One Wicked Week

by Nicola Marsh

  It didn’t and as he tilted his face up to the water and scrubbed his face, he knew all the showers in the world while procrastinating before confronting Jayda wouldn’t change anything.

  She’d rocked his world all over again.

  And he wanted a repeat. Fuck, he could happily screw her all night if she let him. But it was more than that and he knew it. He’d had plenty of sex since finishing uni. Success and money meant he’d had no shortage of women warming his bed over the last six years. And there’d been no complaints so his prowess had grown alongside his bank balance.

  But what had happened out there with Jayda...it was messing with his head. Foreplay wasn’t usually that much fun. He’d get the girl wound up, they’d satisfy each other, then he’d leave. He never brought women into his apartment, preferring the option to go when he wanted rather than having to kick someone out. He might be a heartless bastard but he drew the line at tacky.

  Yet foreplay with Jayda had been something else. They’d laughed and teased each other, verbally sparring in a way that turned him on even more. Intelligence got him off as much as a hot bod, and what a bod. He’d loved her curves in uni and she was hotter now: her firm ass, rounded hips and those spectacular breasts with pale brown nipples that could poke his eye out. Magnificent.

  Predictably, his cock hardened and he switched the temperature to cold, clenching his jaw at the sudden burst of chill before switching off the mixer completely and reaching for the towel on the heated rack next to the shower. He couldn’t head back to the bedroom with a boner. Not when they had to have a discussion.

  Discussion. What a crock. He had to tell her the truth. That this had been fun but he didn’t date and he sure as hell didn’t screw a client. But Jayda wasn’t just any client and he’d never done this before, mix business with pleasure. Jayda had this hold over him, always had.

  What would she think if he told her that he’d lusted after her for four long years at uni? That he’d been hard every time she’d sat next to him so he’d learned to wait outside the lecture theatre until she’d entered and chosen a seat, then he’d choose one in front of her so he wouldn’t have to see her and torture himself with wanting her? That he’d deliberately treated her with disdain so she wouldn’t see how badly he wanted her and how it messed with his head?

  Lucky he’d had a high IQ otherwise he wouldn’t have passed a single semester and his grades would’ve resembled his hopes with her: a big fat fail.

  He’d never thought someone like her, popular and extroverted, would return his interest until graduation night but even then he hadn’t been a complete fool. He’d been convenient and she’d only turned to him because she’d been distraught after discovering that douchebag Deon had seduced her on a bet, his mates saying they’d give him five hundred bucks to ‘bang the virgin fat chick.’

  He’d seen red when she’d told him that and had wanted to punch the prick so badly. But he’d seen how much she’d needed a shoulder to cry on; then later, his comforting had turned to something else and their passion had been redirected.

  Not that it mattered. He’d had his revenge on that prick another way. Having killer IT skills made for some interesting online revenge. He doubted Jayda knew what he’d done to that loser but he didn’t need her thanks. He’d screwed with that jerk’s online social media profiles to the extent he’d had to shut them down and he hoped that the resultant ridicule from his peers had made that asshole understand how bad Jayda had felt when she’d heard his mates do the same to her.

  He would’ve done anything to protect her back then. Which was why when she’d run from him that night he’d let her and hadn’t looked her up since. This time, she’d come searching for him so technically it didn’t count as him doing the wrong thing and allowing her to get too close. But he’d known the moment he’d brought her into his home he was being sucked back into a vortex he’d be powerless to resist. Yeah, she’d had that much of a hold on him back then and she hadn’t known it.

  So what the hell happened now?

  He should ask her to leave. It was the right thing to do. He’d never get involved on any level beyond physical. He couldn’t do that, not to her. She deserved a hell of a lot more than he could ever give her.

  As for the bombshell that she hadn’t been with any guy since him...he couldn’t begin to comprehend how that was possible. A woman as beautiful, as confident, as bubbly as her would have guys drooling over her.

  So why hadn’t she had sex with any of them?

  His head ached thinking about her rationale and his conundrum, and he pressed his fingers against his temples. It didn’t help and he sucked in a deep breath, tucked the towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door.

  To find she’d gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHILE BROCK TOOK an inordinately long time in the bathroom, Jayda dressed and went in search of coffee—caffeine made everything better—to quell her disappointment. Could he leave her in bed any quicker?

  She hadn’t expected cuddling or spooning or anything remotely resembling intimacy, but it still irked. Sex with Brock had momentarily stripped her defences and rather than wanting to run from him as she had on grad night, this time she revelled in the way he’d made her come alive. Tonight had been even better than that night six years ago: Brock had learned some moves and then some.

  He’d seduced her into wanting something she couldn’t have.

  Him.

  Brock had made it clear, he was leaving in two weeks and he rarely stayed in one place. If he’d been trying to send her a message, she’d got it loud and clear. But what if she didn’t want anything else but his body for a fortnight of scintillating sex? Two weeks with Brock fulfilling her every fantasy would be heaven but could also plunge her into hell if she couldn’t get him out of her head again. The kicker? It was more than the sex and she damn well knew it.

  Back on graduation night she’d been seeking solace and he’d willingly given it. But after their banter tonight she realised they had a connection beyond the physical. Sex, even the oral stuff she’d done over the last few years, always made her feel a tad uncomfortable. It had been the same with every guy: a date or two, the goodnight kiss that led to more, her being plagued by insecurities at having to reveal her body to a virtual stranger, and the resultant lack of wanting to follow through beyond a blowjob.

  That whole dating scene left her cold because of it and the longer her sex drought extended, the more insecure she became. Yet with Brock it had been different. He already knew her insecurities and made her feel adored in a way she could get used to. Tonight, she’d felt comfortable around him in a way she never had with any guy, which definitely left her wanting more. But considering how fast he’d bolted from his bed, what would he say if she suggested it?

  She fired up his state-of-the-art espresso machine, grateful she had one just like it. The whiz-bang appliance ground beans and frothed milk and produced the best coffees on the planet in record time, ensuring her mug was filled in two minutes. Lucky, because the caffeine could jumpstart her brain and she could think of a logical, plausible way to approach this.

  Blasé and flippant weren’t in her repertoire. Besides, Brock was too smart, too intuitive and he’d see straight through her jocularity if she termed her proposal in joking terms.

  Thanks for a fun night. Let’s do it again soon...like every night for the next two weeks.

  Or, Tonight was great, so how about we catch up outside the office?

  Or, You are a stud in the sack and I want to do you repeatedly for however long you’re in town.

  She cringed. Lame.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ His deep voice rasped across her frayed nerves and she whirled around to find him standing in the doorway, freshly showered and way too sexy.

  Damp curls skimmed the collar of a faded grey polo shirt, hanging loosely over faded denim that slung low
on his hips. He propped against the doorframe, the epitome of sexy casual.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, gesturing at the machine. ‘Hope you don’t mind but I needed a caffeine fix.’

  His eyebrows rose in disbelief. ‘At this time of night?’

  A pathetic ‘yeah,’ was all she could manage as he stalked towards her, all long legs and confident ease in his body.

  ‘You could’ve stayed in bed.’ Her heart gave a betraying leap as he stopped in front of her. ‘Don’t you trust my coffee-making skills?’

  ‘Sure I trust you,’ she said, unable to read the flicker of emotion in his impenetrable stare before realising how that sounded.

  Like a woman thinking beyond tonight, the perfect segue into broaching the subject of a fling, but she had to keep this light. ‘Besides, can’t a friend make an espresso without being interrogated?’

  Her flippancy didn’t work as his shrewd stare made her want to squirm. ‘Friends, huh?’

  She picked up her coffee mug and headed for the sofa where they’d swapped banter earlier, studiously avoiding looking at the bedroom. Yeah, like that would eradicate the erotic flashbacks: the way he’d lavished attention on her clit with his talented tongue, the way he’d held her effortlessly against the wall, the way he’d plunged into her, filling her in a way she craved.

  ‘That’s some blush you’ve got going on,’ he said, sitting way too close to her on the sofa.

  The heat in her cheeks intensified as she placed the mug on the coffee table. ‘Do you have to be so blunt all the time?’

  ‘That’s me. Take it or leave it.’ He shrugged, his nonchalance infuriating.

  Couldn’t he bring up what had happened between them and make this easier on her? Then again, it wasn’t his fault that for someone who projected a confident image she was a marshmallow on the inside. She might have learned from a young age how to dress to flatter her curves and how to apply contouring make-up and how to style her hair to slim her face, but all the stylists’ grooming lessons in the world meant jack in the face of Brock’s directness.

  ‘What if I take it?’

  Surprise flickered in his eyes. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You’re a smart guy.’

  His eyebrow arched. ‘That’s not what you thought back in uni. You treated me like an idiot’

  ‘I did not.’ She puffed up in outrage. ‘You were one of the smartest guys I knew.’

  ‘Then why did you look down on me?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, hating herself for lying, but she couldn’t tell him the truth: that the only reason she couldn’t interact with him back then was fear. Fear that he was so damn smart he’d see right through her.

  She’d been a bubbly, popular extrovert all through uni. Classmates had flocked to her, though she knew that for many her wealth had had a lot to do with it rather than her scintillating personality. She’d basked in the attention, knowing she got little of it at home.

  Back then, she’d been nice to everyone but had ensured she kept her interactions with smart guys like Brock to a minimum. The last thing she’d needed was to be called out as a phoney. She’d been terrified of that, of having her inner secrets exposed: that she’d dragged her fat ass out of bed most days, reluctant to face anyone let alone go through the rigmarole of donning her ‘mask’ of dark, slimming colours cut to skim her figure and spending forty-five minutes using bronzer to sculpt her face just right to give the illusion of cheekbones and a jawline.

  She might have grown more comfortable in her skin over the years but back then she’d been petrified that this guy with his all-seeing stare and skyrocketing IQ would see right through her.

  He folded his arms and eyed her with blatant speculation. ‘You were condescending and uppity at uni, admit it.’

  ‘Fine.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I was aloof.’

  ‘And standoffish.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She poked out her tongue at him.

  He grinned at her sass and his smile packed a punch that felt as if it landed in her solar plexus. Damn it, she needed to gather her wits before she could broach the subject of them, so she tried to deflect.

  ‘You know, for a pretty smart guy you were a dumbass because—’

  His mouth covered hers in a fiery kiss that robbed her of breath and made her heart soar. His lips demanded compliance and she gave it readily, her hands clawing for purchase at his T-shirt as he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him.

  His rock-hard dick pushed against her pelvis, making her throb with want, her indignation morphing into a much more powerful emotion: mindless desire.

  He wrenched his mouth from hers, and muttered, ‘fuck,’ under his breath, his chest heaving as he dragged in deep breaths.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said, gently disengaging her hands from his T-shirt.

  ‘Yeah, we do.’ She pressed a finger to his lips to silence him. ‘The sex is better than I remembered and I want more.’

  ‘Wow.’ His eyes widened in surprise at her bluntness. ‘The perfect scenario. I’m in town for another two weeks. I help you with your IT needs during the day—’ he stepped into her personal space and ducked down so that his lips grazed her ear ‘—and all your other needs at night.’

  Jayda wanted to fist-pump the air in victory, but before she could respond his mobile rang. He glanced at the screen and blanched, muttering, ‘I have to take this,’ before stalking into the bedroom and slamming the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BROCK TENSED WHEN his mobile rang out the familiar tune. He’d assigned it specifically, one for his mum, another for his dad, so he could distinguish easily when to divert or answer. He diverted most of the time, preferring to communicate with terse texts than one-on-one conversations that rambled.

  But his mother hadn’t rung in a while and to call this late at night could only mean one thing: trouble.

  After leaving a surprised Jayda in his lounge room, he holed up in the bedroom before answering, surprised to see his mum’s face on the screen. If she rarely called, she video-conferenced even less. Both suited him just fine.

  He swiped his thumb across the bottom of the screen. ‘Hey, Mum. What’s up?’

  Tears instantly filled her eyes and his heart sank. What had his old man done this time?

  ‘It’s your father. He’s broken his hip.’

  Brock quashed the momentary flicker of compassion. George Olsen didn’t deserve his sympathy. ‘How?’

  ‘He was hanging a new sign for the car yard.’ She shook her head, the perpetual worry lines furrowing her brow deepening. ‘You know your father. Doesn’t accept help from anybody and never shows weakness.’

  Yeah, he knew dear old dad all right and to this day he couldn’t fathom why his mum stuck with him.

  He’d blamed himself for a long time for their shitty marriage: Mum got pregnant in her teens, Dad felt compelled to marry her, sticking it out for the sake of their only child. Being witness to their constant bickering and arguments had scarred him for life, ensuring he never, ever, wanted a long-term relationship. Why put himself in a position to be trapped?

  He saw it with his friends too, guys he’d gone to uni with who’d morphed from cool coders to hen-pecked shadows doing whatever their partners demanded, browbeaten into meek submission. No way he wanted anything remotely resembling that shit.

  With his mum, what he didn’t understand was why she’d stayed with the selfish prick after Brock had left home. She could’ve escaped and started a new life for herself. Instead, she continued to live with the miserable bastard who only cared about one thing in this world: his precious used cars.

  Brock scrubbed a hand over his face to hide his scowl. ‘Yeah, I know Dad has a stubborn streak a mile long.’

  Usually, his mum would chastise him for being disrespectful. Today, the wrinkles bracketing her mouth deepened.
<
br />   ‘I need your help, Brock.’

  He stiffened. If she expected him to play nursemaid to his father, no way in hell he’d agree.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘You know your father handles all the bookkeeping at the yard himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else. Well, the part-time manager is fine to step up and run the yard on a daily basis, but your father wants you to do the books.’

  Brock exhaled the breath he’d inadvertently been holding. Working remotely to cast an eye over the car yard’s accounts was definitely doable.

  ‘Sure. I’m leaving Melbourne in two weeks but can still—’

  ‘Your father will be out of action for ages, in hospital for another two weeks, then rehab for four, so you’ll need to do a lot of the work onsite.’

  Fuck. He didn’t want to go anywhere near the run-down car yard on the outskirts of western Melbourne. It held nothing but bad memories.

  Watching his father lie to prospective customers—George had always followed the mantra ‘baffle with bullshit’—then being forced to wash the rust buckets to earn a measly two dollars pocket money.

  Having his father ignore him for most of the day, not caring whether he had lunch or not.

  Resenting his mother for dumping him at the yard during the school holidays when she cleaned people’s toilets part-time because his pig-headed father wouldn’t sell the car yard despite the fact it never made a profit and they lived like paupers.

  But he saw his mother’s pinched mouth, the pallor of her skin with an underlying greyish tinge, the apprehension in her eyes, and knew he couldn’t say no. Not to her. Not after what she’d put up with for years because of him, the child who’d tethered her to a bastard.