Marc stared back at me for a long second. Like he thought I might just dematerialize. When it became clear that I wouldn’t move—or couldn’t move, to be more accurate—he pushed up from his desk. He said something to the bald man. God only knew what. Then the man scurried out and Marc closed the door behind him.
“I’m guessing we won’t be getting that ad account,” he said dryly.
“That’s it?” My words were just shy of a splutter. “That’s all you have to say?”
“I’m not sure what to say.”
He sounded so truly perplexed that I almost bought it. But as my arms dropped to my side, the phone I held in my hand reminded me why I was there.
“How about an apology?”
“For?”
“I hope you’re kidding. You can’t send me messages like that, Marc,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Oh, please.”
“What kinds of message do you think I’ve been sending?” he replied.
I ignored the heat in my cheeks. “Dirty ones.”
“On your phone?”
“Yes.”
“About your underwear?”
He looked amused for just enough time that my reply came out as a snap.
“Yes, Marc! My underwear. Is that funny?”
He ran his hand over his hair. “Look, Aysia. I haven’t sent you anything. I’ve been in a meeting since I got back from—shit.”
I waited for him to finish. Instead, he frowned. He stuck his hand into his suit jacket and pulled it out again. He frowned even harder. Then he moved back to his desk and slid one drawer after the other. When he’d looked into each one, he brought his gaze back up to mine.
“Liv,” he said.
“What?”
“She stole my goddamned phone.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
“How?”
“She tricked me into lunch using your phone.”
“Of course she did,” I said with a sigh.
Marc stepped closer, then stopped uncertainly a few feet away. “She’s trying to get us to talk.”
“By making me so mad that I humiliate myself?” I shook my head. “No. Never mind. I know her. She’s devious.”
“And deviant, apparently. What did she say that got you so riled up?”
“Might as well look. It’s not like I have any dignity left.”
I held out the phone, and he reached over without moving any nearer. He even managed to keep our fingers from brushing, and I couldn’t decide if that disappointed more or relieved me more. Once he had the phone, he pulled back and flipped through the messages, a small smile playing across his lips.
“She really is good,” he said.
“She’s horrible,” I replied.
“She’s your best friend.”
I blinked at him. “What did she feed you for lunch? Eye of newt with a side of brainwashing?”
He chuckled. “None of that. Just crepes.”
“Crepes?” I repeated, thinking maybe I’d heard him wrong.
“Sorry. I know you hate them.”
“I don’t hate crepes. I...” I trailed off as the world swam a little.
“Hey.”
Marc’s hand was on my elbow, steadying me, and I was too shaky to pull away like I ought to have done. Instead, I leaned into him, grateful for his strength. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, working hard to get a hold of the panic before it got a hold of me.
“What did she want me to talk to you about?” I asked.
“She made me promise to ask about Walt.”
“She said that? She said Walt? And she did it while eating crepes?”
“Yeah, honey.”
I let the endearment slide. “What else?”
“Do you need to sit down?”
“No. I’m okay.” I didn’t let go of him, though. “Just tell me what else Liv said. Please.”
“That he was your first and only boyfriend. That he died of cancer.”
“That’s it?”
He leaned away and gave me a look that asked if that wasn’t enough all on its own, but all he said was, “That’s it.”
Unable to fight a sudden need to be close, I slid a hand to his waist and tucked my body against his. I clung. And he let me. It sent an unusual wave of sadness through me. I exhaled and let the feeling ebb and flow, tugging at the parts of my heart and mind that I usually kept under tight lock and key.
“I was five when they moved in next door,” I said in Marc’s reassuringly solid chest.
“When who moved in, honey?”
“Liv and Walt.”
“They were brother and sister?” His surprise was evident in his voice.
I nodded. “Walt was eleven months older, and he never let Liv forget it. Even when they were little like that. He knew exactly how to push her buttons. Just how far to go before she’d run and tell their mom.”
“And you liked that.”
“I loved it. Liv was always a bossy, funny little person. So opinionated. She had to control everything. But Walt never let her. He used to make me laugh so hard. I mean, what kind of six-year-old knows how to drop an effective wink?”
Marc ran a hand over my hairline. “Haven’t met one myself.”
“Because it shouldn’t be a thing.” I smiled affectionately at the memory, the image of it filling my mind as I added, “I knew from the beginning that I loved him, even if I didn’t really know what that meant. By the time I was twelve, I had this whole life planned. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
Marc’s finger came down the side of my face to hit my chin. He didn’t try to pull my face away from his chest, though. He just stroked back and forth soothingly.
“Not embarrassing at all,” he said. “Better than a boy band fantasy, right?”
I surprised myself by laughing. “I guess. But just as cliché. Best friend’s big brother and all.”
“Still better than coordinated dance moves and a cheesy pop riff.” He kissed the top of my head. “So when did he realize he loved you back?”
“It was his thirteenth birthday. Big party. Lots of people—family and friends, too—at this beach even though it was October. It was starting to get dark, and I was sitting by myself on a log while things were winding down. All of a sudden he was beside me. I can’t remember the conversation, but it wasn’t serious. Then boom. He kissed me.”
“Boom, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“And that was it?”
I shook my head against him, enjoying the way the soft fabric of Marc’s dress shirt rubbed into my cheek. “He said we were too young. Actually. That I was too young. But he didn’t want anyone to kiss me before he did. Or after. He asked me to wait until I turned thirteen, too, the next January, before we made anything official.”
“Patient for a thirteen-year-old boy.”
“Frustrating, for a twelve-year-old girl who’s already been waiting for seven years.”
“And then he got sick.”
“Yes.” A thick lump formed in my throat. “Around spring break. It happened exactly the way it does in those sad, made-for-TV movies. The bruises. The tiredness. Not feeling well for months. Then he got a cut that wouldn’t stop bleeding and they finally sent him in for testing.”
“Leukemia,” Marc said.
“Yes. Chronic lymphocytic leukemia. They caught it too late. The cells were too spread out, and his lymph nodes were overrun. Walt barely responded to treatment. But he still lived for a year.”
“Hell of a fighter.”
I closed my eyes. “He said right up to the end that he’d make it. He was so determined. I think that when he died, it was more shocking to him than anyone else.”
“
I’m sorry you went through all that, honey.”
I’d heard those words a hundred times in the days after Walt died, from a hundred people. But for some reason, coming from Marc…they mattered for the first time. And it was like the metaphorical floodgate. It burst open, and a dozen emotion rushed in. Long pent-up grief. Relief. Something warm and deep and soothing.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I leaned back and tipped my face up. With my three-inch heels on, our lips were already so close that I could feel the warmth of his mouth without any effort at all. And when he exhaled my name, I could practically taste him, too.
“Kiss me,” I whispered back.
“You’re sure that’s what you want?”
“Right this second…it’s what I need,” I admitted.
Marc didn’t hesitate. He tilted his head and dropped his mouth to mine. The kiss was thorough and tender. And strangely, everything else didn’t slip away. It was all still there. Walt and the memories he filled. The office and the people I knew were just on the other side of the closed door. And I didn’t mind. My whole life became a background for that exact moment.
Chapter 12
Marcelo
Aysia’s lips were soft. Yielding. Vulnerable. Yet somehow, I was still under her control. Still kissing her on her terms. Which at the moment had nothing to do with sex.
And fuck did I like it.
Her arms came up my shoulders, and her hands caressed the back of my head, then teased at my hair gently. She pressed herself to me, her curves aligned with my planes, the grooves of our bodies locked together.
Even then, it still wasn’t about sex. Need and release and comfort and nothing more. Or everything more. Hard to say which. I was damned sure, though, that it was a fucking good thing.
Not that I wasn’t thoroughly turned on. I couldn’t say I didn’t enjoy it as much as I enjoyed taking her and letting her take me. Hell. Maybe, in some ways, I even enjoyed it more. So when she pulled away, kissing me lightly three more times in quick succession, I was disappointed. Until I looked down and saw the emotion in her eyes. Then I grinned like a fool. “Hi.”
She smiled back. “Hi.”
“Doing okay down there?”
“Been worse.”
“Me, too.” I kissed the tip of her nose. “And thank you for trusting me enough to tell me all of that.”
She looked away and rubbed at the little tear-mark she’d left on my shirt. “Sorry about that.”
“It’ll wash out.”
“It’s silk.”
“So it’ll dry clean out.”
“Still.”
I studied her downcast face for second. “Are you really apologizing for making the world’s smallest mess on my shirt, or are you apologizing for crying?”
She exhaled heavily. “I don’t know.”
“Well. For the record…you don’t need to be sorry for either.”
“You’re only saying that because I’m wearing waterproof mascara.”
“I’d like you even if you completely destroyed my shirt. And even if your mascara ran and gave you raccoon eyes.”
The tension in her face eased. “Ah. You’re familiar with the look. Made a lot of girls cry?”
“A few,” I admitted. “But most of my experience comes from having a really blubbery sister.”
“A sister?”
“Three years younger. Creative. Lots of emotion.”
“You’re close?”
“I like to think so.”
“You haven’t mentioned her before.”
“I like to save a few details for the second illicit weekend away together.”
Her face drooped, and she let out small sigh. “This is a mess, isn’t it?”
“Which part? The making out in the office, the illicit weekend, or me being close to my sister?”
“Funny. I mean us, in general.”
“I want to argue. But I’m too busy feeling smug that you said ‘us’. Have dinner with me tonight.”
“We still shouldn’t see each other, Marc.”
I dipped my head down and kissed her lightly. “Okay.”
“Okay?” She leaned back, surprise evident in her eyes.
“Sorry.” I covered a smile. “Did you want to fight about it?”
“No.”
“Don’t worry, honey. I’m just taking what I can get for the moment.”
“And what do you think that is?”
“You. Blubbery. Kissing me in my office. Stubbornly refusing to admit that we can find a way around this.” I shrugged. “I really do like you, Aysia. And I can be a patient man.”
The look she gave me then was hopeful. Almost fucking heartbreaking.
“So,” she said slowly. “If I tell you that’s all you get from now on, you’ll just sit around waiting?”
“Waiting…and possibly masturbating.”
Her eyes widened and a laugh escaped her lips. “Pervert.”
“No need for name calling. New studies show it doesn’t actually cause blindness.”
“Did you read that on the Internet?”
“How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Have dinner with me,” I said again. “We can eat shrimp scampi and talk.”
“Shrimp scampi?”
“First thing that came to mind.”
She laughed and tucked herself into me again, her head resting on my shoulder, her arms under my suit jacket and encircling my waist. I pulled her even tighter, rubbing my hand in a circle against the small of her back. Under the attention, her breathing quickened. I knew I had to move away. If I didn’t, the patience I claimed to have would evaporate. I was already eyeing my desk.
Toss aside the paperwork…lift her onto the edge…
I stilled my hand and cleared my throat. “Still doing okay down there?”
“I’ve been better,” she replied.
Worried, I leaned back. She was smiling impishly. I narrowed my eyes.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll play. When have you been better?”
“Every time you’ve been inside me.”
Under my zipper, my cock stirred. “Is that right?”
“Definitely.” She leaned forward, eyes still fixed on me, and bit my lower lip.
“Are you trying to distract me with sex…again?”
“Distract you from what?” she asked innocently.
“From further baring your soul by baring your ass instead,” I said, half-teasing, half-serious.
She snorted. “Nice.”
My hands slid down to the ass in question, and I squeezed hard enough to make her gasp.
“Well,” I said. “As tempted as I am, I’m not letting that happen.”
“You sure?” She wiggled her hips, and the added height from the heels put her in just the right spot to make me growl.
“Aysia…”
“Marcelo.”
“Tell me about the crepes.”
She sucked in a breath. “Now?”
“Yes.”
“They were Walt’s favorite. A tradition. He insisted on having them every Sunday. Even on the Sundays when he was too sick from the radiation to eat. He forced Liv and me to have them, then. When he died…I swore I’d never eat them again. It’s one of the few things Liv and I disagree about, actually.”
“Because she thinks you’re holding on too tightly.”
She nodded, and I could see the unshed tears in her eyes. “But it was never on purpose. I couldn’t eat them, just like I couldn’t let go. I kept thinking I’d reach some place in my life where I could make it happen, but I never did. So I stopped trying to get past it and just focused on the things I could control.”
“I don’t think that’s true, h
oney. Not the part about having stopped trying, anyway. I think you just buried the feelings so hard and deep that you thought you were numb.”
“I’m not numb when I’m with you.”
“Good.”
I slid my hands down her arms, then under them. I ran my palms up her skirt-covered thighs. On her hips, I paused. Christ, how I wanted her. I thought again about my desk. About lifting her up and carrying her to it. The need to do it got worse as one of her knees slid up and hooked around my waist, and worse again as she pushed up for a fierce kiss.
Her lips weren’t soft and yielding anymore. They were insistent and demanding. Still filled with need, but this time the pitch was different. It made me wish that I was the kind of man who kept condoms in his office. Or—for the first time in memory—that I was the kind who didn’t give a shit about protection at all.
“Come to my house tonight,” I urged against her mouth when she paused to draw in some air.
“For dinner?” she breathed back.
“And maybe a bit more than dinner,” I agreed.
“Dessert?”
Her hopefully suggestive tone made me chuckle. “Or some conversation.”
“Chatty bastard today, aren’t you?”
“I like to talk to you.”
She tipped her face up and gave me another kiss—lightly, this time—then wriggled free. She raised an eyebrow in that quirky way of hers. Then slipped her hands under her skirt.
“What are you up to, honey?”
“This.” She slid a pair of hot-pink panties down her thighs, then down her knees, then bent to slip them over her heeled feet.
My mouth went so dry that I had to clear my throat twice before speaking. “And what are you going to do with those?”
She smiled sweetly. “They’re a gift. An appetizer, if you will.”
“Now who’s the pervert?”
“Not me. I’m just a master chef.”
She tossed the panties. They flew up, and my hand came out automatically to snatch them from the air. They were small and filmy and warm and sexy as fuck.
Aysia stepped toward the door, tossing her hair over her shoulder as moved. “Do those make you want to have a conversation?”
“No.” My voice came out thick.
After Hours Page 17
