He pushes into me—just a finger, and just enough to make my body throb. I need something. Space. Breath. But his tongue lashes my mouth as his finger teases my insides, and pleasure is a spiral I cannot escape, cannot control. It spins in my gut, my chest, my heart, my blood.
I whimper again—a tiny noise locked in the back of my throat—and his fingers tighten in my hair. I am trapped by him, by this, our need for each other. His finger swirls, finding my most sensitive cluster of nerves, and I am shaking all over, from head to toe, my body his to please and command.
‘Come for me,’ he instructs into my mouth, as though he has heard my thoughts and knows I will do anything he asks of me.
My knees can barely hold me. Without Jack’s support I would be a puddle of bones and haute couture on the elegant carpeted floor of Clint Sheridan’s office.
Jack kisses me in a rhythm matched by his finger’s invasion and I am falling apart in his arms, with no chance of reprieve or pause. No break in the assault of pleasure he is inflicting on me. He kisses me as I moan, my breath snatched, my blood fevered. And even as my muscles clamp around him, squeezing the pleasure from my body, his finger continues to tease me, so that the pleasure and awareness is almost unbearable.
The first orgasm is crashing around me even as a second, bigger one builds, and I grip his lapels, holding him as my world shatters in a mind-blowing moment of sexual awakening. I am fevered and limp, broken and whole.
But he’s not done with me. Even as wave after wave of pleasure crashes across my brow his hands reach down, finding his zip and freeing his arousal. I know I have only seconds to regain my senses. To exercise my control in this situation that is eating me alive.
‘No,’ I say, and the word is thick with desire, fevered by need.
He stops, his eyes locked to mine, anguish clear in his expression. But he stops. Waits.
‘Sit down,’ I say, nodding towards the sofa.
Something like relief spreads over his face as he nods and moves to the sofa.
‘Do you have a...’
He’s reaching for his wallet before I can finish, fishing out a foil square. I groan as I slide it down his cock and then I am on top of him, straddling him, taking his length deep inside me, revelling in his possession and in his look of wonderment. Seeing that he is as lost to this pleasure as I am.
I move up and down his length, rocking on my haunches. His fingers dig into my sides, moving with me, but I am in control. When I feel him pump, so close to coming, I sit higher, so that only his tip is inside me, and he groans, tilting his head back as waves of pleasure engulf his being. I laugh softly, lowering myself back onto him and leaning forward, kissing his neck, his throat, tasting the desire that has overheated us both.
He holds my hips, keeping me low against him, and thrusts into me. My body is already on fire. It takes nothing for further flames to take hold, spreading like wildfire through my blood. My cry is muffled by his kiss, and he kisses me as together we explode.
Lightning flashes in the sky—closer now—but I barely notice. Even as rain begins to lash the windows I am aware only of this. Our own little storm, raging through our souls.
Chapter Ten
HE’S WATCHING ME, so I try to subdue my reaction. But as lightning and thunder burst almost simultaneously, and rain hammers the enormous windows and the roof of the pool room, I am quivering.
‘You’re actually terrified,’ he murmurs with bemusement, his fingers brushing my shoulder as he removes the lightweight jacket I wore to Clint’s.
‘I’m not,’ I lie, stepping away from him before he can detect the fine tremble in my body.
I dig my fingernails into my palms, staring out at the raging storm. It’s furious and I can’t stand it. If I was alone I would put earphones in and dig myself under my duvet to wait it out. But I can’t, and he’s still watching me.
My voice is scratchy when I speak. ‘It was such a nice day. Where did this come from?’
‘It’s the tropics,’ he points out, stepping out of his shoes and shrugging free of his jacket at the same time.
His jacket is slightly crumpled at the front, from where I curled my fingers into it as he drove me to multiple orgasms.
‘Heat builds up, then it breaks in a storm.’
‘Why does that sound familiar?’
His half-smile shows he agrees. We are our own tropical weather system. Sultry heat, storm clouds and flash floods without warning. And plenty of lightning and thunder, too.
A spike of lightning floods the lounge with an eerie glow and I jump. ‘God!’
‘It’s only a storm,’ he murmurs, closing the distance between us, his eyes locked to mine as his thumb presses beneath my chin, lifting my face to his, exposing me to his curiosity and inspection. ‘It will pass.’
My stomach twists painfully now as the metaphor takes on new resonance. Is he trying to be cryptic? Is he talking about the surge of awareness that thunders between us? About us? Of course this will pass. What else do I expect?
‘Sit with me.’
He squeezes my hand and draws me to him, holding me to his side as we cross the lounge to the white leather sofa that offers the most spectacular view of the harbour. The opera house is ghoulishly lit in white, and the rain lashing against it creates the impression of fog and apocalypse.
‘Even the air smells different.’ I inhale the acrid, electrical thickness of the atmosphere.
‘Yeah...’ The word is hoarse.
He sits, and I go to take the seat next to him, but he pulls me closer, landing me softly on his lap. And now his kiss is gentle. Soft. A kiss of reassurance that scares me all the more because of the way it shakes my heart to life.
I panic. This is too much. Everything is too much. I’m in the eye of two storms and I don’t know if I’ll survive either one of them.
‘Tonight went well,’ he says, his hand stroking my bare arm, comforting and confounding all at once.
‘What do you think of the team?’ I ask, finding what I hope will be common ground in our established business dynamic. Some reassurance from the familiarity of that life.
‘Competent,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sold on Ryan being a good fit.’
‘What makes you say that?’
I feel him shrug, the movement brushing the crispness of his shirt against my skin.
‘Instinct.’
‘He comes highly recommended.’
‘I know.’
He runs his hand over his chin and I hold my breath as I’m seared by the memory of him pressing his finger inside me, holding me as I fell apart. My gut clenches and my insides are slick with a swirling tempest of knowledge of what we’ve done.
‘There’s just something about him that seems wrong. I can’t explain.’
I think back to the evening, trying to capture the same sense Jack has, and shake my head. ‘We’ll see, I suppose.’
‘His contract has a three-month probation period?’
‘Yes. I’ll make a note to come over and review him at two months, though, if you’re concerned.’
‘Great.’
Lightning bursts again and I jump automatically.
He presses his forehead against my shoulder, the strangeness of the gesture not taking anything away from how reassuring I find it.
‘Were your parents cross with you?’
‘My parents? When?’
They’ll be back in England now. I should probably go and see them. The thought cools the warmth in my body.
‘The night you slept in the tree house.’
‘Oh.’ I shift a little, angling my body closer to his. ‘Furious.’ Then I shake my head. ‘Actually, that’s not true. They were disappointed.’
‘Disappointed?’
‘Disappointed that I’d not been cared for to their standards. Embarrassed that people might think they’d hired substandard domestic staff.’ I grimace. ‘Perhaps ashamed they hadn’t thought to check on me when they got home—most parents
would, after all.’
‘You’re not close to them?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Just the way you speak of them.’
‘No. I’m not close to them. They’re not that thrilled with my life choices.’
‘Really? Graduating with a double first from Oxford isn’t what they had in mind?’
‘Hell, no. I was supposed to marry someone fancy and respectable, with a country estate to match but not better our own. And to appear in Harper’s Bazaar articles...have tea at Kensington Palace.’ I can’t help rolling my eyes. ‘I’m exhausted just thinking about what they wanted for me.’
‘You don’t strike me as someone who’s into the society scene at all.’
‘I’m not.’ I shake my head. ‘Their wedding anniversary is in a week, and it’ll be a who’s who of the British aristocracy. And, yes, Harper’s Bazaar will be there.’
‘You don’t want to go?’
‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘It’s just—’
Thunder rolls around the apartment and I swear the windows shake in their frames. We’re going to die.
He holds me tighter. ‘It’s just...?’
I don’t know if he’s trying to distract me from the storm or if he’s really interested in my dysfunctional family, but talking is distracting me and distractions are good. Besides which, having opened up to him, I’m not finding it easy to curtail my thoughts.
‘I’m always trotted out as proof of their happiness. Their marriage is a success. They’ve had a child. An heiress. I swear they actually call me their heiress during their toasts every year—like that’s my soul function in life. To inherit.’ I shake my head. ‘I hate that. I’ve hated it for as long as I have understood their expectations. Or lack thereof. My existing is sufficient for their needs. My ambitions are irrelevant and slightly offensive to them. And my working for you is definitely tantamount to slashing the family tapestries.’
‘You make them sound like selfish bastards.’
I laugh. ‘Do I?’
‘Are they?’
His fingers are glancing over my skin, stirring warmth and desire inside my chest.
‘They’re products of their upbringings,’ I say, and then shake my head, for it’s disloyal to Grandma to implicate her in my father’s cold-fishery. He’s really a grump of his own creation. ‘Or perhaps of society’s expectations. I don’t know. They’re very...stiff upper lip. Cold. Emotionless.’
His lips twist. ‘Funny. That’s just how I would have described you a few weeks ago.’
My eyes widen and I look at him. ‘There’s a huge difference between maintaining a professional distance and being cold.’
‘Yes, there is.’ His finger lifts higher, running a line over my cheek. ‘You were doing both.’
‘I was not,’ I deny, offended by his description.
‘You made ice look warm.’
I move to stand, but his hands still me. ‘Why?’ he asks. ‘Why did you act like that around me?’
‘It wasn’t an act.’ I sniff, staring out at the storm-ravaged harbour.
But Jack’s insistent. ‘You’re not like it with anybody else. I never really noticed that until I saw you talking with Wolf DuChamp. And now I’ve paid better attention I see you weren’t like it with anyone but me.’
‘I...I was. That’s just how I am.’
‘No.’ He’s adamant. ‘The guys from the Tokyo transition team all call you “Gem”, like you’re some long-lost buddy of theirs. You’re friendly with Rose and Sophia. Amber raves about you. It’s just me.’
I open my mouth to deny it, but how can I? He’s totally right. I met Jack Grant and every single one of my defences was raised because I knew. I knew there was trouble on our doorstep: a chemistry we would need to work our butts off to deny.
‘So what is it about me, Gemma Picton, that had you acting as though I were the plague incarnate?’
My heart hammers hard in my chest. There is danger in this conversation. Danger of truth and honesty and far too much insight.
‘Maybe I thought you’d see friendliness as encouragement,’ I murmur, my tone light, going for a joke.
‘But not with Wolf or Barry or Clint?’
My expression is calm, but inside I’m shivering. ‘No.’ It’s a whisper.
God. What is he doing to me? He seems to have become ‘just Jack’, but my brain reminds me forcefully that the man made a billion-pound fortune virtually from scratch. He’s brilliant, ruthless and incisive. And determined.
‘When did you realise this was going to happen?’ He runs his finger higher, teasing my nipple through the flimsiness of my dress.
I arch a brow, my breath trapped in my throat. ‘Um...around the night you kissed me and...touched me...’
It’s a lie. I knew it from the moment I accepted the job. Proximity would feed inevitability. On reflection, I can’t believe I stalled it for two years.
‘I think you’ve wanted me longer than that.’
‘Do you?’ I clear my throat, and this time when I stand, he doesn’t stop me.
I feel his eyes on my back as I walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of mineral water. The bubbles are frantic—hypnotic, even.
‘Yeah.’
He stands, and I look at him helplessly.
‘What do you want me to say?’ I lift my shoulders. ‘I knew you, Jack. I know you. I know that you’re in love with your wife. I know that you sleep with women to forget her. Do you blame me for wanting to keep this insanity at bay?’
‘No.’ He drags a hand through his hair and his smile is ghostly on his face. ‘I blame myself for not letting you.’
His shoulders are broad, and an invisible, enormous weight is upon them.
‘I blame myself for not being strong, like you were. You wanted me, but you were never going to do a damned thing about it—were you?’
‘Of course not. Apart from anything else, you’re my boss. And that’s before I think about the steady stream of women filing through your bedroom. This is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.’
‘Yes.’ He nods, his eyes locked to mine. ‘But you don’t want it to end.’
I shake my head, seeking refuge in honesty at last. ‘Do you?’
‘No.’ And now his smile is broader. ‘Turns out I’m scared of something else.’
‘What’s that?’
‘How much I want you. Need you. And I’m scared of hurting you, Gemma.’
‘You won’t.’
He nods, but I know he’s not convinced. Nor am I. In fact, I would say Jack hurting me is as inevitable as the morning that will break over the harbour in the next few hours. But I don’t care. Having given in to this, I am just a tree in the middle of a storm, trying my hardest to hold on, to stand tall even as it threatens to uproot me for good.
The mood is oppressive. Suddenly I want to lighten it. To make him smile. To feel his warmth and contentment.
‘I bet you were a real little shit growing up.’
The ghost of our conversation lingers, but he makes a visible effort to push it away. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Hmm...remember who you’re talking to? You’re stubborn and selfish...’
‘Selfish, huh? I always look after you...’
My face burns hot and I’m sure it’s flame-red. ‘I didn’t mean in bed,’ I mumble.
His laugh is my reward. Sweet and husky, it makes my nerves quiver.
‘I see...’
Perhaps he takes pity on me. He strides across the kitchen and props his arse against the kitchen counter. I imagine his tattoo through the tailored cut of his trousers and absent-mindedly slide my hand out and curve it over his hip.
‘I was a good kid, actually,’ he says, not reacting to my touch visibly.
I like the intimacy of this, though. Perhaps more than I should. Of being able to reach out and feel him, to sense his nearness.
‘So your recalcitrance came later in life?’
He laughs. ‘I g
uess so.’
His hand lifts and wraps around my cheek. I inhale. This moment, his fragrance—everything. I fold the memory away and store it for later delight. It is a perfect slice of time.
‘I went away to school.’
‘A boarding school?’
His nod is a small movement—just a jerk of his head. ‘I won a full scholarship.’
‘And you call me an overachiever?’ I tease.
His smile is indulgent. ‘I had no choice. There was only one way out of the backwater I grew up in. I succeeded because the prospect of failure was too depressing to contemplate. You, on the other hand, m’lady, are motivated by something I don’t understand. You had everything... You were born with a fortune and a family lineage that dates back to the Magna Carta... It would have been so easy for you to stay within the boundaries of that life. And it would have been a good life.’
‘It depends on how you define “good”,’ I say simply. ‘I’ve never fitted in.’
‘I find that impossible to believe.’
‘Why?’
‘You could fit in anywhere.’
‘Trust me—I didn’t want to feel at home in that crowd.’
His frown is just a very slight twist of his lips. ‘So your parents are stuffy. What about your friends?’
‘Most of my closest friends I met later. At university. Then at Goldman. Deloitte.’
‘And here? With me?’
For a second my heart skids to a stop, because I think he’s talking about himself and there is something so delightfully needy about the question that I ache for him.
But then he continues. ‘Wolf. Barry. You seem to know everyone who works for me.’
‘Oh, right...’ Emptiness is a gulf in the pit of my stomach. ‘That happens. Your parents must be proud of you.’ I shift the conversation to him, hating the vulnerabilities he’s able to expose in me so easily.
‘Yes.’
He moves a little, bringing his body closer to mine, and then, before I know what he’s doing, he lifts me onto the bench, spreading my legs and standing between them.
Off Limits Page 13
