Irresistibly Yours

by Lauren Layne

  And more than that, Cole enjoyed it. Even before their disengaged parents had passed away, Bobby had always been Cole’s only real family.

  It was Bobby who taught Cole that people could be unconditionally good.

  And it was also through Bobby that he’d learned just how cruel they could be. People stared too long, laughed when they shouldn’t, or could be all-out mocking.

  Even the ones with good intentions got it wrong more often than not. Whether it be talking about Bobby as though he wasn’t there or speaking to him as though he were a child, people in general just screwed up.

  It was because of these people that Cole kept Bobby separate from the rest of his life, although he sometimes feared that Bobby would misunderstand his motives—that he would think Cole was ashamed of him.

  Luckily, this had never seemed to cross Bobby’s mind, and Cole was glad for it, because it couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Was he guilty of being overprotective of his brother?

  Perhaps. But ashamed of Bobby? Never.

  Bobby was the light of his life. His constant.

  Which was why, on this particular Sunday, when Bobby was sick in bed with a nasty stomach virus and strict instructions for Cole to keep his distance, Cole was feeling a bit…

  Lost.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. Cole was lonely.

  He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Sundays as his way of relaxing—of connecting—until the opportunity wasn’t there.

  But the most startling realization wasn’t that Cole didn’t want to spend Sunday alone. The startling part was the way in which he’d decided to remedy it.

  Somehow, Cole found himself outside the callbox of Penelope’s apartment building, trying to hide his apprehension as he hit the button next to her name and waited to see if she was home. Waited to see if she’d let him up.

  “Hello?” Her voice was crackly, although not at all as confused-sounding as it should be for a single woman who wasn’t expecting company.

  Unless she was expecting company. Ah, fuck, if she had plans with someone else—another man, he’d—he’d—

  “Hello?” she said again, just a tiny bit impatient.

  He hit the button before she hung up. “Hey, it’s Cole.”

  He waited for the expected pause. The few moments of silence while she registered that her colleague was standing uninvited outside her apartment building and figured out how she felt about it.

  As usual, Penelope surprised him. There wasn’t so much as the slightest delay before her voice crackled through, even more chipper than her hello. “Cole! Hey! You wanna come up?”

  He stared for a second at the callbox.

  How was it that everything was so simple with her?

  Even with this push-pull thing they had going on, the sometimes kissing, sometimes arguing, sometimes platonic mess they had on their hands, she sounded genuinely glad to see him.

  He closed his eyes in gratitude, just for a second.

  “Cole? You still there?”

  “Yeah,” he said, punching the button once more.

  “Well get up here already.”

  She let him into the building, and as he made his way up to her floor and knocked on her door, he realized that it wasn’t all that long ago that he’d been in this very spot, waiting to walk her to Jake and Grace’s dinner party.

  Back then, she’d opened the door dressed in a robe, and his fingers hadn’t itched to remove it—much.

  And now, Cole found himself hoping that history would repeat itself. That she’d open the door in a robe, and that he’d peel it off her body…

  The door opened, and Cole blew out a sigh of regret.

  No robe.

  Just an enormously oversize Texas Rangers sweatshirt, cropped black yoga pants, and bare feet.

  “What’s up?” she said, ushering him in.

  Cole had to laugh. “Are you this welcoming to all uninvited visitors?”

  She snorted. “Trust me. When you’re as short on visitors as I am, you’d be excited to see anyone.”

  He smiled, although it wasn’t quite the answer he wanted. He’d wanted her to say that she was happy to see him….

  “But I am in an extra good mood,” she was saying. “Edgar’s alive.”

  “Come again?” he said, following her into the living room where the TV blared the Boston/Toronto game. The Yankees were away, on the West Coast, so their game wouldn’t be on for another hour.

  “Edgar,” she said, gesturing at the fishbowl. “My fish. I thought he was dead, because he didn’t eat his breakfast, and was just sort of floating there, but maybe he was only resting, because now he’s moving again.”

  Penelope was staring down at the fish with an adoring look on her face, and Cole could have sworn that his heart squeezed.

  So much damn affection for a fish.

  “ ’Sup, Edgar,” he said, glancing down at the black goldfish. He glanced at her. “Maybe he’s lonely. Have you thought about bringing him a friend?”

  Her mouth turned downward, her eyes sad. “He had a friend. Lola. She died a couple days after I brought her home.”

  Cole nodded solemnly. “May she rest in peace.”

  “She’s totally in fish heaven where Finding Nemo plays twenty-four-seven,” Penelope said, good humor returning. “Can I get you a beer?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”

  She seemed to think about this. “Oh. Sure. What are you doing here?”

  Suddenly Cole regretted his prompting her to ask the question, because he remembered too late that he didn’t have a damn clue.

  He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and Penelope gave him a sly grin. “Thought that might be the case. Beer?”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, running his hand through his hair.

  “Take your jacket off,” she said over her shoulder as she headed to the kitchen. “Sit. Get comfortable. It’s an awesome game.”

  He glanced at the screen as he shrugged out of his jacket. “It’s zero–zero.”

  “Exactly,” she said, coming back and handing him a bottle of beer. “It’s the fifth inning and neither team has gotten a hit.”

  “Really,” he said, drawing out the word as he turned back to the screen with more interest.

  She nodded and sat beside him, curling her legs up underneath her. “It’s early yet. One’s bound to mess up. But still, how cool would a double no-hitter be. There’s only been one in MLB history—”

  “Fred Toney and Hippo Vaughn,” he interrupted, “in nineteen seventeen. The first hit didn’t happen until the tenth inning.”

  Penelope glanced over at him, then lifted her bottle. “Well done, sir.”

  He leaned back with a smug grin, kicking off his shoes before putting his feet up on her ottoman. “It’s annoying, huh? No longer being the only one in your social circle who can spout little-known sports facts?”

  “I kind of like it,” Penelope said, taking a sip of beer. “Maybe it’s different being a woman. I hate to stereotype, but most of my female friends aren’t all that interested in talking sports. I mean, some like football, some like baseball, et cetera, but there’s nobody quite as passionate about all of them as me.”

  He glanced over at her profile. No makeup. He loved it. “What about guy friends?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, they care more about my knowledge of hockey facts, I guess. It was easier in my twenties, when I could hang out at a pub on a Saturday with a bunch of guy friends. But the older we all got, the more they started to drop off. Get married. They sort of quit coming out for all-day sports benders, you know?”

  He did know. She was all alone.

  Just like him.

  Well, not just like him. To be fair, she had a point about it being easier for him than her to hang with the guys.

  He could see all too well why her pool of guy friends had dried up. Penelope wouldn’t have thought of herself as
a threat to all those wives and girlfriends, but there was something appealing about a woman you could be yourself with; someone who wouldn’t tune you out when you talked about RBIs and penalty flags. He was betting all of her guy friends’ significant others had known it.

  Cole knew Penelope thought that her “one of the guys” vibe detracted from her appeal but she was dead wrong on that. He didn’t know a single other woman in his acquaintance who’d be so satisfied—so thrilled—to be spending Sunday in front of a potential double no-hitter.

  It was pretty fantastic.

  As though determined to prove his point, Penelope glanced over at him during the next commercial. “I was going to order pizza tonight. You wanna stay for dinner?”

  Say no. Don’t intrude on her privacy. Don’t get too used to this.

  “Sure,” he said, keeping his voice easy.

  She reached for her cell on the table. “What do you like?”

  “Whatever you’re getting is fine.”

  “I’m boring. Pepperoni and olives?”

  “Perfect,” he said.

  The double no-hitter came to an end two innings later, but their disappointment was tempered by the fact that the pizza arrived at the exact same time.

  Cole paid for the pizza as Penelope fetched them more beers.

  “Switch to the Yankees?” she asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he said.

  “It’s going to be a wipeout,” she said, reaching into the box and pulling out a slice. She took an enormous bite as she dug around in the couch cushions for the remote.

  “Those are the best kind,” he said.

  Penelope had a string of cheese on her chin, and he wiped at it with his napkin and she grunted a thank-you before holding up the remote in triumph.

  It wasn’t a sexy moment. Not in the least romantic, her happily chewing pizza while she found his sports team on TV.

  I could do this, he thought. I could do this every damn day.

  She glanced over, pausing in her chewing as she saw the look on his face. “What’s wrong? You’re not going to tell me now that you don’t like olives, are you?”

  He shook his head, reaching into the box for a slice of pizza as he tried to clear his head.

  This was just comfortable, that was all. And a little bit unusual. That didn’t mean that it was special.

  That was a path he didn’t even want to explore.

  The next couple of hours passed in a contented blur, as they shared the pizza, drank beer, and alternated between arguing about close calls and agreeing that the home-plate ump had a definite bias against inside fastballs.

  As the ninth inning approached (Penelope had been right, a total wipeout, with the Yankees up 7–1), Cole realized that it was perhaps the most enjoyable sports-watching experience he’d had in years.

  And almost immediately on the heels of this realization was a stab of disappointment that it was already over. It was one thing for two sports editors to watch a game together, but what happened after the game was over?

  He couldn’t stay. They weren’t dating. Weren’t sleeping together.

  And judging from the way Penelope was eating yet another piece of pizza, he highly doubted that she was planning or anticipating a seduction.

  Not that he was thinking that either, it was just…

  He watched as she tugged a piece of pepperoni off the slice and ate it in little nibbles. It was both weird and cute.

  He wanted her.

  Don’t do it, Sharpe.

  He did it.

  He sat up and quietly plucked her beer and pizza out of her hand, setting them both on the coffee table.

  She looked at him in surprise at the same moment his thumb and forefinger found her chin and tilted her face to his.

  And then he kissed her.

  Chapter 15

  Penelope hadn’t seen the kiss coming. She’d been more focused, on, well…pizza. And baseball.

  Had she been a little hyperaware of Cole?

  Maybe.

  Okay, fine, yes, of course she’d been hyperaware of him.

  The man smelled like man in the best way possible. But it wasn’t just that.

  It was the slightest edge of vulnerability on his face when she’d opened the door. He hadn’t been himself, and the fact that he’d come to her meant more than she wanted to admit.

  But she’d been doing a damn good job of keeping things casual. Of not letting him become more important to her than he already was. Those walls he’d referred to—they were firmly in place.

  Right up until the moment his lips landed on hers.

  Now those walls were crumbling fast.

  Cole’s tongue swiped across her bottom lip and she moaned.

  Except…

  Her hands found his shoulders, ready to push him back.

  “Kiss me back,” he said against her mouth. “Kiss me back, Penelope. Please.”

  It was the desperation in his voice that did her in. There was a need there, beneath all Cole’s sexy confidence, that she couldn’t say no to.

  She inched forward on the couch, placing her lips against his and kissing him softly. His groan sent an odd little thrill through her. She tried it again, letting her lips tangle with his, her hand inching up to cup his cheek.

  He let her control the kiss, his hand moving over her back in soothing motions as she learned his taste. Learned the scratch of his stubble against her lips. Learned the way his big hands made her feel even smaller than usual as they ran over her back and hips in long, lingering strokes.

  The kiss grew ever more urgent, and she felt gentle pressure as Cole tried to coax her onto his lap.

  Penelope’s newfound confidence evaporated instantly, and she pulled back.

  His eyes were dark with arousal as he lifted his eyebrows in question.

  She pressed her lips together. They tingled. In a good way.

  “You should know…I’m not very good at this,” she said. You’re going to be disappointed.

  He smiled and ran a finger over her lower lip. “Don’t worry. Because I’m very good at this.”

  And then he proved it, wrapping his hands around her hips and easily lifting her on top of him so that she was straddling him on the couch.

  “Oh,” she said softly.

  He smiled wickedly, wrapped his hand around the back of her head, and pulled her face down to his, his tongue sliding against hers in one hot, delicious stroke.

  Yes. Yes, he was good at this.

  If their earlier kisses had made her hot, this kiss set her on fire. His lips and tongue were everywhere. His hands touching every part of her that he could reach.

  His hands cupped her butt, tugging her firmly against his erection and rocking upward. She moaned, her hips moving of their own accord now as she ground against him.

  It was good, but not enough. Not nearly enough. There were still layers separating them, and Penelope had never hated clothes as much as she did in that moment.

  As though reading her mind, Cole’s hands slid up under her shirt, his palms touching the bare skin of her back for the first time, and that simple, skin-to-skin contact made a moan escape her lips.

  He ran his hands up until they found her bra strap, unsnapping it with disconcerting ease before sliding his hands around to cover her breasts.

  Penelope squeezed her eyes shut.

  This would be the part where he changed his mind. The part where he realized that she had absolutely no curves. That her clothes didn’t lie—that she wasn’t secretly hiding a bombshell figure under all the layers.

  “Ah, fuck, Pen,” he said, his fingers plucking her nipples in toying strokes. “You’re fucking perfect.”

  Her eyes flew open, searching his face for signs of a lie.

  But then he was tugging her shirt over her head, roughly pushing away the cups of her bra.

  Before she could register embarrassment, his hand slid up her back, pulling her toward him as his mouth found her breast.

&nb
sp; Her breath came out on a gasp as she arched into him. His tongue flicked at her nipple before he shifted to her other breast, and Penelope forgot all about being embarrassed, forgot all about the fact that her sexual experience paled in comparison to his.

  None of that mattered. There was only Cole with his hot mouth and clever fingers.

  She had to touch him.

  Her hands roamed over his shoulders, his chest, then down to the hem of his shirt. He sat up and in one easy motion tugged the shirt off.

  Penelope’s mouth went dry. He was perfect. Toned and golden and very, very male.

  “You are so out of my league,” she said, scraping her nails over his bare chest.

  His eyes slitted. “Not from where I’m sitting,” he said, his voice husky.

  He sat up straighter, his hands cupping her face as he nipped her lips. “Let me take you to the bedroom.”

  His hands slid down, his thumbs finding her nipples and sending any protests she might have uttered out the window.

  She started to climb off him, but he scooped his hands beneath her butt, pulling her to him as he stood, easily holding her up.

  “Nice trick, Sharpe.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “You like?”

  In answer, she wound her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck and kissed him as he walked them into the bedroom.

  Penelope had a moment of embarrassment that she hadn’t made the bed—she rarely bothered.

  But Cole didn’t seem to mind when he deposited her among the mess of blankets and slowly lowered himself over her, his tongue running lazy circles over her throat until he inched down and sucked a nipple into his hot mouth.

  Then her pants were gone—how had that happened?—and his lips were tickling the soft skin of her lower belly.

  “I like the way you taste right here,” he said, licking at the sensitive skin just below her navel. “Sweet.”

  Penelope propped herself up on her elbows, watching as his mouth skimmed over her skin, leaving a trail of fire everywhere he touched.

  One of his hands drifted lower, over her thighs, before moving back up again, gently raking over the fabric of her underwear, and Penelope arched her back.