The traffic light turns red as I approach the intersection, and I ease the brakes. “See? Fast is fun.”
“The problem with fast is it’s over too quickly.”
Is that innuendo? Her gaze pierces into me, and the air around us feels tight and charged, and I’m suddenly certain that I will die if I don’t get to taste her tonight.
Even if she didn’t mean anything more when she made her statement, I certainly do when I say, “Don’t worry. I know when to take my time.”
She exhales, slowly, and I swear I can feel it. As though she’s already in my arms and her breath is grazing every inch of my bare skin. No matter what happens after this, I know she at least feels this…this attraction. Or whatever it is.
Her voice is low and sultry when she replies. “You’re not talking about cars anymore. But do you really take your time? I’d guess you bolt the minute you’re finished.” She’s so blunt, so direct, and I don’t know if it’s a her thing or an English thing, but I like it.
I also like this conversation we’re having. Because we’re drawing the lines, and that means the potential for tonight is high. So I answer with a nod, making sure she understands that she’s correct in thinking I’ll bolt. Because I will.
“That’s what I thought.” She presses her lips together smugly.
My grip tightens on the gearshift. “Hey. No one cares about the car when it isn’t turned on. All that matters is how you handle it when you’re in the driver’s seat.”
I don’t add that I fall a little more in love with my Bugatti every time I get behind the wheel, but that’s exactly the reason I bolt from women.
Genevieve shakes her head, amused. “Earlier I felt sorry for calling you an American man. But…”
I finish the thought for her. “It’s hard to argue with a label I deserve.”
She nods as I pull into the driveway of the Park Hyatt and bring the car to a halt. Almost immediately, the hotel attendant opens her door.
She doesn’t move.
The tension in the air thickens. It’s so heavy, I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
Genevieve sweeps her head toward me, and electricity sparks between us when her eyes meet mine.
“No cuddling,” she says firmly, her voice husky. “No staying the night, and you better have a condom.”
I blink, startled by her candidness. “Are you inviting me up, then?”
“Don’t act so surprised. Your reputation precedes you. According to the rags, you’re quite popular with the ladies. I’m curious to see if your notoriety is deserved.” Without waiting for me to respond, she steps out of the car and heads inside.
I hurry after her, stopping briefly to get the claim ticket from the valet before trotting to catch up with her in the lobby.
“I have a reputation?” I ask softly, coming up behind her. “That’s no pressure.”
She hits the elevator button and glances at me over her shoulder. “Is it too much for you?”
“Not even a little bit.” My answer is eager because I’m eager.
“We’ll see about that.”
When the elevator arrives, we step inside, she selects her floor, and then we move to stand at the back so other people can file in behind us. Silently, I grab her hand, wrapping my fingers through hers.
And there it is. That feeling I love so much. The unspoken awareness that we’re about to see each other naked. That we’re about to fuck. It’s like carrying fire. It’s like holding lit dynamite. It’s like a bomb about to go off, and every second that passes feels like hours. Every breath I take in and push out feels like lead, and I’m suddenly obsessed with how soft her skin is. Softer than I’d imagined. How soft will she be everywhere else?
At her floor, I practically yank her arm trying to get out of the elevator.
“Left,” she directs me, her tone equally impatient.
The walk down the hall is endless, and by the time we reach her door, I’m too wound up to wait even a second longer.
“Hey,” I say as she digs in her purse for her key. I’m already stepping closer, and when she looks up, I put my hands on either side of her face, lean in and kiss her.
My mouth is hungry against hers, my lips greedy and aggressive. Surprised, she takes a moment to react, but when she does, she meets my intensity, and I nearly explode.
God, her tongue, her taste!
With a groan, I press against her. My hands wander frantically, trying to touch every part of her at once. I’ve never felt so turned on. Never been so blinded with need. Never wanted to be inside someone like I want to be inside her.
And I know, okay? I know that it always feels like this when I’m horny and about to bang. Like I’ve never been this aroused, never been this hard, never been this into a woman. I know this is just hormones and need. I know I’ll feel this a hundred times over. Probably feel it again tomorrow, even. With someone else.
But right now? As I kiss and grope and grind against her? Right now, this is the only moment that has ever mattered, the only kiss that has ever affected me like this, and whatever my head says about realistic shit, my body says fucking differently.
It’s Genevieve who manages to remember we’re still in the hall.
Untangling herself, she pushes me away. “We should go inside,” she says, breathless, her mouth swollen and her face flushed.
“Yeah.” Dazed, I step away as she works the keycard and shut my eyes tight, clearing my head. I’m on the brink of insanity, just from one kiss. My restraint feels threadbare, and if this is really how I always feel, I can’t imagine how I’ve managed to never go caveman having sex before. Because that’s for fuck sure what I want to do now. Want to swing this girl over my shoulder, carry her to the bed, and then beat my chest before devouring every inch of her.
Bring it down a notch, boy. Or seven.
Genevieve opens the door, and I follow cautiously inside. She drops her purse and crosses the room to the dresser. I hang back, trying to cool off a bit before touching her again. With her back to me, she removes her earrings. Then she reaches behind her to unzip her dress. She lets it fall to the floor, and when she turns around, she’s standing in front of me wearing nothing but panties and heels.
Holy fucking Christ.
I have to bite my cheek so I don’t come right there.
Dirty, filthy ideas flood my mind. Carnal, nasty fantasies. I picture me pushing her against the dresser, my fingers wound tightly in her long hair. I’d yank her head back until she cried out, then I’d pull it harder until she did it again. I’d bite and mark every inch of her creamy skin, starting at her neck. I’d ride her rough. I’d leave bruises. I wouldn’t be nice.
Unlike the feeling that I’ve never been this aroused, these desires actually are ones I’ve never had before. I’ve never had these wild thoughts. Never wanted to be brutal in the bedroom, and the things I want to do to this woman, the vile things I want to say to her—they’re the kinds of things that might be appropriate for lovers who are well acquainted, but certainly not for two people who’ve just met.
As inappropriate as they are, they’re there, pressing against my brain, begging my body to act. It’s tempting. More than tempting—the urge is nearly impossible to fight.
But I have to. I can’t let it win. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what I’m into.
Taking a slow breath, I clench my fists at my side then, as I exhale, I force the vulgar thoughts away. All of them.
When I move toward her, I’ve resumed control. I’m me again. A nice guy. A gentleman. Chandler Pierce—the considerate lover.
It doesn’t take long before I’m in my groove. I’m good to Genevieve, just like I’m good to every woman I’m with. I lick at her ears and along her jaw. I lavish her breasts with attention. I kiss and suckle down the pale skin of her abdomen. I bury my face in her pussy and give her two orgasms with my fingers and my mouth.
Later, when I crawl over her and push inside, she’s warm and tight and the third time sh
e climaxes, I feel her clenching around my sheathed cock. It triggers my own release.
It’s awesome. Like sex always is. Like sex is supposed to be.
I dress quickly after. I clean her up and tuck her in. Pressing a soft kiss to her lips, I tell her I had a good time, and then I leave, just like I promised, just like I do every time.
Her scent clings to me the whole drive home. My body feels hers wrapped around it. My skin still burns from touching her. These lingering remnants of our night will wash away with a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. I know this from experience. Lots and lots of experience.
I am a pro at this. I’ve left many women in many beds, and Genevieve is just another. She’s not the first. She won’t be the last, and tomorrow I’ll have forgotten all about her. It’s only tonight that I imagine I still want more.
3
A handful of days later, I still want more.
I can’t get Genevieve out of my mind. Can’t stop imagining being inside her. My dick is practically raw from how many times I’ve beat off thinking about her.
The thing is—I’m not just thinking about what we did. That wouldn’t be so unusual. I’ve previously had quite a few amazing rolls in the sack that begged to be recreated in my mind later, and who am I to deny those recollections the honor they deserve?
So, yeah. Whacking off to memories is totally standard protocol. I just make sure I don’t think about the specific woman too much when I’m in recall mode, you know, to stay true to the don’t-get-attached part of my objective. It’s generally not a problem.
But with Genevieve, it is.
Her face is etched into my brain. The memory of the silky feel of her skin gnaws at my fingertips. Everywhere I go, I think I hear her laugh in the crowds around me. Seriously, I’m starting to think I’m going insane.
The worst part is the sexual fantasies. Like implied, I have replayed what actually happened that night a few times—the way her hips bucked under my mouth, the sounds she made when she released. But I’m mostly tormented with the things that didn’t happen. Things I wish happened. Things I wish could happen in the future. Things like tearing through her panties and bending her over my knee. Things I can’t think about for long without feeling like I need a confessional or a cold shower. Or both.
And it’s all day, every day that I’m thinking about her. At the office. When I’m working out. While my mother drones on to me about her latest lunch with the ladies. During the two hours I spend at Hudson’s while he shows off the twins—Holden Everett and Brett Evangeline. Even Mina, his three-year-old, can’t distract me from Genevieve—and that little girl and I are tight. I’m telling you, there’s not a woman who owns my heart like my niece, and yet the sound of her adorable preschooler-speak is underscored with memories of Genevieve’s lilting accent, and instead of encouraging Mina to say more, all I want to do is clap my hands over my ears and scream.
In other words, I’m a total wreck.
I know the solution to getting Genevieve out of my head is to find another chick to bang and fast. But she’s so present, so vivid in my mind it’s like I’m being haunted. There’s no way I can begin to entertain the idea of looking for another hookup in this state.
By the time a week rolls past, I’m so miserable that I’m ready to do something drastic to get over this woman. Like make an appointment with Hudson’s shrink. Or, worse, track down Genevieve for a repeat.
Problem with the latter? I never bothered to get her last name. And since I never planned to see her again, I didn’t take note of her room number. Besides, I was too preoccupied to notice anything in that hallway besides the taste of her tongue.
Ah, that tongue. I imagine it trailing down my skin, lower to places that her mouth never met.
It’s this thought that throws me over the edge. I have to find her.
And that’s how I end up outside Hudson’s office on a Wednesday afternoon when I know he’s still out on paternity leave.
“Hey there, Chandler,” his secretary greets me. “What brings you by my neck of the floor?”
Trish is one of those women who would do anything for me. The way she fawns when I’m in her presence—it’s almost ridiculous. She’s pretty smoking, too. If she weren’t my brother’s secretary, I would have nailed her years ago. But we work in the same building, and sleeping with a woman I see every day goes against my mission statement. So instead, we’ve developed a friendly flirtation that, I think, is pretty healthy. It definitely makes trips to Hudson’s office more tolerable.
I unbutton my jacket and perch on the edge of her desk. “Not much. Just been a little cold lately. Figured I needed a little sunshine in my life. Feeling warmer already.”
“Stop. You’re so good at flattery.” She does that thing women sometimes do where she pretends like she’s embarrassed by the compliment, but she’s really soaking it in.
“You mean I’m so good at truth.” And now that I’ve buttered her up, onto the real item up for business. “Oh, while I’m here. I was wondering if you could get me some more information about that Accelecom benefit I attended last week.”
She’s already typing into her computer. “Sure. What sort of information are you looking for in particular? The donation list?”
“The guest list.”
Trish looks up from her screen and narrows her eyes at me. “Let me guess—she’s blonde, blue-eyed, and you just have to have her number.”
Actually, she’s brunette, grey-eyed, and I’m not sure what it is I have to have from her, but like hell am I admitting to any of that. While I don’t think Trish is chatty with Hudson, I’m not taking any chances that she’ll slip and mention I’ve been asking about a girl.
So I focus on Genevieve’s father instead.
“Har har.” I feign amusement. “Not a woman. A man. About fifty, I’d guess. Distinguished. British. Seemed to be a major big-wig, but I never caught his name.” Never even spoke to him. She doesn’t need to know.
I stand to move behind Trish as I talk so I can look at the computer over her shoulder. “Maybe you could dig up some pictures from the gala that might match that description, and—”
My words are cut off by what I see, and it’s not on the secretary’s computer screen but standing right in front of me.
“Genevieve.”
“Chandler?”
For a minute I’m not sure if she’s really there or if I’m imagining her. That’s how in my head this fucking girl is. I can’t even tell the difference between reality and fantasy.
But Trish has also glanced up, so I’m pretty sure my ghost is real. I look her over, taking her in. She’s dressed for business in slacks and a matching jacket that’s open to reveal a white shirt with black trim. Her makeup is subtle, yet her eyes are as sharp as ever. Her dark hair falls down past her shoulders, and it looks longer now that it’s missing the waves from the other night. In every way, she’s less glam, less “done up”.
And damn if she isn’t two thousand times more beautiful.
I inhale slowly, remembering I’m in Hudson’s office and just thinking my brother’s name seems to calm the devil in my dick. When I exhale, I’m ready.
“It’s good to see you.” I know I should play harder to get—yes, that’s a thing guys do too—yet I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
She returns my smile—it’s more refined and understated than mine, but she’s British, and it counts. “Looking for you. This is your office? The security guard said it was on the other side of the building.”
Holy shit, she was looking for me!
“Did he?” I mean, he’s right. And my office is pretty sweet. It’s on the opposite corner with floor-to-ceiling windows, lots of space, and modern furniture.
But I’m not offering to take her there. Partly because, as a rule, I try not to be alone with beautiful women in my office unless we’re very clearly sticking to business. But also because there’s no way in hell I’ll ma
ke it across the floor with the semi in my pants.
Besides, as nice as my office is, Hudson’s is nicer.
“Why don’t you come inside?” I gesture for Genevieve to follow me into his office, making eye contact with his secretary. “Trish, hold my calls, will you?”
“You’re so bad,” she mouths.
I really am, aren’t I? I should probably feel guilty about it.
Spoiler: I don’t.
“Have a seat,” I say to Genevieve over my shoulder as I shut the double doors behind us. I have the same predator feeling I had when she was buckling herself into the passenger seat of my car.
She’s trapped. With me. Alone.
And since I’m a betting man, I’m putting a large wager on things getting naughty.
First, the niceties. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?” I ask, crossing the room toward her.
“A little late in the day for that, don’t you think?”
Fuck. What time is it anyway? “Scotch?”
“And too early for that.” She hasn’t taken a seat yet and instead is surveying my—I mean, Hudson’s—office. “It’s tea time, but I don’t reckon you have any scones and jam lying around, so I’ll pass, thank you.”
“Are you sure? I bet Trish could whip—”
She cuts me off before I have a chance to buzz the secretary. “No, please. I was teasing. I’m good.”
“You’re good,” I confirm, nervously. Because I am nervous. Because I’m trying to pull off my brother’s office as mine, for one reason. For other reasons too. Like, why-won’t-she-sit-down reasons? And oh-my-god-she’s-so-pretty reasons.
She’s much better at post-one-night-stand than I am it seems, because she’s the one to fill the awkward silence that has settled between us. “This is quite brilliant. I’m impressed.”
I’m not sure what she’s impressed with because I’m a disaster. My mouth is dry, my hands are clammy. Oh, she means the office. Of course. God, I want to just get past the small talk and onto the part where we take our clothes off and start playing Happy Businessman. Are there security cameras in here?
Chandler: A Standalone Contemporary Romance Page 3
