Nothing Personal (The Kincaids)

by James, Rosalind

  She was about to give it up and leave after all, the quiet convincing her that everyone had gone. She and Alec hadn’t made any plans for tonight, she reminded herself sternly. She had no earthly reason to be disappointed just because he’d passed the time during a lackluster presentation by teasing her.

  She jumped a little at the ringing of her desk phone, the sound harsh in the silence. Picked up the receiver before glancing at the illuminated display.

  Conf Room

  She cleared her throat. “Rae Harlin.”

  “Rae.” His voice came out slightly tinny. She could picture him in there, leaning over to punch buttons on the speakerphone that stood in the center of the table. “Could you come in here a minute?”

  “I’ll be right there,” she heard herself answer. Hung up the phone, logged off dutifully, shut the lid of her laptop. Stood up and went to her door, shut it behind her, and walked the thirty feet to the corner conference room.

  She could see through the clear panel at the top of the frosted glass that made up the interior wall that the light was on in there, although the door was closed. Was aware of the rectangles of light showing in irregular patches from the facing buildings. Other late-stayers finishing projects, working hard.

  She didn’t knock. Just opened the door and stepped inside.

  He was leaning against the credenza beneath the windows, arms folded across his chest, white dress shirt still trim and tucked in perfectly. His sleeves rolled a few careful times, his ankles crossed, the picture of casual ease.

  But his face wasn’t casual, and his eyes were burning into her.

  “Shut the door,” he said. “Lock it.”

  She turned, twisted the knob to its horizontal position, and faced him again.

  “Just how wet,” he asked her, “did you get?”

  She swallowed. Decided that she was going to make him work for it.

  “I don’t know.” She looked back at him, kept her gaze steady. “I haven’t checked. Why don’t you see if you’re man enough to find out?”

  He shoved off, uncrossed his arms. “What a good idea.”

  He came close, and she raised her chin a little despite her best intentions, prepared herself to be kissed. But he didn’t do it. Instead, he grabbed her under her bottom and set her on the table. One hand dug into the twist of hair at the back of her head, and she could hear the ping as hairpins hit the polished surface of the table. With the other hand, he shoved her skirt up, then closed it around her thigh, just above the knee.

  “I’m starting right here,” he said. “Let’s see if you tell me first, or I find out for myself.”

  Strong fingers gripped the back of her head, held it in place for him, and he was finally kissing her. Starting out gently enough, his mouth teasing out a response, urging her to yield.

  She wasn’t done, though. She kept her mouth closed, held her knees together as best she could. If he wanted to play seduce-the-employee, she was going to make the game good.

  He wasn’t having any of it. His tongue moved over her upper lip, then he was sucking her lower lip between both his own, pulling it inside, and her mouth was opening under his, and his tongue was in her mouth.

  She got a little distracted by the slow, thorough kisses that left her mouth tingling and swollen as he went on and on, still holding her head exactly where he wanted it, but she did manage to notice that his hand was pushing her narrow skirt further up her bare thighs, moving behind her to pull her to the very edge of the table, then grasping her leg again. Above her knee at first, stroking slowly up as he continued to kiss her, his thumb on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She felt herself shifting her weight as he got closer, willing him to move faster, to hurry up and get there. If he noticed, he didn’t show it, just took her mouth again and again until she could barely think, until all she could do was hang onto his shoulders and kiss him back.

  He stepped back a pace at last. Pulled her to stand again, got both hands under her skirt, lifted it up to her waist, and put her back on the table.

  “Spread your legs for me,” he told her.

  And this time, she didn’t try to resist. She opened her thighs, welcomed him as he came to stand against her. Because she wanted to feel it, the press of him into her, only the fabric of her thong between the woolen fabric and her tender flesh.

  And then he’d stopped kissing her, was pushing her onto her back, onto the hard surface, his hand still behind her head, keeping it from hitting the table. Her skirt was around her waist, and he had both hands around the waistband of the thong, was lifting her hips, pulling it down her legs, over the heels she still wore.

  “Let’s have a look,” he said, and if there was dark satisfaction in his voice, well, he’d earned it. He had a hand on each thigh, was opening her wide, almost to the point of discomfort. And she’d never felt so open, so vulnerable.

  “The answer is,” he told her, “very, very wet. The answer is that you’ve been waiting for this all day. And I’m going to give it to you right now.”

  He was dropping down, out of her sight, leaving her staring up at the expanse of white acoustical tiles, the long, narrow light fixture. Until she felt the touch of his tongue, and nearly climbed right off the table. After that, she wasn’t looking anymore, because she’d squeezed her eyes shut to concentrate on every delicious sensation. Slow, then faster. Stopping for a moment, then slow again. Harder, then softer. Never letting her rest. Never allowing her attention to wander even for a moment.

  But there was more to come, because he had a finger inside her, then two, and was moving them in a rhythm that had her hips following along, and he was doing things to her with his mouth and tongue that had her past the point of moaning, where she could only express what she was feeling by crying out, louder and louder.

  And if she’d been tender and tingling all afternoon, every bit of anticipation she’d experienced was paid off in one glorious rush of sensation, until she was bucking under his hand and mouth, her back arching against the hard wood. Keening, now, as wave after relentless wave slammed through her, hard and hot, and left her gasping.

  She was still shaking when he rose into her line of sight again. His hands closed under her hips, pulling her up tight against him, and then the hot pressure was filling her, the climb starting again.

  She reached out blindly with both hands, found the edge of the table behind her on either side, and held on as he moved inside her. Out so slowly, inch by careful inch, followed by a hard thrust that left her shaking. Over and over, and she was almost there, calling out again.

  And then he pulled out altogether, and she was reaching for him, opening her eyes. And begging.

  “Alec . . . No. Please. Come back.”

  His only answer was to reach under her lower back, pull her towards him. She stumbled in her heels when her feet hit the floor, but he still didn’t speak. Not until he had turned her so she was facing the table, and was pushing her down again.

  “Down on your stomach,” he said. “Right now.”

  She turned her head to the side so her cheek came to rest on the wood, felt him pulling her back again, only her toes reaching the floor. He was lifting her, shoving her skirt up again, then pushing something underneath her so she lay on an incline, her bottom in the air, her feet dangling in the heels he still hadn’t taken off. He guided himself inside with a hand on each of her hips, and it was slow again. But this time, his fingers came around between her legs, rubbing in time with his thrusts, sending her rocketing up higher with every stroke.

  He took his hand away, and she cried out in dismay until he replaced it with the other one, keeping up the rhythm of his hips all the while.

  She felt the tip of what must have been his thumb, hard and wet, inside . . . inside, his fingers closing over her bottom, holding on tight, and was shocked into stillness. But only for a moment, because his other hand was still moving over her from the front, and he was still thrusting into her, and it all felt too good, too strong.r />
  “Alec . . .” she moaned. She had no purchase with her feet off the floor. She got her elbows under her, squirmed back against him, rested her head on her hands, and felt it all. “Oh . . . no . . . help.”

  He stopped. Everything, like a stop-motion video.

  “Help?” His voice sounded hoarse behind her. “Stop?”

  “Don’t . . .” She got out. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”

  She heard the soft sound of his laughter. And the movie started again. All of it. The hand, the thumb. And him. All of it, filling everything. Making her feel everything.

  Her hands were slippery with sweat against the table, and she couldn’t hold herself up anymore anyway. She reached out desperately for the edges again, gripped the smooth surface as best she could, put her cheek against the hard wood, and held on as he drove her higher.

  “More,” she gasped. “Alec. More.”

  So he gave her more, and then more still, and everything in her was tightening, winding up, higher and higher, until she was finally, blessedly, over the top. She heard herself crying out so loudly that she was very nearly screaming, the gasping groans as he joined her, and they were both there together, spinning down and down, out of control.

  Long seconds passed, the only sounds the moans she couldn’t control, his harsh breathing. Then his hand was on her back, gentle, as he withdrew from her.

  “How’re you doing down there?”

  “Uhh . . .” She couldn’t answer. She realized that she was lying face-down on a conference table, her hands stretched limply at her sides, her legs dangling. That she was still wearing her blouse, that her skirt was around her waist, her underwear gone. What a sight she must be. She struggled back, impeded by something under her hips, felt his hands coming out to pull her upright, turn her around, pull her skirt down, set her in a chair.

  He grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the credenza, made a few adjustments. Picked his shirt up from the table where, she realized, it had been providing padding under her hips, and pulled it on. It wasn’t looking nearly so neat anymore.

  “Stay there,” he commanded. “Give me a sec.” He zipped himself up, reached down and handed her the underwear he’d tossed to the floor, then went to the door and unlocked it, pulled it shut behind him.

  She sat in the chair, held the silky thong, and trembled. She should get up, she thought vaguely. Put her underwear on. Go to the ladies’ room herself and clean up. But she honestly wasn’t sure she could.

  He was only gone a minute, then he was back with her, twisting the lock carefully shut again. He came over to her and pulled her up, then sat down again with her in his lap.

  “Desiree.” He smoothed a hand over her hair, which she could tell was falling down. “Baby. Talk to me.”

  She laughed a little, the sound husky and low. “I think . . . I’m still stunned. Did you really just do me on the conference table?”

  She could hear the grateful relief in his answering laugh. She should probably look at him, she thought vaguely. But she’d shut her eyes, because lying against his chest felt so much like the only thing she could do right now.

  “I think I just did exactly that,” he said. He was kissing her cheek again, smoothing his hand down her back, along the silk of her blouse.

  “Mmm. You did a really good job.” She had her hand around his upper arm, over the swell of bicep, squeezing and stroking there. “I think I’ve been folded, spindled, and mutilated.”

  “Well, hopefully not mutilated. But folded and spindled . . . definitely.” He kissed her again. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up, go out to dinner. What do you say?”

  Her legs were a little wobbly, still, when she stood up. But it had been worth it.

  She saw the thick blue binder on the table, and stopped.

  “What was that,” she asked slowly, “underneath me?”

  The flash of his white grin was her answer. He didn’t even have to say it, but he did anyway.

  “The employee manual.”

  Past History

  “Just for the record, I don’t think I want to have anal sex.”

  She got him just as he was sitting down, and he very nearly spilled the glasses of red wine he’d brought back from the bar. He caught himself, handed over her glass, and settled into the leather couch near the fireplace in Ziggurat’s coziest corner, much quieter than usual at nearly nine o’clock on a Wednesday night. Quiet enough, discreet enough, he hoped, for a quick drink and dinner, because all he wanted to do was feed her fast, get her upstairs and into his bed, and hold her all night.

  “OK,” he said cautiously. “Want to elaborate?”

  He could see even in the dim light that her color was rising, but she plowed ahead. “You’re too big, and I think it would hurt.”

  “All right. Did you not like what I did after all, back there? Too much?”

  Still embarrassed, still honest. “No. I mean, yes, I liked it. But I don’t think I want to go any further with it.”

  “Well, for the record.” He set his glass down so he could take her hand. The hell with discretion, because this mattered. “We aren’t going to do anything you don’t want. All you have to do is tell me.”

  He could feel the tension leaving the hand he held in his own, and sighed with relief that turned out to be short-lived.

  “So you’ve done that before?” She studied her glass, took another sip.

  “What? Which part?” He was starting to sweat now. Talk about your minefields.

  “Anal sex,” she said promptly. “Have you done it?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. I could lie, I guess, but if you talked to somebody who knew better . . .” He gave her a rueful smile. “Unfortunately, some girls do kiss and tell. But I gather you haven’t.”

  She laughed a little herself. “You pretty much exhausted the breadth of my experience by the second time. What else have you done?”

  “What else?”

  She dropped his hand, made an impatient gesture. “If I’m going to tell you what I don’t want, I have to know what it is. What you’re thinking you want to do.”

  “Uh . . . You should probably assume that I’ve done everything. Well,” he hastened to qualify as her startled glance flew to his face, “I’ve never had sex with a man, and I’ve never hurt anybody. Or paid for it,” he added as an afterthought. “But I’m a guy, Desiree. When it’s been there to take, I’ve pretty much taken it. And if a woman’s wanted something, I’ve pretty much given it to her. I’ve been around the block a time or two.”

  “Around the block?” she complained. “Sounds to me like you’ve cruised the entire neighborhood.”

  That forced a laugh from him. “Could be.”

  “And that’s all right with you,” she probed, searching his face. “To have me say that I don’t want to do something.”

  “Absolutely all right with me.” He could feel the ground getting a little firmer under his feet again. “Mandatory, in fact. Although if you tell me that you only want to do it in bed at night, under the covers, in the missionary position with the lights out and your eyes closed, I might have to do some hard negotiating.”

  “And I take it,” he added with a disappointed sigh when she was smiling again, “that this means I have to send the chickens back.”

  Which made her burst out laughing, and the relief filled him, and he grinned back at her and took another sip of his own wine, and thought, Man, I love this.

  And that was when he heard the voice from behind him.

  “Hi, Alec. How’re you doing?”

  He turned, already tensing. Oh, no. Not quiet enough.

  “Hi, Debra. How are you?” He set his glass down, stood, and blessed his good memory. He could almost always remember their names. But the timing was . . . awkward.

  The pretty Asian girl gave him a look at her perfectly straight little teeth, then smiled at Rae. “Hi, how are you? I’m Debra.”

  “Rae,” she said. He didn’t need to glance down to see
that all her wariness was back, could feel her withdrawal as clearly as if he were still holding her hand.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” Debra told Alec. “Have you been out of town?” In other words, he thought, why didn’t you call?

  “Just busy, I guess.” Please go away.

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” she said. “I’m meeting some people myself. But . . .” She reached into her purse, pulled out a business card, pressed it into his palm. “If you know of anybody who’s looking for help with PR, give them my name, would you? I’m thinking about making a move.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rae,” she said with another smile. And was off again with a toss of the shiny black hair, her hips moving in an easy glide under the short skirt.

  Alec sank down again, reached for his glass. When in doubt, drink. Then changed his mind, set it down.

  “So. Where were we?” he asked. “Just about to order some dinner, I think.”

  Rae ignored that for the pathetic attempt it was. “This would be the downside for me, then. Was that recent?”

  “No.” He sighed and looked at her again. “I told you. Months. Not since that first day I met with you.” He flicked the card restlessly against the fingertips of the opposite hand. “And anyway, I just started wondering if what I’ve always thought of as my irresistible personality was actually some kind of networking.”

  A sharp laugh greeted that idea. “You mean that’s never occurred to you?”

  “Ouch. Some ego, huh?” He grinned, handed her the card. “But we are still light on the PR side, so if you’re interested . . .”

  She ripped it neatly down the middle and dropped the pieces onto the table in front of her. “No way, buddy. Not on your life.”