by Grey, R. S.
I leave my wild curls as they are and apply just enough makeup to appear as if I’m not wearing any at all. I spritz my neck with a delicate perfume that will find its way to his nostrils the moment I step into his office.
He’ll think, What is that glorious scent?
Me. I’m the scent.
At 11:00 AM, I glide into Crescent Capital like I’m on ice skates, waving and smiling to anyone who cares to acknowledge me. Curious heads pop up from cubicles, watching me pass. The office manager points me in the direction of Beau’s corner office and I mouth, He’s expecting me, to his secretary and then let myself in.
My plan hits a speed bump when I see that he’s not alone. There’s an attractive blond guy sitting in a chair on the other side of Beau’s desk. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and a pair of thick black-framed glasses. He looks like the prince from Cinderella, if the prince wore Hugo Boss.
“I didn’t realize we were expecting company,” says the attractive mystery man, arching a brow at me as a slow-spreading smirk overtakes his mouth.
He looks like a devious hellhound ready to pounce.
“We weren’t,” Beau says sharply, drawing my attention to him.
He’s sitting in front of a panoramic view of the French Quarter. It’s a view that says, I have this city by the balls and I know it. His desk is made of solid wood. His chair is polished leather.
He’s reclined, watching me with steady blue eyes.
I’m supposed to have taken him off guard, but his features betray nothing. He’s shirked his suit jacket in favor of rolling the pale blue sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. I’ve never been so attracted to someone’s forearms. They’re not a body part that should do anything for me, and yet I can’t look away.
“To what do we owe this pleasure, Ms. LeBlanc?” he asks simply.
No.
He’s not allowed to sound so sure of himself. It’s like he’s been expecting me all morning.
I step forward and wave the coffee cups I brought with me. They’re still steaming. If I’d had access to a love potion, I would have spiked his. As it is, milky lattes from French Truck Coffee will have to do.
“I brought you a late morning pick-me-up.”
His friend laughs. “Where’s mine?”
What he’s really saying is, I’m disappointed you aren’t here for me.
I smile sweetly and step toward him. Oops—my thigh brushes his knee and I don’t pull away.
“Here, please have mine. Hope you don’t mind—I already took a sip.”
I’m being dirty and conniving. I think in another life, I would have made a fabulous scorned ex-lover.
He takes the coffee and puts his mouth right where mine was. “Mmm, hazelnut is my favorite.”
One long sip and our eyes are locked. It’s a bizarre dagger twisting into Beau’s heart, and he reacts just like I hoped he would.
“Russ, give us a minute.”
His friend pouts, and it’s such a silly thing to see on a man his age. Not at all my taste.
His eyes stay on me as he replies, “Aw, I’d rather stay.”
“Get out.”
Beau’s tone leaves no room for arguments.
A shiver runs down my spine and I have to concentrate hard not to smile. Remember, Lauren, he’s not sexy, he’s mean and bossy, always ordering people around and doing whatever he wants and—
Russ surges to his feet and interrupts my pep talk, his shoulder brushing mine as he rounds the chair. “If you don’t find what you’re looking for here, my office is just down the hall.”
I laugh innocently. Oh, Russ. Russ, Russ, Russ. You were never part of my plan, but you’ve played the perfect pawn. I want to take him out for a big steak dinner and tell him he’s been a good boy.
He leaves. The door closes with an ominous click, and then I turn back to Beau. His jaw is locked tight, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. Usually, I would take a moment to indulge in the details of his appearance, but today I have to stay on task.
“Can I have a seat?”
I sit before he replies. Then I realize I’m still holding his coffee, so I lean forward and smile. “Oh, right. You probably want this.”
My cleavage is in his line of sight, and it’s not an accident.
He scowls. “Why are you here?”
I sit back down and cross my legs. My hands are folded on my lap when I shrug. “Wasn’t it you that started the whole work pop-in tradition? At least I was thoughtful enough to come bearing gifts.”
He picks up the coffee and takes a sip.
I smile sweetly. “I put a little bit of cinnamon in it, just like you prefer.”
I learned that detail 10 years ago. My dad would brew a large pot every morning, and I’d always make sure there was cinnamon out in case Beau came over to pour himself some before leaving for class. The reminder of how lovesick I was heats my blood.
“Are you on your way to yoga?” he asks.
I offer an exaggerated laugh before cutting it abruptly short. “No. Haven’t you heard of athleisure? How’s your coffee?”
“Hot.”
“Do you want me to blow on it?”
His brow arches, but his resolve doesn’t crack. Time to improvise.
I push to my feet and turn to give myself a mini tour of the space. It’s beautiful. His firm is housed in one of the old buildings in the French Quarter so the views out the window are of traditional New Orleans architectural details: hanging ferns and colorful facades. Inside, he’s decorated the space pretty sparsely. There are hardly any personal photos or knickknacks.
I finger a picture of him and his mom, forgetting that I originally got up to give him a better view of my backside. Maybe I’m not so good at this after all. I need to refocus.
I turn and smile seductively. He’s watching me inspect his space, leaned back in his chair, fingers entwined on his lap. For a second, we have a silent staring contest, and then he cocks his head to the side and speaks.
“Lunch plans?”
“No.”
He pushes the intercom button on his phone. “Michelle, we’ll take lunch. My usual, please, and add a lemonade for Ms. LeBlanc.”
When he’s done, he pushes his chair back and stands. My back hits the bookshelf behind me.
“You told me the other day that you wanted me to pursue you when you were seventeen.”
My throat goes dry. “I was silly.”
“And now?”
“Now I know better.”
His jaw tightens.
“You seem to hold my decisions back then against me, but there was no decision to make. It wouldn’t have been right.”
“So what? Do you only ever do what’s right?”
My question is a weak weapon.
“‘So what’?” He’s angry with me now. “Let’s say I kissed you that day in my apartment. Let’s say I touched you—let’s say I fucked you. The hurricane still would have torn us apart, and you’d probably be in this same spot demanding to know why I took advantage of you.”
He’s wrong, but then, so am I. I knew it was impossible for us to be together back then, but I suffered for that. I cried and ached at the injustice of it all, but it never seemed to bother Beau. It didn’t eat away at him like it did me. I wanted us both to suffer, and that’s why I’m here now. He owes me heartache.
“I don’t think you’re here because you’re angry,” he says, stepping closer. “I think you’re curious.”
My gaze snaps up to his. His eyes are the color of open ocean.
There’s no mincing his words.
He’s seconds away from stealing control of this situation.
I didn’t wield clingy yoga pants and a steaming latte only to have him hijack my temptation train. I didn’t lie awake tossing and turning last night just so he could corner me against the bookshelf and show me yet again that I’m the one who’s putty. I’m not the lovesick wimp. No. I step forward and place my hands on his chest. He’s rock solid under hi
s button-down. His chiseled muscles only annoy me more.
“You know what, I’m not that curious. Want to know why?” I push him until the backs of his thighs hit his chair and he sits. I hover over him, and I feel powerful—in charge. “I’ve imagined it so many times that I doubt you’ll be able to stack up. You know: never fuck your heroes.”
In a flash, his hands reach up and he grips my hips. With one rough tug, I’m sitting on his lap, straddling his thighs. The chair squeals under my added weight. Fear spikes my blood.
His hands squeeze and I sway slightly. My body is a live wire. Raw. Sparking.
“You’ve imagined this?” he asks.
I take two calming breaths, angry that my stomach is quivering.
“A million times,” I admit, training my voice to sound bored. “Every way you could possibly kiss me. Every dirty word you could ever say. Imagination was all you left me with. It’s no use, though.” I shrug and look down at my nails. “With such high expectations, I doubt reality would ever stand a chance.”
At this point, I’m in the running for an Academy Award.
He chuckles once and it’s a husky, dark sound. My thighs try to grip together, but Beau’s between them. Friction rubs me in all the wrong places. His hand reaches up to cradle my neck. His thumb brushes against my pulse and I feel it leap in response, punching against my skin.
“You’re so cute,” he says, brushing his finger back and forth.
I frown.
I was going for more of a slutty temptress vibe.
I look down and try not to squirm. He’s getting hard.
“Do you always have your guests sit in your lap, or only when you run out of seats?”
He laughs again and the friction drives me mad. I want to grind down onto him, roll against his hard thigh. I’m seconds away from mewling like a kitten.
His hand moves higher and the pad of his thumb skims along the edge of my bottom lip. I never knew there were so many nerve-endings there. They fire one after another.
“Are you still seeing Preston?”
“Why does that matter?”
My question sounds desperate, like I’m crawling toward water in the desert and someone asks if I’d prefer sparkling or still.
“Because I’m not kissing you while you’re dating another man.”
He reaches for the intercom button on the desk behind me and his chest brushes against mine. My back arches instinctively. My nipples are mutinous. If you won’t touch him, we will.
He asks his receptionist to call my dad’s design firm.
“Ask to be connected with Preston Westcott.”
I sit stunned.
This is inappropriate, and yet, I don’t budge.
His receptionist says it’ll only take a minute. True to her word, it’s even less.
“I’ve got Mr. Westcott for you on line 2.”
Beau reaches to press the blinking light and then he holds the phone out for me.
“Hello?” Preston asks. His voice is faint since I refuse to bring the receiver up to my ear.
Beau—impatient jerk that he is—wraps his hand around mine and forces the phone higher.
“Talk,” he says, not even bothering to lower his voice.
I scowl.
“Hello?” Preston asks again. “I didn’t catch that.”
Beau squeezes my waist. His fingers brush up underneath my tank top, and I’m compelled to speak.
“Preston. Hi!”
“Lauren?”
I clear my throat and glance away, scared to look at Beau while I’m on the phone with Preston. Beau doesn’t let me get away with that though. His hand grips my chin lightly and he tugs me back. Now our eyes are level and his mouth is half a foot away from mine. I’m staring there, desperate to feel his lips.
“Tell him.”
I swallow and wet my lips.
“Umm…we can’t see each other anymore.”
Beau’s lips turn into a satisfied smirk and he rewards me by tugging me up higher on his thighs. I can feel him there between my legs. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
“What? What are you talking about?” Preston asks. “Why do you sound so weird?”
Um, because I’m seconds away from an orgasm and Beau isn’t even really touching me. My panties brush across my sensitive skin and I tremble.
“Yup. Yeah, it’s just not going to work out.”
“Is someone there with you? I thought I heard a voice a second ago.”
“Yes, sorry.” Then I realize what I’ve just said, and I backtrack. “No. No, it’s just me. I just wanted to call and say thank you for everything, but we can’t see each other anymore.”
“Why?”
Oh, because I’m currently dry-humping another man at this very moment?
Because I’m half in love and he hasn’t even kissed me?
Because my panties are wet and my skin feels tingly and Beau is drawing little circles on my stomach beneath my shirt and if he goes any lower I will make a little noise in the back of my throat, a soft cry that will sound an awful lot like a plea.
“Lauren? What’s wrong?” Preston asks impatiently.
Beau growls, reaches forward, and ends the call.
The line goes dead. The phone gets yanked out of my hand and then Beau is cradling my face and bringing his lips to mine.
My heart leaps in my throat and I open my mouth to protest. I’m scared. Maybe I don’t want this after all. I’m supposed to guard my heart! But it’s my lips he’s after, softly brushing mine against his. Light. Gentle. Soft. It’s the beginning of a fireworks show. He isn’t bringing out the big guns right away. He doesn’t sweep his tongue into my mouth and shove it down my throat. This is a dance, and just like with everything else, Beau’s a perfect leader.
He applies just enough pressure that I want a little more. I fist my hands in his shirt and wrinkle the material without a care in the world. For the rest of the afternoon, he’ll have to deal with the aftermath of this kiss. I wish I were wearing red lipstick so I could brush a little bit on his collar. At least my perfume is there, marking him. Later, in the break room, someone will make a little joke about the floral scent and Beau will be reminded of what it felt like to have me on his lap, rolling my hips, kissing him back.
This is the kiss I wanted 10 years ago. This is what I begged him for, and now that I have it, I don’t want to let it go.
He makes a move like he’s going to lean back, but I pounce and drag him closer, tilting my head and opening my mouth. He takes the hint and our kiss ratchets up another 20 degrees until the top of the thermometer breaks and mercury shoots out. We’re panting. Groaning. Lips are clashing and tongues are dancing, and I think I’m asking him to bend me over his desk—but then, of course, lunch arrives.
“Mr. Fortier? Your lunch is here!”
His receptionist tap-tap-taps on the door and I yell at her to go away.
Beau clamps a hand over my mouth and laughs.
“Yes, Michelle. Thank you. Just leave it out there.”
“But Ms. LeBlanc’s lemonade is getting warm.”
Ms. LeBlanc’s EVERYTHING is getting warm.
Beau’s more in control than I am, on the inside at least. Outwardly, he looks like he just got thoroughly fucked. His hair is tousled from my hands. His shirt is askew, and I managed to pop a few buttons so I now get a peek at his chest. There’s a sprinkling of dark hair and tan skin calling my name. I press my hand into the gap of his shirt and it’s the surface of the sun. I want to lick it.
He lets me sit there on him, feeling his chest for one…two…three seconds, and then he rolls his chair back and deposits me on the floor. My legs are jelly. I lean forward to hold myself up on his desk.
“I’m afraid I have to get back to work now,” he says, dropping a kiss to my head like I’m a dainty little bird.
He’s thinking about work at a time like this?! Should I be thinking about work?
I straighten and clear my throat. “Yes. Me to
o. Lots of business things to do.”
“How late do you work tonight?”
He’s checking papers on his desk as he asks me this. I was just giving him a lap dance and now he’s looking at papers on his desk (!!!). Unless they contain the nuclear codes, he should not be looking at them.
I take offense.
“I’m leaving early actually. Family dinner.”
My mom is making my favorite meal: Chinese takeout. I know if I try to cancel she’ll twist my arm and drone on about how I’m her only child.
I round the desk as he watches me with those blue eyes.
“What about tomorrow evening?”
“Busy.”
It’s the truth: I’m going out with a few friends, old McGehee girls, getting into the Carnival spirit and all that.
He smiles knowingly and glances back down at his very important documents. “That’s fine. You can keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Playing like you don’t want me to sweep everything off my desk and fulfill 10 years’ worth of your backlogged wishes.”
HOLY SMOKES.
My brain works overtime imagining that exact scenario. Pens flying. Coffee cups tipping over. Papers fluttering to the ground. It would be chaos—sweet, delicious chaos.
“Are you going to stay and eat your lunch?”
110% NO. I’m sweating through my clothes.
I shake my head.
He smirks. “Then I guess I’ll see you at the luncheon on Saturday.”
“AND THEN HE said ‘I guess I’ll see you at the luncheon on Saturday’ and I fled from his office like my pants were on fire.”
Rose gasps in horror on the other side of the phone. “No you didn’t.”
