by Nikki Logan
‘Come on, break’s over.’
SEVEN
Izzy swapped the bottle of champagne she was carrying to her left hand and knocked on the plain, large door with her right. Nothing at all like the flashy Vauxhall foyer she’d entered through.
Lucky, or she’d have considered reporting Harry for skimming. No one working below the fourteenth floor at Broadmore Natále could afford a Thameside apartment like this. And Harry and all his team worked on the twelfth.
But upstairs was far less ostentatious than the rest of his complex.
The door opened with an almost surprised swish.
‘Izzy? Hi.’
Breath puffed out of her.
She’d seen Harry in an Italian suit, she’d seen him in jeans and a shirt at the team-building day, and she’d seen him in nothing at all in the boxroom. But this was the first time she’d seen him as you would expect a man to be in his natural habitat. Casually dressed, his hair absent of the product that usually kept his natural curl under control, his usual goatee slightly longer than he’d normally wear it. Creeping higher up his jaw.
Same jeans as the team-building day, if she wasn’t mistaken, but the work boots were absent, his long feet bare in the pale, plush carpet. But his black T-shirt was made of some kind of natural fibre so light it both draped and clung simultaneously. Clung to the curves of biceps and pectorals she knew from first-hand experience he boasted, and draped, below that, over the flat spread of his ribs and belly. Under the strong light of the elevator foyer the lightness of the fabric or the openness of the weave meant it was just slightly transparent, offering a hint of the tanned curves and shadow beneath.
How could a man be sexier clothed than naked? It defied logic, but here was the evidence standing right in front of her.
‘Hello?’
God. Had she been standing here, drooling, for long?
‘Harry! Hi.’ Outstanding start. She pulled a few useful brain cells together. ‘Thanks for authorising me to come up. Your security are quite scary.’
‘They take their job pretty seriously.’ Blue eyes fell on the bottle in her hand. ‘What are we celebrating?’
‘A gift, actually. For you.’ Just to state the appallingly obvious. She took a long breath and released it on a silent groan.
‘Come on in.’ Harry stood back and she got her first glimpse of the apartment beyond.
Uh-oh. Back to impressive. Rich tones and minimalist, masculine furniture that took nothing away from what was beyond the enormous glass window.
‘Wow. That’s a pretty spectacular city view.’
‘One of only two things I like about this building, really.’
‘Why did you choose it if you don’t like it?’
‘Not my choice,’ he said cryptically.
Picked by a woman, perhaps? Izzy faltered and glanced around again. No evidence of a female in residence. But behind all those closed doors, who knew? The thought Harry might have a girlfriend only reinforced the rashness of her decision to sleep with him all those weeks ago.
Just because a man said he was single…
‘Pricey,’ she hinted. But seriously, how did he afford it? Even on Broadmore Natále rates.
‘I hate commuting. Buses particularly.’
‘This is not exactly walking distance to Canary Wharf.’ And that was not exactly an answer. ‘Couldn’t find anything you liked on the other side of town?’
‘I have…family connections to this property. A good deal.’
‘Handy with the tube at your back door, I guess.’ The one she’d ridden here this evening.
‘I rarely use it.’
She’d never seen him arrive for work—or leave—any way other than on foot. How, if he didn’t take buses or the tube?
‘Tell me you don’t drive.’
‘Not on the roads.’
She followed his glance far below them towards the pier. ‘Truly? You take the ferry? Every day?’
‘I have that at my doorstep and another one at work. I’d be crazy not to.’
‘But that’s commuting.’
‘Not the way I do it. I’m not much on crowds, either.’
His words made no sense. Surely, he wasn’t saying… ‘You’re kidding. Private ferry? Both ways?’
His dark brows dipped. ‘Is this some kind of British cultural thing? Come to a man’s house with alcohol and insult his home and transport choices in close succession?’
Oh, look, who was she to criticise his purchase choices? He didn’t have sixteen different wool hats in his wardrobe.
‘I just think you’re missing so much of the London experience by not taking the tube,’ she improvised. ‘Or a bus. Or a cab. Like everyone else.’
Great. Now she sounded like an ad for Visit London.
His confusion deepened visibly between his brows. ‘I’m not saying I’ve never ridden the underground. Just that I don’t take it to work.’
His eyes grabbed the champagne she’d just been waving around as if it were a life-preserver. ‘So, a gift, I believe you said?’
Lord…and all she’d done since walking in was poke at him.
‘A thank you really,’ she said, finally handing the bottle over. Critically conscious of how ridiculous that sounded after the past hundred and twenty seconds.
Why was she so nervous?
He looked at the label. ‘Wow. Taittinger’s. That’s quite a thank you. What for?’
‘For last Friday night. Four of those leads I picked up are now clients of some kind. I’ve got a full year of work ahead of me.’
‘Nothing you couldn’t have done on your own, I just expedited it.’
‘Well…I’m still grateful. It was very generous of you.’
And he was still being generous, pretending that her mid-range champagne was remotely impressive. Taittinger’s was the best she and Tori could find in Notting Hill’s bottle shops on short notice.
He swung away from her and into the kitchen, where he plucked two flutes from a rack in his enormous freezer and gave the bottle twenty seconds in an express chiller. God, the fire station so needed one of those…
‘It was completely selfish, actually. You made the whole night easier for me. I should be giving you the champagne.’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t have struggled on your own.’
‘I don’t struggle when I swim either, doesn’t mean it came naturally to me. I had to teach myself how to make the kind of small talk expected at big events.’
It was too good an opportunity to waste. To find out a bit more about the very closed book that was Harry Mitchell. She slipped up onto a seat at his bar. ‘Do you go to many fancy events, then?’
It was only the slightest hitch in the level pour of bubbly liquid into the second glass that told her she’d made any impact at all.
‘Benefits of a wide dating circle. Women I know always seem to be invited to one event or another. I cash in on the free food.’
Really? Maybe that was because he blew all his income on a fancy apartment and exorbitant transport.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t already have company on a Friday night, then,’ she said, casually. ‘If your dance card is so very full.’
Which only reminded her of how very empty hers was. If not for their hot ’n’ heavy a few weeks back this would have been as close as she’d been to a man’s bedroom in months. Not counting Alex.
‘What makes you think I don’t have company tonight?’
Her hands froze, midway to patting back her hair. ‘Uh…the way you poured a second glass?’
His lips twisted. ‘You assume it’s for you.’
Humiliation poured up her neck and she slid off the stool immediately, onto the plush floor, her eyes searching down the hall for the goddess that was probably about to appear. Semi-naked.
‘God, I’m so sorry…’
He intercepted her at the opening to the kitchen bar before she could get more than a few steps towards the door, and his strong grip slipped a
round her wrist then slid to half cover her hand. She kept her focus strictly forward facing, hoping her hair would have slipped forward enough to hide the colour almost certainly staining her face.
‘Relax, Izzy. I’m kidding. The second glass is absolutely for you.’ He produced it from his other hand, icy and welcome. ‘You were just sitting there being so wide-eyed Red Riding Hood, I couldn’t help a little wolf.’
She took it from him and crossed to re-examine the beautiful view, subtly pressing the frosted glass against the undersides of her wrists where the blood ran closest.
As if that could cool all of her in the little time she had before—
‘So four new clients, hey?’ he said from just behind her. ‘Does that mean Broadmore now has to share your efforts?’
She took two deep breaths before turning and lifting her face to him. ‘I don’t think you’ll notice. If anything it might open opportunities for cooperative activity.’
‘Broadmore isn’t really a cooperative sort of firm,’ he murmured.
True enough. They liked being up there with the biggest and the best. Rarefied air. ‘Perhaps it’s a good opportunity to learn how to play well with others?’
‘Good luck with that,’ he grunted just before his frosted glass pressed against that full bottom lip, reminding her just how plump and soft it was. Reminding her just how it had felt on her skin.
That amazing mouth.
And not just because she’d got to enjoy it. Some men had nice mouths, some men had foul mouths, some men had talented mouths. Harry Mitchell had just the right balance of all three. Learned through experience, no doubt. Some pretty full-on experience judging by the way he’d coaxed her body to respond to him.
Like nothing else she’d ever known.
‘Enjoying the champagne, Iz?’ he murmured and she blinked back to the present. ‘Your pupils have doubled in size.’
‘Um…it’s lovely.’
‘And you were thinking about that night at the party.’
‘No.’ Ugh, way too fervent. ‘I was…admiring the view.’
‘London from above generally arouses you, does it? You wouldn’t want to spend a lot of time on The Eye, then. Could get quite messy.’
‘I’m not aroused.’
‘You’re standing here in my living room hot as hell. From just one sip of champagne.’
‘Yeah,’ she snorted, ‘because I’m that easy.’
The tips of his white teeth peeked out of his cocky grin. ‘Told you we had chemistry.’
‘Hate to disappoint, but I’m not a slave to biology.’
‘Then why are you panting?’
Outrage tossed her some much-needed focus. ‘I’m not panting—’
‘Please. Your breasts are heaving like some silent-movie heroine.’
Something about that word on those lips. It immediately reminded her exactly how well his mouth knew her breasts.
‘Fine. Whatever. We have chemistry.’
His irises glittered as intense and vivid as the only tropical holiday she’d ever taken. With her first paid leave. ‘Once wasn’t enough, was it?’
‘Once was plenty. We have a professional relationship now.’ More was the pity.
‘You don’t think two people can have sex and remain professional?’
Ah…no! ‘The two seem mutually exclusive.’
‘Maybe you’ve just never done it successfully.’
Maybe she’d just never done it at all. But she’d heard plenty of stories from friends about disastrous workplace flings. That made her an expert once removed. ‘Harry Mitchell, are you admitting to serially sleeping with your staff?’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, because it would lessen the impact of this thing bubbling between you and I? Make it less notable.’
Nope. Not going there.
‘The only chemical reaction between you and I is the one happening in this glass.’ The words tumbled off her flustered lips. Dangerous words, practically a dare, but better than them doing what they wanted to be doing right now. What she could see in Harry’s eyes. What she could feel in her body.
‘You think?’ He stepped closer, closing the distance between them to just inches, and she tipped her head back to keep her eyes on his predatory smile. He plucked the offending glass from her nerveless fingers and placed it with his own on a side table. ‘Your blood’s not boiling with pheromones right now?’
‘Actually, I think pheromones come from your skin…’ she whispered. But right now she’d nod and smile if someone told her they came from outer space.
‘Thanks for the biology lecture.’ He smiled, close and dangerous. ‘Shall we find out?’
‘Um…’
Without waiting for permission, he lifted her wrist and lowered his lips within millimetres of it, but he didn’t touch them there. He breathed in heavily—inhaling her—pausing at the inside of her elbow, her shoulder, using her arm as a tether, bringing them closer, his hazy blue eyes on hers the whole time. His torso brushed up along her extended arm, effectively bypassing her first layer of defence, and pressed up against her body, warm and hard. His focus shifted to her throat. It should have released her, being free of that captivating gaze, but, by then, the heat of Harry’s breath had taken over sentry duty, holding her captive.
‘I’m not convinced,’ he murmured somewhere near her ear. ‘Could just be your perfume.’
So he set about exploring other parts of her skin, nuzzling her neck, the pulse point under her jaw, nosing up beneath the silken sheath of her hair at her temple.
Liquid fire burned through her whole body but she resisted it, standing as still as her near-trembling legs would allow. His big hands branched through her hair, cupping her head, tilting it.
But still he didn’t kiss her.
Tease.
‘Must be pheromones,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t think of anything else right now except you and that sofa.’
She spoke through the sensuous haze. ‘There’s a sofa here?’
His chuckle was pure gasoline on an open fire. ‘A very comfortable one. Bigger than your single bed.’
‘I’m not having sex with you,’ she battled, but they were the most half-hearted words she’d ever uttered.
‘No?’ Cobalt found her, direct and hard. ‘Mind if I do?’
With that, he swept her up into his arms and had her halfway to the sofa before she could suck in more than a breath. Then gravity took them both down onto it—rather abruptly—and that single breath came back out as a gasp.
‘Sorry,’ he pressed against her lips just before sealing them with his. ‘Over eager.’
They were the kisses from the party again but better. Hotter. Heavier. Because they weren’t first kisses between them anymore. Because they had each other’s measure now. Because they had weeks of built-up tension behind them. All that chemistry he’d been banging on about swirled up and around them in a heavy, seductive eddy, stealing her breath and sapping her strength.
And because he’d admitted to being excited about it. It did all kinds of squishy things inside her to hear him letting himself be vulnerable with her.
His mouth consumed. His hands owned. His tongue branded. The very weight of him on her was intoxicating.
Izzy writhed beneath him and it only made things hotter—harder—and her twisted dress crept further and further up her legs. His talented fingers were only too happy to help keep it moving.
But when he abandoned her lips to forage down her throat, her chest, over her fabric-covered belly, it roused her enough to curl her fists in his hair and tug him to a halt.
He lifted his gaze to her, and it burned live fire.
‘You said no sex,’ he slurred. ‘I’m just improvising.’
She squeezed words out between gasps. ‘I think that counts.’
‘Semantics.’
And then he was gone again, busying himself with tucking her dress up around her hips, with shimmying free her underwear. She toed them down to dangle o
ff one shoeless ankle, thinking vaguely about protesting. Thinking vaguely about twisting free, tumbling to the carpeted floor and hopping on one foot until she was far enough away from him to think more clearly.
But then that mouth got working again and she found herself incapable of thinking about anything other than how it felt to have him working so hard to pleasure her. About how the only other men she’d been with always stopped right about…now. How they assumed this was just a warm-up act.
And how unfair that always was.
But Harry didn’t stop. He only got more focused. More intense. And her body mirrored his effort, cranking up and up as he worked so hard against her. Inside her.
‘Oh, God…’
At least that was what she would have said if it hadn’t come out such a gurgle. The cords of pleasure drew together, tighter and tighter, deep within her, responding to his touch and to the rasp of his goatee on her most sensitive skin. The novelty and sheer naughtiness of doing this right next to a glass wall, no matter how far above London, did their trick. Someone stargazing across the river on Millbank could be watching them through a telescope right now. It was even more risky and forbidden than their single liaison at her party.
Intoxicatingly forbidden.
Maybe she really had found her courage.
Harry resettled her thighs over his shoulders and her gurgle turned to whimpers, which turned to gasps and finally an agonistic groan as she couldn’t stand another moment of his torment, no matter how proficient.
He rode her violent bucks and managed to keep his skull from being crushed between her seizing thighs.
Stroking hands eased her down off the brink.
Then he held her as she twitched.
And God love him if he didn’t then slide back up the sofa next to her and collapse, just as satisfied as she was, against her neck.
No foreplay. No warm-up act. No not-so-subtle hints for reciprocation. His belt buckle remained totally inviolate.
Just…satisfaction.
She studied him from under leaded eyelids.
‘I missed that last time,’ he murmured, absently stroking the slight curve of her still-clothed breast with a finger.
