“Pop’s in a memory care center now, so I got to spend time with him before Alzheimer’s started stealing his stories, and his ability to know who I am. The dementia didn’t really set in until after I left for Penn. I’d visit when I was home, and he thought I was my father.”
I smiled, unsurprised after seeing the photograph of his parents. “What’d you say?”
He shrugged. “I made like I was him. He would say he liked my hair short, then tell me I needed a shave. He always asked about my ‘wife,’ his ‘baby girl’—my mom—and I’d tell him, ‘She’ll be along tomorrow.’ It was all lies, but it made him happy.”
“And now?”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t know any of us anymore. I can sit with him for an hour and he’ll tell me the same story two, three times, as though I don’t know him and haven’t heard it before. Something that happened when he was a young man, or when he was a boy.”
Grandma McIntyre had Alzheimer’s before she died. I hadn’t really known her. Daddy’s parents had always lived in South Carolina, where he’d grown up, and where his sister, her husband, and two cousins I barely remembered from childhood were now. There had been some sort of falling out. I wasn’t privy to the details, but our visits to see them—already infrequent—stopped when I was eight or nine.
Daddy’s father had passed away from a massive heart attack when I was in high school. My parents flew out for the funeral and came back in a snit—something about my aunt not appreciating the money they’d offered to help with Grandma’s care.
“No one ordered your sister to quit her job and be a full-time caregiver,” Mom had told Daddy in her best righteously incensed, middle-aged-lady voice. “That’s probably what killed your father—trying to do a job that should be left to professionals. Your mother doesn’t know up from down. She would be well taken care of in a home, and we would have paid our share.”
“Amanda doesn’t want to put her in a home—”
“Exactly. She’s making that choice. Let her deal with the consequences of it.”
Thus ended the conversation I overheard. Grandma McIntyre died two years later. I was away at school. Mom texted to let me know: Daddy’s mother has passed away. We’ll be flying to Greenville on Friday, staying at the Westin. Back Sunday. It was like she was just some lady they knew and not my grandparent.
“What’s the home like, where he lives?” I asked Isaac.
“It’s nice. All the residents have some type of dementia. The staff is trained to keep them safe and comfortable. They have activities and encourage social interaction. We’re lucky. Other places are like elephant graveyards for olds.” He watched me for a moment. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that expert deflection. Well done, Ms. McIntyre. Ain’t falling for it though.”
His perception unnerved me. I couldn’t hide behind my habitual barricades and fortifications. I didn’t like it. My lips twisted and I groaned and rolled my eyes up to stare at his ceiling. “It’s kind of how I deal.”
“Or how you don’t deal. Diversion and artificial cheerfulness.”
My lips parted and my eyes burned, and damn him if I didn’t try to smile. “Well done, Mr. Maat. That was a direct hit.”
“Masking your pain is why it’s coming out in your sleep. You’re professionally trained. You must know it.”
“I tried, Isaac. It didn’t work, okay? It didn’t work because I did something I can’t take back. Maybe you don’t know what that kind of guilt feels like.” I struggled to sit up again, hurt and furious and wanting nothing more than to disappear, but he was sitting on the blanket and I was under it. I got no farther than propped on my elbows.
He stilled me with one hand under my jaw. “Try again.” His words were soft. His touch was cool on my heated skin.
My breath issued in shallow pants. I stared into his eyes, watched as his gaze moved to my mouth. Desire flared hot in my belly, a longing beyond anything I’d ever felt, and when he lifted his eyes back to mine, I knew he could see it. I leaned my face into his palm, desperate to stoke the banked passion buried just beneath the surface of his heart before he extinguished it.
“Don’t step to me, Erin McIntyre.” His fingers betrayed him, stroking lightly behind my ear before his mind was aware that the actions of his body contradicted his words.
I’d never heard the phrase before, but what it meant was plain—and spoken far too late.
“I’m already here,” I said, a whispered surrender and a plea. He was near enough that I could taste his breath. Inches separated his mouth from mine, but I was trapped beneath the blanket and could get no nearer. Despite his words, he would be the one to close the space between us—or not.
He leaned closer and his lips touched mine. I had never been kissed so carefully. Our eyes were open, gauging every fragile trace of emotion, savoring every measured point of contact. His tongue traced along the surface of my bottom lip, pressing for entrance. I fought to remain still under his hand, calm under his mouth, responding only, afraid to wake him to what we were doing. Afraid he would stop. Lips slid together, tasting, assessing. I wanted to thrash free of the constricting blanket and climb him. I wanted to wrap my arms and legs around him and pull him in and never let go.
All at once, he deepened the kiss and shoved the blanket to my waist, freeing me. I rose like a sliver of iron to a magnet, hands twisting into his T-shirt to pull him closer, eyes falling closed, trusting him, mouth opening in unrestrained submission as his tongue swept forward, intoxicating and sweet. I was terrified and recklessly alive, certain those disparate states of being weren’t meant to be so strongly intertwined.
His hands slid to my shoulders, down my arms to cup my elbows, leaving trails of fire on my skin. Until he used that leverage to disconnect his lips from mine by self-inflicted force. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Why?” My arms were still folded between us, still clinging to him by his shirt, which was suddenly a too-insubstantial hold.
He stared, unmoving, still holding us apart. The room was lit with the picturesque light pollution of downtown and a glowing half-moon in a clear pre-daybreak sky. “You report to me. I’m your supervisor. This is highly unethical, not something I’ve ever done or intended to do.”
“My father owns the company—”
He stood and backed away as I came onto my knees, my hands reaching out but no longer able to touch him. His eyes bored into mine. “Is that a threat?” He passed a hand over his face and breathed a quick, juddering sigh. “You were emotionally vulnerable, and it’s my responsibility as the person with the supervisory power not to cross that line. There is no excuse and you have every right… But I wasn’t alone in that kiss—”
“No.” I sat back on my heels, confused and shaking my head. “There’s no threat. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant we’re not the same as others in our positions. The power structure between us isn’t like other management hierarchies. I report to you, yes, but my father is your boss’s boss. It could be argued that I’m…” I swallowed. “…taking advantage of you.”
He sighed, eyes closed, but before I could be relieved by it, he said, “Either way then. It can’t happen.” He crossed his arms, the physical manifestation of an emotional retreat. “You’re a McIntyre. It can’t happen.”
“You say that like… like I’m a Capulet and you’re a Montague.”
Okay, so Romeo and Juliet weren’t the best #couplegoals comparison in the history of lovers, fictional or real, since—spoiler alert—they both died violently at the end, but the fact that he said my surname like it was a disease made it an apt one.
He disregarded the comment as if I’d not said it. “Will you be able to sleep?”
Internal Erin laughed bitterly and said, NO. “I don’t know.” I turned to examine the eastern sky, still a deep indigo. There was no hint of dawn on the horizon. “What time is it?”
“Around four, I think.”
I did not want to lie on his
sofa for hours, restless and wide awake, mortified at vomiting in the presence of and then sexually molesting my disinclined-to-be-touched boss—after rousing both of us (and his dog) from a dead sleep with my nightmare. At the bottom of that glorious mental list of Erin’s Fuckups, I was still horny as hell.
I lay back, studying him as his eyes shifted from the window to connect with mine.
“It would be best if you could get a few hours’ rest.” His arms remained loosely crossed. He’d moved no closer, and I knew he wouldn’t.
“I’ll try. I’m sorry I woke you.”
Isaac had no obligation to my attraction to him. Zero. It was my cross to bear. All mine. But damn, that kiss. I’d been kissing boys since I was eleven, and no kiss had ever compared. The man had skills, a thought that led my sex-starved imagination to what other skills he might have. Probably had. I was thankful my face was in shadow so he wouldn’t read my mind again.
“No worries, Ms. McIntyre.” He clicked his tongue twice and said, “Come,” to Pete, and my body caught fire as they padded away, silent but for the faint, retreating taps of Pete’s toenails on the floor.
I closed my eyes and pulled the blanket to my chin, stretched taut as the elastic on a slingshot just before it discharges. Christ almighty, Isaac, why? Why that word? Come.
Come, Ms. McIntyre.
Aaaughhhh.
My hand slipped past the slack waistband of the sweats. I bit my lip and turned my face into the pillow to muffle the sounds I knew I would make. Fingers stroked and pressed as my imagination rioted and filled with visions of my boss shutting the door of my office behind him, rounding my desk and pulling me up from my chair, pushing my skirt to my waist and fucking me against the desk. Come for me, fantasy Isaac said, and I obeyed, hard, my entire body heaving on his sofa.
Face still buried in the pillow, I panted and shook with strong orgasmic aftershocks. Drifting in the delicious vibrations, I returned to earth gradually, reluctant to examine what I’d just done. My sex life had been wholly fictitious for months now. Anonymous, imaginary men. Quick and dirty fucks, to completion and no farther. Enough to bring relief and, often, just the blessed oblivion that followed.
Was it exploitation to intentionally create personalized pornographic hallucinations about a very real someone who’d just issued the sternest and most resolute of rejections? He’d all but vowed Not now, not ever. My breath slowed, deep and even, as my body grew languorous, eager to sink deep into the satisfied sleep I’d just prepared it to have.
You’re a McIntyre. That unalterable trait seemed to outstrip all else—our relation to each other within my father’s company and whatever sentiments or cravings had just erupted between us. In the end he hadn’t said, You’re my subordinate. He hadn’t said, Your father owns the company I work for. He’d said, You’re a McIntyre. As if my family name was the boundary he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, cross.
I didn’t understand, and my mind was too lethargic and full of my favorite new fantasy to try.
He sat down in my desk chair and unbuttoned my blouse as I stood before him. “Come, Ms. McIntyre.”
“Again, Mr. Maat?”
He pushed the lacy cups of my bra aside and pulled me, legs spread wide, over his lap. “Yes. Now,” he commanded. His hands gripped my hips, mouth sucking a nipple deep, tongue swirling around the peak as he rocked into me.
I came again.
chapter
Twenty-one
I woke to a sunrise coloring the ecru walls a peachy pink, a low light over the kitchen stove, the drone of cars on 7th Street, and the smell of coffee. I stretched, listening for Isaac, or Pete, and heard nothing. My phone screen revealed battery life of thirteen percent, a text from a high school friend who would be in town for Thanksgiving and wanted to meet up, and the fact that I’d slept a solid four hours since my wicked, filthy, Isaac-centered fantasies.
My body tingled at the roused memory, all sensation pooling between my legs in one formidable surge. Oh. My. God. I had never been this strung out, every shred of erotic awareness on one person. One person who was having none of it. I groaned like a petulant child. If I weren’t worried that Isaac might walk around the corner any second, I could replay one of last night’s sexy-time visions or dream up a new one.
I promised my dirty little mind that it could have its treat tonight when I was safe in my own bed, and stood. Brr. The apartment had grown cooler overnight. With the blanket wrapped around me, I crept toward the coffeepot and found a clean mug and a note.
Erin,
Pete and I went for a run. Coffee's brewed - help yourself. I'll make breakfast when I get back. I assume your phone's dead or dying, so there's a cord on the counter.
Back soon.
Isaac
I plugged in my phone, set myself up on the opposite end of the sectional, and curled under the blanket, facing the engrossing sunrise view that stretched across the width and height of the apartment like Sheila Anderson’s mural, but lovelier for its ephemeral existence. Gauzy clouds hung over the horizon, under-lit by the rising sun and backed with bright blue. In half an hour, this sunrise would vanish forever. Like last night’s kiss, which hardly seemed real.
The only exposed parts of me were my head and the hand holding the steaming mug. I breathed in coffee vapors with a contented sigh and listened for the sound of the door latch turning. I didn’t have to wait long. Pete came straight to me when they entered, as though I belonged there. He snuggled his head into my lap and wagged with his whole body.
“Hello, Pete. Did you get your exercise whether you wanted it or not?” I extended my warm hand outside the blanket to scratch behind his ears, which felt like thin, flappy shavings of ice.
I heard Isaac pouring a cup of coffee in the kitchen behind me.
“His ears are freezing!” I said, turning.
He was shrugging off a hoodie. Not the one I’d puked on, obviously—he had claimed to have others. This one was a vibrant royal blue and matched the tank underneath. The combo was almost as yummy on him as his purple shirt and tie. Folding the hoodie over a barstool, he rolled his shoulders and picked up his coffee.
“They’ll warm up. It’s cool out this morning.” He sipped from the mug, staring absently out the window.
I blinked, ogling him like a sex maniac, which after last night I had to concede might be the case. The oversized armhole of his sweat-soaked tank was cut low enough to display the curve of his ribs and the rippled edges of abs when he moved. The rising sun made his perspiration-slicked skin glow golden brown, darker where individual muscles were demarcated.
I’d learned the names of fundamental muscle groups in freshman biology, but I was salivating with lust and my recall was momentarily shot. His arms were solid, defined. Biceps, my brain said, stupidly proud of itself. Biceps. Black mesh shorts exposed equally impressive, rock-hard legs. Calves.
He toed off his sneakers under the barstool and turned toward me.
My fuck-me eyes were activated, and I couldn’t flip the switch fast enough to hide them. Flustered, I rotated back toward the window like a guilt-ridden addict whose self-reproach did not extend to a resolute cessation of unauthorized fantasies. I rubbed Pete’s icy ears, pretending wholesomeness, and wished Isaac would offer himself up for breakfast.
The refrigerator door opened. “Blueberry waffles?”
I wondered if whipped cream was involved. What is wrong with me? “Yes, please.”
“I’m going to shower real quick first.”
The heavy doors to his room slid closed. The shower switched on. I fought to keep from imagining his big, soapy hands sliding over my skin and wanted to cry over the injustice of it being make-believe.
I scrambled up and out from under the warm, tempting blanket, embracing the chill like a cold-air shower. From his sunspot on the oblong rug, Pete lifted his head. “More coffee, that’s what I need,” I explained.
He lowered his muzzle back to his outstretched paws and huffed a little sigh. Even
the dog knew I was full of shit.
By the time Isaac emerged, I’d rummaged through his cupboard and fridge to assemble the ingredients and utensils on the counter. The waffle mix was whole grain, the blueberries frozen, the milk skim, and everything was organic. I hadn’t encountered a single bit of junk food in the whole place—except for a half-eaten pint of ice cream. Butter pecan, my favorite.
“You make a good sous chef,” he said, pouring and stirring. He’d dressed in worn jeans, hems frayed on his bare feet, and a blood-red, long-sleeved henley. The sleeves were pushed to his elbows. For months I’d seen him in nothing but slacks, dress shirts, and ties. Now, in a short span of hours, I’d encountered Batman Isaac, sweats-and-T-shirt Isaac, sweaty-tank-and-shorts Isaac, and now this. I was being tortured.
“I’m good at all sorts of things.” I was not in the mood to be subtle.
In typical Isaac Maat fashion, he took an eternity to respond. I waited him out, because I was learning. He heated and buttered the waffle iron, folded the blueberries into the batter, and poured the first batch before speaking.
“What do you want from me?” His eyes, dark and unwavering, gave nothing away.
“I think you know,” I said, hedging.
His brows hitched, but he kept silent, taunting me to answer his question.
My heart leaped. In a futile attempt to appear composed, I took a slow, shallow breath and exhaled it in jittery stops and starts that signaled the final ineffective warning against the words about to leave my mouth. Words I couldn’t make unsaid once they were uttered.
“I want you.”
His eyes glowed like polished obsidian. “You want me to fuck you.”
Freshman-year cheer practice, I’d been dropped during a basic basket toss, landing on my back so hard that I couldn’t breathe for several seconds. That vividly graphic sentence from Isaac Maat had the same affect.
“Yes.” My face went hot. My fingers tingled because all the blood had left them to pool elsewhere.
“As we established last night—”
Brave (Contours of the Heart Book 4) Page 18
