Impossible Love, The Complete Before You Go Series

by James, Clare

  “It’s going great,” I tell him. “The cases are interesting and the team is amazing. I read your paper too, the piece about reading people.”

  “And?” he asks, clearly interested.

  “It’s been really helpful, especially with the client testimony videos.”

  “You’ve gotten into those have you?” He rubs his chin. “That’s wonderful. I’m happy to hear it.”

  “Well, I’d be doing a lot more, but I’m still a little slow with this.” I hold up my casted arm.

  “Not your fault,” he says. “And you know, you are allowed to take a lunch. Despite what the first years say, this is not a sweatshop.”

  “Okay,” I tell him. “I will.”

  He pats me on the back and I settle in for lunch at my desk, knowing I won’t let up. At least not for a while, anyway. Plus, it’s not like I have a lot going on in the evenings. With Tabby gone and Foster keeping his hands to himself, I need something to keep me busy.

  Right now I’ll settle for that orgasmic brownie.

  ***

  I get back to work and two hours fly by before I have another guest.

  “How’s the hand, little lady?” Jake asks. He has not let up since the first day, checking in on me, walking me down to Foster in the evening, bringing me coffee. I hate to admit it, but it’s nice.

  “A lot better actually,” I tell him, honestly.

  “Happy to hear it,” he says. “So in that case, I was thinking I could start making it up to you.”

  I raise an eyebrow, my brain on high alert.

  “No, not like that.” He grins. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Taylor. I was thinking I could have you work on one of my top custody cases—Robins v. Robins. I’m in court next week, and you are welcome to sit in. Experience the wonder of the United States’ legal system.”

  Excitement runs through me, this would be amazing for my resume. “Really? You’d do that? What about Mr. D.? Think he’d agree?”

  Jake gives me one of his killer smiles. “Yes, yes, and yes. I already talked to Mr. D., as you call him, and he thinks it’s a great idea. The only thing is, I’ll need to bring you up to speed fast. That means your lunches and a few evenings are mine until we go to court.”

  “Done,” I tell him.

  “Okay then, we start tomorrow.”

  ***

  The meds continue to knock me on my ass, so I wait until I get home to take them. And that usually means an evening nap. Groggy, I pad out into the living room. My blanket is still wrapped around me and I’m holding it with my good hand.

  “Okay, Little Chef,” I hear coming from the TV, followed by some French music.

  I sigh at the cutest scene in my living room. Foster is curled up on the couch with a big bowl of popcorn watching Ratatouille. The big, tough man.

  I move in, wanting to get me some of that.

  The man and the popcorn.

  Without taking his eyes from the movie, Foster opens his arms for me to nestle in.

  I do, gladly.

  “This is my favorite part,” he says, once I lean back against him.

  Foster holds the popcorn out to me and I shovel in a handful. When it dissolves in my mouth, I almost moan. It’s seasoned with parm and some spices I can’t quite recognize. Even his popcorn is fantastic.

  We watch as the little rat tries to teach the goofy boy to cook. Surprisingly, it’s a really good movie—what I see of it anyway—when I’m not melting in Foster’s arms or daydreaming about his hands moving lower.

  When the movie ends, it seems neither one of us wants to move. We stay there curled up in each other. For this first time since this all happened, I almost thankful I broke my arm. Happy to have Foster close, thrilled to have him taking care of me, hoping it might turn into more.

  “You would be great at that, you know,” I tell him.

  “What? Cooking? I’m already great at it.”

  “No, running a restaurant. Your own place.”

  “Me? Come on. I’m not entrepreneur material. Plus, aren’t you the one always harping on me because I don’t have my shit together? You think I could run a restaurant?”

  “Yes, I do. The reason I tell you to get your shit together, is because I know you can do so much better.”

  “You say I run from responsibility.”

  “Well, you have in the past, but look at you now. Taking care of me. Your apprenticeship. You step up with things you care about. Maybe you haven’t cared enough in the past.”

  “Maybe I do better in the shadows of someone else. I’m the fuck-up, remember? The party guy. ”

  “Not true. I know that’s what you choose to believe. That’s where you’re most comfortable, but you’ve never been in the shadows, Foster. You’re more like an eclipse. You outshine everyone in the room, wherever you are.”

  “When was the last time you had your pain meds?” he scoffs.

  “It’s not the meds talking, dumbass. I’m being serious here.”

  “Yeah, well, that sounds more like my dad. He was a dreamer, risk-taker, and look where that got him. I think I’ll stick to the sure thing.”

  “You’re not him, Foster.”

  Why can’t he see that?

  Chapter 18

  Foster

  I spend the day running around like I’m batshit crazy—I drop Jules off, work at the restaurant, run errands, and stop by the Center to make sure the kids know I haven’t forgotten them.

  I’ve volunteered at New Day Counseling Center ever since Noah kicked me out of our apartment. Though I did spend a few months sulking and drinking first. Then I found something better. A place where I could be useful. I work with kids who lost someone due to drinking or drugs—overdose, accidents, drunk driving.

  While the parents and older siblings go to the Center for counseling and group meetings, I keep the younger kids entertained. We play games, hang out, and eat whatever treats I bring in. But sometimes it gets deep and we talk about what brought them in. That was the case last week—it’s also what sent me on my drinking binge. I admit it, I can’t stand to see kids cry. It messes me up.

  This afternoon, I could only stay a few minutes before I had to be back at D and D, and that’s left me a little edgy. I know I could’ve told Jules and she would have insisted I pick her up later, but she doesn’t know about the Center and I’m not ready to share that bit of information yet. It’d feel like I was only doing it for good PR or something—slimy and contrived.

  Similar to the situation going on in the apartment right now.

  Jules is giggling in the other room at something Jake said. Apparently they’re working on a case together.

  Working, my ass.

  Jules is whip-smart and incredibly talented, but I know this asshole has an ulterior motive. He wants Jules, simple as that. And he thinks this is the way to get her.

  I’m afraid he might be right.

  Yet here I am hiding out in Tabby’s room like a fucking pussy. I’ve got to get my shit together. Or, I’ll have no chance with Jules.

  I work on a few new recipes to show Chef Paul this week. He seemed pretty receptive to it. Though I should be in the kitchen doing this instead of writing on a pad of paper, but since douchebag is in there…

  Fuck it.

  I need the kitchen to do this, and I need to put my career first. Just like Jules.

  When I walk out of Tab’s room, they both stare in my direction. I hold up my hands. “Don’t mind me, just doing some work in the kitchen.”

  Douchebag makes a comment under his breath I can’t hear, no doubt an insult. I do, however, hear Jules’ response.

  “He’s training to be a chef,” she explains. “One of the best in the city.”

  Touché fuckface!

  “No problem, Foster,” he says. “Go at ’er.”

  What an ass!

  “Thanks,” I reply. “I will.” I put my headphones on and get to work.

  In the span of two hours, I make four new dishes. Four incred
ibly expensive dishes. I’m not even sure my first check will cover the expense of the ingredients. Amazingly enough, I’m able to push Jules and fuckface out of my head the entire time. It feels incredible. But not nearly as good as the hand sliding up my back right now.

  I turn into Jules and she removes the buds from my ears.

  “Are you trying to torture me?” she asks.

  “Maybe, why?”

  “My mouth is watering from the smells coming from in here.”

  “Where’s lawboy?” I ask, looking around.

  “He left. We’re done for the night.”

  “Hmph. I didn’t even see him leave.”

  “I know, you’ve been in the zone back here,” she says. “So do you need a taste tester?”

  “Always,” I say, chomping at the bit to have her try these new recipes. Well, actually I’m more excited about feeding her.

  I pick her up and set her on the counter. My fingers burn when they touch her hips, and it takes every bit of will-power I have not to nestle my body into those hips now that she’s at the perfect height for me.

  “Let’s do it up. You’ve been off your pills for more than twenty-four hours, right?”

  “Yep, I’m drug-free, baby.”

  “Okay, then I have two bottles open to enhance your experience, my lady. White and red.” I pace the length of the kitchen trying to decide what I should feed her first. Deciding on the scallops, I pull out several small plates from the cabinet and I begin to feed her.

  ***

  We are on our last dish, the chicken and artichoke pasta. Watching Jules eat has me so turned on, I honestly have no control left in me.

  Nada.

  “Well, I better shower up,” she says after taking her last bite.

  And that’s when I get the idea.

  “Shit, I knew I forgot something today,” I say.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Those plastic bags for your cast. Tabby only brought a few, I was supposed to pick up more.”

  “Oh.” Jules almost blushes.

  Yes, she knows where I’m going with this.

  “Okay.” She clears her throat and there’s a gleam in her eye.

  Is she happy about it?

  “Well, would you mind helping me again?”

  “Not at all.” I smirk. “But I’m not going in the tub in my jeans again.”

  “Foster,” she whines.

  “Jules,” I mimic her tone. “What? You can’t handle me in the tub with you?”

  “Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself.” She bites on the inside of her cheek. “Fine. You can come in—but you have to keep your underwear on.”

  “Okay,” I concede.

  At least for the moment.

  Within minutes we’re back in the tub together. This time, there’s only a thin layer of cotton between us and Jules is testing my resolve. She’s purposely rubbing her body against me, purposely arching her back as I start to wash her hair. Purposely making noises that are making me so nuts I can hardly function.

  “Okay, miss. We’ve got to set some ground rules. You’re killing me here.”

  “Okay, mister,” Jules throws back. “What if the rules are: there are no rules?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I just said it, dumbass,” Jules sasses. “I know you’re used to dealing with brainless skanks, so let me spell it out. The rest of the time we have together, there are no rules. We do what we want with each other. No commitments. No expectations. No hard feelings. When it’s done, it’s done. You can keep your skanks on speed dial. I can still look for my summer fling, but in the meantime, inside these walls, we enjoy what’s going on here. It can be our little secret.”

  Holy shit!

  Jules reaches back for my hand, moves it up to her lips, licking her way up each finger. Then she bites my pinkie and pulls my hand to her chest.

  I am so dead. Not that this isn’t exactly what I wanted.

  “What do you think?” she asks, looking back at me while batting her doe eyes.

  “I think I’d be an idiot to say no,” I say. It’s so easy to do. It’s always been easy with Jules. “You know what you do to me, baby.” I push into her now so she knows exactly what I mean.

  “Take it easy.” Her laugh is a little shaky. “This is just a little something-something until we both find what we’re really looking for. Don’t go weaving your way into my heart with all of your ‘baby’ talk.”

  Oh, Jules. If you only knew. You’ve had mine since we were fifteen years old.

  Chapter 19

  Jules

  Oh, Mama, what have I done?

  A summer fuck fest with Foster? The painkillers must still be in my system. What kinda crack did the doc put me on?

  I guess I could look at the bright side. Would said fuck fest be amazing?

  Yes.

  Will I enjoy every second?

  Of course.

  Will my heart survive when he gets on his bike and drives off into the sunset next week?

  I shake the Eight Ball in my mind: Very doubtful!

  Foster wastes no time as he leans up and takes off his boxers. We are now skin-to-skin and I almost burn on contact. He takes a washcloth, squeezes my body wash on it, and begins bathing me. Starting at my knee, he uses the cloth to make gentle little circles over my legs.

  Ugh, who listens to an Eight Ball anyway?

  Once Foster reaches my thigh, he slows his pace, running the cloth on the outside and working his way in. His breathing grows deeper. It’s warm and raspy at my ear, making me shudder.

  Yeah, Eight Balls are stupid.

  Foster kisses my neck as his hand reaches my hip. I sink deeper into him while his fingers continue exploring. He drags the washcloth across my stomach and moves to the next hip. This time his fingers dig into the tender flesh.

  I bite my lip to hold in a moan.

  “Fuck this,” he whispers in my ear as he throws the cloth to the other end of the tub. He grabs the body wash and squeezes it in his palms this time, rubbing them together to make a lather. And when his hands slide back down to my stomach, that silent moan escapes and my eyes roll back in my head. It feels…right. Perfect. Amazing.

  Foster’s skilled fingers run up along the underside of my breasts, up along the sides, to the top of my chest. My nipples tighten, begging to be touched.

  He teases me, stroking my neck and tracing my collarbone, and I show no restraint as my back arches into his roaming hands. He moves them down again at an excruciatingly slow pace, until they quickly graze over my puckered flesh.

  This time, I not only moan. I call out his name.

  He rewards me.

  Foster’s hands roughly cup my breast, kneading, squeezing, pulling. I lean into him, into every sensation.

  Then, without warning, he pinches the swollen peaks as his teeth sink into my earlobe. It’s almost too much to take. Heat pools between my legs and I begin to beg.

  “Please,” I say. It’s the only word I can get out.

  “What is it, baby?” he asks. “What do you need?”

  “Touch me,” I say, not at all ashamed. If I’m going to do this, I’m doing it all the way. Still, I’m terrified. His touch feels different than the times before. Better—if that can even be possible.

  “Where do you want me to touch you, Jules?” His voice is rough, strained. “Here?” he asks, squeezing my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Mmmm,” I moan.

  “Or here?” Foster runs his other hand down between my legs.

  I sigh and let my thighs fall open. I am completely losing control of this situation.

  “Ah,” his deep voice sings in my ear and he runs a single finger along my opening. “Right here? This must be the spot. But what about here?”

  Fosters legs tighten around me again, securing me in place, while his other hand runs down my backside, stopping there, circling the tender flesh.

  I call out again, not expecting that. At. A
ll. It’s forbidden, but he doesn’t seem to care. He seems more focused on bringing me pleasure and I don’t want to stop him. His finger stops circling and instead he applies the slightest amount of pressure.

  My breathing is a ragged pant now, but I don’t care how I sound or how I look. My body is completely intent on milking every sensation, every bit of pleasure that Foster offers.

  His other hand slowly, gently opens me. And soon, his fingers begin moving inside, no longer careful or gentle.

  I feel his excitement along my backside and I desperately wish I had the use of both my hands.

  Moving to sit up, I reach down to where he’s touching me. My intent is to pull his hand away and get this hot piece of man into my bed. Pronto. Foster has other plans. He pulls his fingers out. I can’t help but whimper when he does, even though it’s what I want at the moment. Just for a moment.

  “Bed,” I say to him.

  “No, Jules,” he says. “I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot. And neither are you.”

  He grasps my fingers and leads them deep inside my own body.

  “Christ, Jules,” Foster growls. “You are so incredible.” His hand helps to move mine faster and my head goes light. This is without question the most erotic thing anyone has ever had me do.

  His other finger is still putting pressure behind me, when he lifts me with his legs, ever so slightly. I’m trapped, and exposed, and completely under his command. My broken hand rests on the side of the tub, the other is moving inside with Foster’s guidance. My head rests on his chest and my body is now a few inches from the bottom of the tub, held by Foster’s muscular legs. My thighs are open and proudly displaying my most secret parts.

  Foster quickly pulls my fingers out to take a taste and I feel like I’m falling. My body is on fire wanting more…of everything.

  “My turn,” he says taking over the position my fingers just held. “Do you trust me?” he asks, all traces of playfulness gone. He’s serious about his next plans. “I want to try something.”

  “Yes,” I say without even thinking. “Of course I trust you.”

  “Good,” he says and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Hold on, baby.”