by Lila Monroe
He took my hand then, and my breath caught in my throat.
“I’d better guide you the rest of the way,” he said. “It gets pretty cramped from here on out.”
He tugged gently on my hand, and led me down a narrow hallway, through a gap in the walls of stacked boxes emitting the soothing smells of chamomile and old cloth. He shifted so that I led, his warm hands on my shoulders steering me ably through the dark.
Such warm hands. Their heat radiated through my shirt, and I felt his breath ghosting over my ear, as if any second now he might lean down and—
“We import the tea from Singapore,” he murmured.
“Oh,” I whispered, shivering involuntarily. It was hard to think of anything else to say with my heart pounding so hard. Was I imagining the way his fingers tightened slightly on my shoulders? Was that a slight caress as his finger swept downward an inch towards my collarbone, rustling my blouse, or was I daydreaming?
Probably. I was definitely probably reading too much into it. I tried to even out my breathing, hoped he couldn’t feel me tremble under his gentle touch. I resolved to banish all thoughts of that night we’d spent together in my hotel room and focus on the business at hand, but the low throb pulsing between my legs was undeniable.
“Stop.” And his arm encircled my waist, sending a jolt through me as I stumbled to a halt, his strong body pressing up against mine, there in the half-darkness where no one knew we were, where no one would see if he were to pull me even closer, if he were to bend his lips to my neck, if his hands were to wander from my waist to my breasts or down my thighs—
He pulled away.
“It’s right here.”
It took several embarrassingly long seconds for me to realize that he was talking about his secret snack hoard.
I watched, squinting through the dimness, as he jimmied away the back of a cabinet to reveal a small tin, just starting to rust at the edges. Watching him, the careful care he took, the way his eyes lit as he picked it up, I was filled with an overwhelming gratitude for the trust he was showing me.
Because this was private. This was a secret. This was something very nearly sacred to him, I could see that in his eyes, and he was sharing it with me.
And I had no idea what I could have done to deserve that honor.
He opened the lid and looked at me almost shyly, his hair falling into his eyes. “It’s not much…”
I took his hand. His hands were so large and capable; why did I feel so much like I wanted to take care of him in this moment? He didn’t need anyone to take care of him. But I wanted to. “It’s perfect.”
A flash of white in the shadows as he smiled. “You haven’t even looked.”
We were both whispering. I wasn’t sure why; the house was so big that we might as well have been in another county as far as the staff were concerned. But the darkness and the secrecy and the soft touches somehow made this moment illicit and stolen and not to be spoken aloud.
“I trust you,” I murmured.
There was a pause as Hunter took in my words. “Thank you,” he finally said.
My hand was still on his. As if they had a will of their own, my fingers began to stroke his palm—I blushed, glad that the poor light would hide it, and pulled away under the pretense of selecting a snack.
The tin was small, but it held a solid assortment of sweets, dried jerky, and homemade trail mix. I chose a chocolate in a bright green foil and unwrapped it, the foil rustling like a secret waiting to be told. When I bit down, a sweet cognac liquor burst across my taste buds, and I couldn’t keep from groaning in ecstasy.
Hunter laughed.
“Hey, you try eating this and not expressing your appreciation!” I shot back at him in a whisper, waving the chocolate in his face.
He raised an eyebrow at me, and then he bit right down on the chocolate in my hand, his soft lips just moistening the tips of my fingers.
I froze.
Calling all doctors, calling all doctors, Allison Bartlett’s heart has just stopped cold.
His rakish grin set my blood on fire as he leaned forward and carefully licked a smudge of chocolate from my thumb.
I swallowed, hard.
“Not bad,” he allowed. “But I think you’ll really like this much better.”
He unwrapped another chocolate, and slipped it between my lips. My eyes fell closed as the sweet taste of butterscotch melted across my tongue, and a little sound of perfect contentment escaped my chest in a sigh.
My tongue darted out to catch the last of the taste against his skin, and I could hear his breath catch in his throat, and my blood quickened further. I could feel my own heart pounding, blood rushing through my veins, warmth pooling between my legs as my arousal tightened within me like a spiral, my nipples suddenly hard against my silk bra, wanting his hands on them instead.
My eyelids parted slowly, and I was gazing up into his eyes, so dark with desire in that dim hallway that I could no longer see the line between his irises and pupils. They were only dark and determined, the golden light no longer dancing playfully in them but serious as anything I had ever seen.
He leaned closer, and I could taste the chocolate on his breath, as intoxicating as his gaze, I could so very nearly taste his lips—
I can’t let him kiss me.
Not with so much riding on this job.
So much for both of us.
I broke away before we made contact, stumbling backwards in my haste to save us from the dastardly destruction of our own hormones.
“I should shower before dinner!” I thanked God and also Jesus for the humidity that made this lie less obvious. “I didn’t think of that before but I should definitely shower and we’ve already used up ten minutes!” I was babbling as I backed away, but the words kept spilling out, trying to construct a wall between us so I wouldn’t take a step back towards him, wouldn’t soothe away that worried furrow in his brow with my hands, wouldn’t kiss him so hard that he— “So I’ll barely have time and I’m totally gross so I should really take all the time I can, glad you understand, you’re great see you later, bye!”
And then I fled, in a display of cowardice that would have made Robert E. Lee ashamed to call me his countrywoman.
I cranked the shower handle further to the right and gritted my teeth against the cold water, trying to forget the taste of Hunter’s lips.
Why must that night haunt me? We hadn’t even slept together, not really. He’d only gone down on me, that talented tongue and lips stoking the fire that his hands had lit as they traced over my skin, as I moaned, arching my eager body against his, ready for everything he had to give me—
Not helping, brain!
I scrubbed furiously with the lavender and black pepper soap, trying to punish my skin for its inconvenient desires, to scour them from my flesh. But the touch of my hands only seemed to inflame me further, and I found my fingers teasing across my nipples, stroking and gently twisting—
No, no, no!
But the water had made my skin so smooth and wet, as though I were already sweating from his passionate embrace, and I was already imagining him in the shower with me, his strong arms encircling me from behind, his hard cock pressing against my back as he kissed his way from my shoulder up to my neck, his tongue teasing at the shell of my ear as I whimpered at his touch, arching back into him, spreading my legs slightly as I braced myself against the shower wall, begging him to thrust into me, filling me, fucking me hard and fast and rough until I—
And before I could stop myself, my right hand was between my thighs, my fingers plunging into my wet cunt as the heel of my palm rubbed against my clit, as my left hand pinched my nipple. I fucked myself harder and harder, oh God I knew it was so wrong to be thinking these things when I’d sworn to be hands off with Hunter, I knew this was only going to make it harder to keep away, but I couldn’t stop, oh God I needed so badly to come, I wanted so badly for him to be there making me come, with his strong hands and his deft tongue and his
cock, oh sweet Lord, that cock, I wanted it between my lips and in my tight pussy and I’d let him fuck me in the ass if he’d just let me come, oh God he could fuck me any way he wanted if I could just come now, anything he wanted, it would be so good—
I came calling his name, and I thanked heaven the running water meant no one could hear me.
What kind of outfit says ‘I was definitely not just masturbating about you, that is definitely not the reason I am now late to dinner, why would you think that?’? I’m asking for a friend.
In the end I grabbed a blouse in a heavy green fabric that I knew looked terrible with my complexion, and a pair of slacks that hadn’t fit me right since I lost ten pounds. They were definitely too baggy in the rear and severely unflattering. But they were professional, and that was the important thing. I needed to send a clear message, and that message was, ‘Your lips? What? I barely noticed how soft and luscious they look, because I am a consummate professional. Totally.’
And I was going to read that message blaring loud and clear, not just to Hunter, but to myself. Why did he have to be so irresistible? I knew it wasn’t his fault; he had no way of knowing his one-night stand was someone he’d ever see again. I certainly hadn’t thought I’d ever see him again either.
And after this job, I probably never would see him again.
I set out for dinner, determined to ignore the utterly illogical pang of loss at that thought.
Professional. Totally professional.
Hunter was dressed professionally too when I met him on the back porch of the manor house, but somehow he still looked delicious in dress slacks and a crisp yellow button-up. Maybe it was the way that color brought out the gold in his eyes. Or just possibly it was the way that button-up shirt fit, hugging his chest tight and riding up just slightly when he stretched, just enough to glimpse one tantalizing strip of tanned skin over taut muscle.
I looked away quickly, pretending to admire the sunset. “Oh. Look at all those colors.”
It really was beautiful, all pinks and purples melting into a fiery glow reflected in the sapphire lake.
If only there weren’t something even more gorgeous demanding my attention.
“Ah. Yes. Colors.” Hunter sounded just as stilted and awkward as I felt. “The sun…does that.”
Oh boy. Was the whole dinner going to be like this?
Short answer: yes.
Longer answer: There was a little bit of a conversational reprieve as we fell about eating the pork chops, which had been slathered in some kind of lemon honey sauce that was basically the food of the gods, but was also an Olympic level challenge to keep off your clothing. I could barely enjoy the succulent pork as I fretted silently about keeping the sauce from smearing all over my face or dripping onto my pants. A slight drip at the corner of Hunter’s mouth reminded me forcefully of that almost-kiss, and I nearly dropped my pork chop.
When I finally finished, somehow miraculously still mostly clean, I wiped my fingers for the last time on the cloth napkin and reached for the crystal decanter of ice water.
Hunter reached for it at the same time.
Our fingers brushed.
We both pulled away as if we had received an electric shock.
“Sorry,” Hunter said.
“No, I’m sorry,” I said, “you go ahead.”
“No, you were reaching first.”
“No, I insist.”
He nudged the decanter toward me. I poured myself a glass of water.
Then he poured himself a glass of water.
We drank our water in silence, not looking at each other.
Okay, this was ridiculous. So we’d sort of slept together and then sort of maybe almost kissed. We were adults! Professional adults! We could handle this. We could be pleasant. We could make light conversation and act like we weren’t two lovesick teens who’d broken up right before prom.
Right?
“The weather’s lovely,” I said. Sheesh, had I really been reduced to that banality?
“Yes,” he said, still not looking at me. A pause. “But it might rain later.”
“Oh?”
“That’s what the weather channel said.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
And then more silence.
This was all my fault. I should have handled it better when he went for the kiss. We should have had a real talk about our past when he first went for my pitch. I never should have slept with a handsome stranger in the first place—
But that was the way the cookie crumbled. If I kept counting my regrets, I’d end up moving back home and hiding under the bed while my mother derided all my life choices.
I was going to make some goddamn fucking pleasant conversation with this man if it killed me.
“The pork was delicious,” I said, trying to sound as if I didn’t have a care in the world. “How long have you had this cook?”
“Five years.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.
Goddamnit, Hunter Knox, work with me here!
“Your outfit’s nice,” I blurted in desperation before my brain could catch up to my mouth and yell, not professional!
He started slightly in his seat, his eyes darting up to meet mine for just a second. “Ah. Thank you?”
It was a tiny crack in his stony demeanor, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was looking away from me again, as if I didn’t exist, as if he could barely bring himself to care that I was there with him, trying to forge a solid working relationship.
And the silence descended once again, like a dark curtain cutting off the connection between us.
I cast around for some neutral topic. What said professional, committed, but not interested? And then I realized what did, and I could have kicked myself for not seeing it sooner.
Work. Work was professional.
In my defense, if his shirt had been a size larger I wouldn’t have been so addled by lust that it would take a whole half hour to come up with that idea.
After all, I knew he liked my ideas, didn’t I? He’d chosen me, and he’d flown me all the way out here. He was paying money for my ideas. He’d have to engage.
“So, I’ve found all sorts of interesting information in the library archives,” I chirped. “I’m only up to the 1920s, of course, and the company stance on various issues during the sixties will be absolutely crucial to capturing the typically more liberal young adult population without alienating the senior demographic, but—”
“This is dinner, not a business meeting.” Hunter’s voice was a sharp ice spear as it slashed across mine, cutting me off. “And to tell the truth, I’m not really interested.”
I gaped, then fumed. I could feel steam started to build up, threatening to leak out my ears like an angry cartoon character. If he didn’t care about the company, then what the hell was I doing at his estate in the first place? “Excuse me?”
“You do your job. Don’t feel like you have to bother me with any details.” He sighed as if speaking to me was the most tedious thing in the world, and toyed with his fork. “I don’t think it will have any real effect anyway.”
“Excuse me?” Yep, steam coming out of my ears. Blood pressure rising. Also, the urge to kill, that was rising too.
“Today’s consumers are savvy,” Hunter said condescendingly. “They’re not going to fall for a catchy tune and a promise of good behavior from a corporation.”
I fumed, unable for several moments to even form words. My hands were clenched in fists at my side, and I could feel my stomach roiling. “If you feel that way about my plan, why’d you even hire me in the first place?”
“It was the lesser of two evils.”
I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. “Gee, thanks.”
“No offense,” he said, and for a second, his tone seemed different. Like maybe he actually meant it. “You’re clearly very good at your job, and very dedicated. I’ve just never been able to see the point of advertis
ing. It seems like lying. Either your product’s good, or it isn’t. Outside forces shouldn’t be able to muddy the waters.”
“That’s not true at all!” I protested. I leaned forward, elbows on the table in defiance of everything my mother taught me as I let him have it. “Advertising lets people know about products they might never have heard about, about issues they might never have considered, about angles they might never have seen things from. It helps them embrace new experiences. And that’s just the consumers. A clever ad can help the little guy get an edge over a big corporation, give small businesses some crucial and much-needed public visibility, it can make dreams come true—”
“But the little guy isn’t likely to be the one getting the clever ad, is he?” Hunter interrupted, leaning forward as well, eyes fiery as he slapped his palm hard on the table.
Well, I had wanted him to engage with me.
“It’s the big corporations like McDonalds and Geico and, yes, Knox,” Hunter went on, “that can afford a big fancy think tank. A big team of advisors. The best research and focus groups. You think the little guy can compete with that?”
“They don’t have to.” I set my chin, determined to make him understand. “Those things are nice, but they’re not necessary. You only need one good idea to make a wave in the advertising world, and that idea can come from anywhere.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And you think the next one’s going to come from you, Allison Bartlett.”
I looked him right in the eye. “Well, why not?”
There was silence again as we stared at each other, challenging, but this time taut as a pulled-tight rope, a balance beam that we might fall off of if we looked away.
A distant part of my brain noticed that both our faces were flushed, and we were both leaning forward. Our hands almost touching on the table.
Then Hunter leaned back in his chair, and the distance yawned between us again, wide and insurmountable.
“Well, you’re certainly doing a good job advertising the advertising industry,” he said with a light laugh. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything different. What did you do before that?”
Well, at least he was asking questions. We could probably have a conversation if he kept that up. And that was all I wanted, wasn’t it? I didn’t need his approval. Well, not for my life choices, anyway. I only needed it for my final pitch.
