling windows from the ninety-third floor is not smart for my current predicament. Do you know what a lot of New York City skyscrapers look like?

  I need to get it together. I have court this afternoon and an affidavit to record in two hours, and I haven't even started the brief for Thursday. Somehow, I don't think Judge Laxler will be as appreciative of Lee's dick as I am.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, today you have a very serious responsibility weighing down your shoulders. The question you will have to decide is if Lee's dick is the best dick. The burden is on me, the plaintiff, to prove this beyond a shadow of a doubt. And at the end of this trial, after examining the wide, long girth of evidence, I believe you'll agree with me: Lee's dick is the best.”

  How many exhibits would I get through before being found in contempt of court, disbarred, and thrown in jail?

  Stop thinking about Lee's body.

  Stop thinking that you want him again, or that you might have a future together, too.

  It's a slippery slope I want so badly to let myself slide down, but I know what pain lives at the bottom. Broken bones and torn ligaments will be nothing in comparison.

  I can protect myself. Just stay in control.

  So what if he came back to nurse my idiot hung over self? That doesn't mean anything.

  He slept over after getting what he wanted? That doesn't mean anything, either.

  He made himself late to work to cook breakfast for me and then even cleaned up after? Does not mean a damn thing.

  I drop my forehead onto my desk. Repeat, Jenna Harrison, it does not mean a damn thing.