Sweet Rivalry

by K. Bromberg

  “Sixth floor, please,” I ask with a polite smile to the man standing by the buttons and shift against the wall as more people pile in behind me.

  Just as the door begins to close, I hear a “Hold up.”

  It’s only two words, a common request, and yet I know who it is before his hand prevents the doors from shutting. My brain may be a Ryder-free zone, but fate has just determined it’s going to be a close-quarters elevator-ride zone too.

  Crap.

  I grit my teeth as the doors slide back open and in those few seconds, prepare myself for seeing the man I swore I’d avoid like the plague today.

  But there is absolutely nothing that could prepare me for the sight of Ryder when he walks into the car. He’s shirtless, his jogging shorts are slung low on his hips, and every ink-etched detail of his sculpted torso is misted with sweat.

  My subconscious was way off base. Whoever said dreams were better flat out lied. Because Ryder is mouthwateringly fine. Breathtakingly sexy.

  My better sense tells me I need to look away, that I need to look down at my shoes so he doesn’t see me in the car and yet I just can’t.

  My eyes refuse to obey my mind’s commands.

  Because everything I wondered about yesterday afternoon when he was rolling his cuffs up just came to life in full living color. The answers to the questions I had in my dreams about what his tattoos were of and their placement on his body are front and center. And the split second I have to pull myself together and glance away before he catches me gawking is lost to the pang of lust coursing through me from the combination of his testosterone-laced beauty in front of me.

  Save yourself, Harper. Look. Away.

  Look.

  Away.

  But before I can pull my gaze from the sculpted abs, mouthwatering biceps, and intricate tattoos, they are headed straight toward me. In. Full. 3D. Living. Color.

  I suck in a breath as I come face to chest with every hard inch of him. My body reacts in every visceral way imaginable. My hair stands on end as if it’s trying to get closer to him, to touch him somehow. My mouth goes dry. My body tenses and aches with a delicious burn. I neglect to breathe.

  Thoughts flash, hold, mesmerize. How I want to reach out, place my hands on his pecs, and feel if they are as firm as they look. How I would love to take my fingertip and trace the lines of the designs, slide it over his skin misted with sweat as his chest moves in and out from the exertion of what I assume was the workout he just finished.

  The elevator jolts subtly as it starts to rise and knocks me from my lust-induced trance and back to my senses. My cheeks immediately fill with heat because it’s hard to be nonchalant or downplay what I’m doing when the man I’m ogling is inches from me. But I don’t look up––can’t––instead I stare back down to the Starbucks cup with my misspelled name on it and hope he doesn’t say a single word so I can hold tight to what dignity I have left.

  Please.

  The door dings. Ryder shuffles to the side to let the person beside us exit. And the minute he does, I step farther back into the car.

  Get some distance from him. Create your Ryder-free zone.

  The minute the thought crosses my mind though, Ryder adjusts and steps back into his position, his chest to my nose.

  Seconds pass. They feel like forever. I tell myself to look anywhere else than at the tattoos or the rivulet of sweat that slides ever so slowly over his nipple. Down to my Starbucks cup again. At the ground. To anywhere. And of course I do none of the above.

  Instead, I look up.

  Right into the blue of his eyes.

  That breath I just got back? It’s lost again.

  Our eyes meet, hold, lock. There is no flicker of amusement in his. The sarcastic gleam I’m used to is nonexistent. Void. And yet his eyes are filled with so much more that I’m afraid to acknowledge and at the same time dying to explore: hunger, want, need, desire.

  This is the man I used to want, and yet now I understand that the want I knew before as a coed was nothing compared to the desire I can acknowledge and crave for as an adult.

  The desire that can’t be there. Not now. Not like this. With our history between us and the job in front of us.

  And yet none of that matters as we stand like this, inches apart, as if our bodies are hovering on both sides of that fine line we know we can’t cross but that our eyes are saying otherwise to.

  The car dings.

  More people shuffle on and off.

  And yet our eyes never waver.

  I think I breathe.

  My hands clench the coffee cup in my hand but I don’t notice the heat that burns my skin through it.

  I’m afraid to move. Afraid I’ll bump into him. Know that if I do, that the simple connection I was thinking of a moment ago—of his skin beneath my fingers—might be too much to bear. Desire restrained. Restraint then tested.

  And so we stand in place hypnotized by the other, the elevator dings at each floor, people walk on and off, shift around us, but we remain.

  His eyes flicker down to my lips. I watch as he stares at them, like how his own lips move ever so slightly before he looks back up to mine. And it’s in that moment I realize the car has stopped once again, that the doors have opened, and we are the only ones left.

  But I don’t move. Don’t make an attempt to leave the elevator on what I can only assume is my floor because my feet are rooted in place, my eyes haven’t moved, and my nerves are alert with anticipation over whatever it is that might come next.

  The thing I want and the thing I don’t want are one and the same: a kiss.

  The simple realization hits me harder than I’d like to admit. And the minute it does, I’m a flustered mess of emotions that are too strong to ignore and too ridiculous to entertain.

  And then I shock back to reality. To who this is. To why I can’t. To holy shit, what am I doing?

  “I’m sorry…I uh, I’ve-I’ve––” I move in a frenzy of uncoordinated movements to try to get around him but he sidesteps and prevents me the same time his hand blocks the door from closing.

  “No.” It’s one word but the audible restraint in his voice stops me in my tracks.

  My gaze snaps back up to his. Notices the muscle in his jaw tick. Acknowledges the questions in his eyes. I part my lips to speak but don’t say anything because I swear to God the air around us is so electrified that anything I say is going to set it off.

  “Tell me what to do, Harper.”

  I’m caught off guard by my own name. The grate of his voice does funny things to my insides. And then it hits me what he just said.

  Dear God. My mind fills with everything imaginable that I want him to do to me right now. With those hands of his. Those lips. That beard. And every other visible and nonvisible long, hard inch of him.

  I blink and try to think of how to convert my thoughts into coherent words. I inhale unsteadily and all I do is breathe him in, and that only serves to complicate things further.

  “Tell me what to do, Harper.”

  He repeats the words again. Uses my name in that way he has that makes it sound like he drags it over his soul on the way out, and all I can think about is that is exactly how he sounded saying it in my dream last night. Like it hurt so good it pained him.

  My chest constricts as I reconcile my fiction and reality, but the problem is he’s right in front of me. He’s tangible––slick with sweat and oozing with every damn thing I find attractive.

  He’s flustered me once again.

  I open my mouth.

  Close it.

  Open it again.

  “I got off thinking about you last night.”

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Did I just say that out loud?

  The shocked expression on his face—lips parted, eyes flickering with amused surprise––is probably nothing compared to what is reflected on my face.

  “I, um—I—Oh…I’ve...” Words escape me. Thoughts are buried in
the mortification. So I run. Off the elevator. Across the catwalk. As far away from having to look at him as possible.

  He calls after me but I keep going.

  Have to.

  Just like I did before.

  Chapter Nine

  Ryder

  This is torture.

  Pure, goddamn torture.

  Even knowing so, I look up to get one more taste of said torture sitting five feet in front of me. Those damn sky-high, pink heels beneath the desk taunting me just as handily as the woman wearing them.

  I groan silently at the thought, shift in my seat to calm my dick down, and refocus on the figures in front of me, but not before one more glance her way. One more taste of torment.

  How can I not?

  She got off last night thinking about me. And that’s supposed to what? Make me not want her? Make me want her more?

  What did she expect me to do after she said that to me? Just sit here five feet from her and twiddle my thumbs all day instead of wishing I was fingering her? Fucking her? Losing myself in her?

  I got off thinking about you last night.

  How can a sane man know this, hear those words from her mouth, and not picture the cherry red fingernails currently tapping on her keyboard sliding between the lips of her pussy, slipping inside of her then back out slick and wet, and not want to stare at her some more?

  Either that or head to the bathroom and rub one out to calm the hell down.

  But that wouldn’t satisfy me. Hell no. Not when she’s so close I can reach out and touch her. Not when I get a whiff of her perfume every time she gets up to stare at the scale model on the floor. Not when she bends over to look closer and that damn pencil skirt hugs her ass while shifting on those heels. The whole damn package has me envisioning doing so many things to her it’s not even funny.

  I lift my glasses and rub my eyes—something, anything—to stop me from staring one more time.

  Maybe she was lying. Maybe this is her plan. Say something like that to distract me and thus throw me off my game. Cause me to think about wanting her more than fine-tuning my numbers.

  And if so, it’s working because my restraint only lasts so long. I look up again. It’s hard not to. I take in her pink cami-whatever-it’s-called with lace trim beneath that business suit of hers and think of her wearing just that.

  Those heels.

  And nothing else.

  She glances up, our eyes holding momentarily. Enough for me to see the red flush through her cheeks before she averts her gaze and pretends like it never happened.

  Nope. I’m not buying it.

  She may be a ballbuster, but she’s not that calculating. Not when it comes to shit like this. She may have changed, grown more confident with age, but she’s still that shy girl underneath. I can see it when I talk to her. Maybe it’s because I knew her before that I can see it now, but it’s there. The red cheeks and flustered responses. The wide eyes and need to avoid.

  Nah. It wasn’t some calculated response to throw me off my game.

  She meant what she said. It was a slip of the tongue that I sure as hell want to feel for myself. She fucking got off thinking about me.

  And now I have to sit here the rest of the day with her right in front of me, thinking about exactly what she did to get herself off.

  Either way, she wins in the end.

  Because my thoughts are on her.

  Chapter Ten

  Harper

  “You can’t ignore me forever.”

  That voice. The one I’ve heard talk throughout the day. The laugh that has carried through the room at different times and felt like it was slowly removing each layer of my clothing right along with it.

  This morning didn’t happen.

  I keep my head down and do just what he said I can’t do, ignore him.

  He’s the enemy.

  Not an irresistibly hot guy who being shirtless, sweaty, and out of breath in an elevator with me made me envision that’s what he’d look like after a round of orgasm-inducing, breath-robbing, incredible sex.

  He’s the one standing between you and the promise you made to Wade that will let you keep your job.

  And if he’s going to use this strategy––the one where he renders me stupid by standing two feet from me so that I want him so bad it hurts, then I might as well play too.

  Besides, nothing says game-on like a woman in heels, and I have my favorite power-pink heels on today to prove that exact point.

  Yes, I let my composure—my concentration—slip this morning. I let the sight of his skin and the bang of lust between my thighs commandeer my thoughts. Or lack thereof. But with my favorite heels and my best power suit on, I feel more in control.

  No man is going to throw me off my game and make me lose this job.

  That I know for sure.

  Besides, it’s hard to wear a pair of heels and not feel sexy.

  And I need that feeling today. The sexy, the sassy, the defiant, and everything in between because I refuse to let him render me stumbling and fumbling like I did this morning.

  I’m winning this bid. I can want him. I can desire him. And I can still beat him out all at the same time.

  So when he asks me if I’m going to ignore him, I do just that. Keep my head down, my fingers tapping on the keyboard, and my shoulders straight.

  Because this morning didn’t happen.

  “Harper?”

  “Hmm?” I don’t look up. I give him the same sound he gave me all those years ago. He will not distract me.

  “Oh, so you can hear me. Good to know.” There’s humor lacing the edge of his voice and I hate that a part of me wants to look up and see if he’s smiling. If his beard is curving up. “I have a sister. I’m well versed in estrogen-edged silent treatment. It works perfect for me too. You silent means you’re not distracting me…so keep at it. My concentration appreciates the silence and you for it.”

  I don’t react although every part of me bristles at the comment and the return of Ryder’s trademark sarcasm.

  The silence stretches. The clicking of my keyboard is the only sound in the room. I don’t dare look up to see what’s going on, although I have a good sense that the blackened sky in the windows at my back is a solid indicator that it’s just Ryder and me remaining once again.

  I continue to type. Click. Click. Hating that now that I’m aware we’re the only ones left, being alone here with him is all I can think about. And dammit, my plan for not being distracted has been shot to hell.

  “You’re going to have to talk to me at some point,” he murmurs from his desk.

  “I haven’t yet.” I take the bait and his chuckle reinforces it.

  “You just did.”

  “No, I merely responded so as not to be rude. Responding and talking at some point are two different things.”

  “You and your semantics.” His laugh returns and pulls my eyes to him.

  Damn. I shouldn’t have looked because if a put-together Ryder Rodgers is hot, and a shirtless Ryder is mouthwateringly tempting, then a rumpled, tired, and hard-worked Ryder is impossibly irresistible. The one whose tie has been removed and shirt is unbuttoned enough that I can see the edges of a tattoo barely above the neckline of his undershirt.

  Reminding me of just what they look like in full 3D color.

  The heat returns to my cheeks again when our eyes meet, despite how hard I try to remain unaffected, but the smile he gives me is sincere and so void of the smugness I had expected.

  He waits a beat before he speaks, as if he’s choosing his words one by one before actually uttering them. Something I obviously need to take heed of.

  “How are your numbers coming along?”

  His question startles me. It’s not what I expected and yet exactly what I wanted, him acting like this morning never happened.

  But it did and now he’s acting like it didn’t.

  It’s like I can’t make up my mind. My head wants to deny that my elevator confession ever happen
ed while my legs want to spread apart like it did.

  The one thing I do know is that the longer he stares at me, waiting for a response, the harder it is for him to deny the mocking smile from turning up the corners of his mouth in a way that fires my temper.

  “I’m basically finished.” He carries on as if he asked the question to himself and is answering it. “I’ve made some good headway today, just paring down my presentation. How about you? You ready to take me on again? See who comes out on top this time around?”

  “No. Nuh-uh. You don’t––”

  “Nuh-uh? Now I really know you’re mad at me if you’re breaking out the big words like nuh-uh. I take it you’re struggling with your numbers then?”

  I just stare at him, eyes blinking, fingers paused on my keyboard and try not to give into that placating tone of his that used to drive me bat-shit crazy.

  “You don’t get to do this, Ryder.” I rise from my desk and walk around the front of it, needing to be on an even playing field with him.

  “Do what?”

  “You don’t get to act like this morning never happened.”

  “You mean like you’ve been doing all day?” he asks as he crosses his arms over his chest.

  “I’ve done no such thing.” Lies. All lies.

  “Really?” He laughs. With his lips and his eyes, and I know I deserve it but right now I don’t want to hear or see it.

  “I’m not in the mood for your games.” Can this conversation just end, please? I’m dying a slow death of indignity here.

  “But aren’t you doing just that?” he asks as he cocks his head to the side and stares. “Showing up with those come-fuck-me heels on, adding a little extra sway to your hips, making sure to bend over in my perfect line of sight? I mean, you don’t want me to remember what you said this morning, but you sure as fuck don’t want me to forget. So tell me, Harper, if you’re not playing a game, what exactly is it that you’re doing? What’s your end game?”

  I just stare at him, slack-jawed and wanting to refute him but hating that either I’m that readable or I haven’t changed as much as I thought I had from when he used to know me.