Breathless

by Maria Luis

  Damn.

  I clasp her waist, bringing her unclothed form flush against my clothed one. “You know I’m going to have to take you standing up, right?” My hand trails down to her ass, which I squeeze. “I want you standing in those heels, driving back against my cock.”

  Claire flashes me a secret grin. “Oh, that’s all?” she teases. “What about if I want you beneath me, so that I have to take every inch of you?”

  I swallow at the visual image she’s painted for me. And then I swallow again. “You know, that’s a great idea. Let’s do that.”

  “Nope.” She sashays out of my arms into the living room. Her hair falls down her back, and she knots it messily, drawing the length over her shoulder. “I like this couch.”

  Promptly, she places one knee on the cushions, one hand planted on the armrest. Then—holy fuck—she turns her head to glance at me over her shoulder. “How about this?” she murmurs. “Work for you?”

  Her ass is up in the air. Thanks to her sky-high heels, her straightened leg looks elongated, tempting. Her eyes glitter in the muted light.

  “Yeah,” I grunt, “it works for me.”

  In record time, I strip off my clothes and throw them to the floor. Nothing else matters besides the woman waiting for me on my couch.

  “I’m waiting,” she murmurs, taunting me out loud with my innermost thoughts. “Hurry up, Jake.”

  Bossy, this one.

  I fucking love it.

  Slipping a condom out from my wallet, I tear open the packet and roll the latex down my length.

  Her eyes watch me all the while, turning me on, threatening me with a damn good time.

  Because she’s taunting me, I give her ass a little slap when I step up behind her. “Couldn’t resist,” I tell her with a grin. “It was just there, waiting.”

  Claire’s laugh is soft and husky. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.” With the flat of my palm, I angle her chest down, thrusting her ass up for me even more. “Any last thoughts?”

  Another feminine laugh, and I decide right then and there that Claire Holloway is stuck with me. For good. I can’t imagine laughing with any other woman just before sex, and I realize . . . I don’t want to. I don’t want anyone but the woman tempting me right here, right now.

  My cock presses against her butt as I lean over her back, my hand going to the armrest beside hers. My breath rustles her knotted hair, and I loosen the strands with my free hand. “I’m the one waiting now, baby. Got anything to say?”

  I watch her delicate throat work as she swallows. But then she twists her head, nips at my lower lip, and says, “Do me good, Matthews. Do me good.”

  I laugh. Yeah, this girl? Mine. All mine.

  Pushing off the armrest, I clutch her hips and angle my cock at her entrance. “Done,” I grunt, and then I thrust inside.

  So.

  Fucking.

  Good.

  And tight—holy hell, Claire’s tight.

  My immediate thought is that she didn’t tell me something pertinent—something that begins with the letter ‘V’ and ends with ‘irgin.’

  But from the way she moans, from the way her body sucks me in, despite the tightness, I know she’s not. Knowing that it’s been awhile for her makes me harder.

  Her sighs of pleasure are a symphony to my ears. A damn orchestra that puts me as the conductor. Fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m making metaphors or thinking poetically or wondering how I can make her never want to leave me.

  I don’t know any of that.

  But I do know how good she feels—so good that a groan slips from me as I pump into her body. I palm her ass, squeezing. I slide my hand up her spine, until her hair is in my fist and I’m tugging her head back.

  “God, Claire,” I grunt, “you feel . . .”

  “Good?” she answers on a pant. “I feel good?”

  I swallow. “So damn good.” Better than good. But I . . . “I want to see your face when you come.” I don’t give her the chance to protest. I grip the base of my cock, pulling out, and gently urge her onto her back. I crawl over her, kissing her chin, suckling on her nipples, fingering her clit with delicate circles.

  “Wrap your legs around me,” I whisper, resting my elbows on either side of her beautiful face. “Do it, baby.”

  She does.

  And then she blinks up at me, her brown eyes meeting mine. “Missionary, Jake?” Her lips find my chest in a quick kiss. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Laughter escapes me. “I have it in me. Trust me.”

  And then I’m sliding back into her again, and, yes, this is what I needed. Seeing her lips part in an O, her hands gripping the armrest behind her head. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion—from me—and I angle my hips to better hit the spot she needs.

  I do.

  Two thrusts of my hips, and she’s instead clutching my neck, my hair, my shoulders, calling out my name. I grab her knee, drag it up to her chest, exposing her. Exposing me. I glance down to see the way my cock slips in and out of her body.

  Hot. She’s so hot.

  I’m catching fire.

  And this time—I’m not going to be able to last.

  “I need you to come for me.” I shift my hips, angling upward. “Claire, I need you to fucking come for me.”

  And this time—she doesn’t give me a sassy comment.

  She comes with a low-pitched moan that rocks my hips into a faster pace, that throws my heart rate into triple-time, that kick-starts my own orgasm until I’m spilling everything that I have.

  I kiss her cheek, her chin, her mouth.

  And this time—I forget all about the fact that I’m supposed to be Manhattan’s favorite playboy. I open my mouth and say the one thing guaranteed to make a woman who doesn’t do “permanent” run:

  “You’re mine, Claire Holloway.”

  Her body stiffens under me.

  Damn it.

  12

  Claire

  Jake’s weight is heavy on mine. Heavy and delicious and . . . I’m panicking.

  My fingers find his muscled shoulders, and I don’t even have to push. He seems to know what I need—space—and rolls off me.

  “I’ll be right back.” His voice is low, sexy. Without a hint of modesty, he strides out of the room toward what I’m sure is the bathroom.

  You’re mine, Claire Holloway.

  God, even now his words send pleasure dancing down my spine. But the pleasure is superseded by worry and panic because the fact of the matter is . . . I can’t give him what he’ll ultimately want. Kids. A family.

  Hell, I don’t even know what it’s like to have a family. Sure, my foster-turned-adoptive parents looked out for me back in the day. Holidays, birthdays, that sort of thing. But that tight-knit unit that you see on TV? Yeah, that’s beyond my realm of experience.

  And what would he say if he knew that Holloway isn’t even my last name?

  At the sound of his heavy footsteps coming back down the hall, I jump up from the couch and grab my dress off the floor. In jerky motions, I shove my head through the opening and stuff my arms into their respective holes.

  This . . . thing that I have going on with Jake is great, but I can’t be his. He doesn’t even know who I am.

  “Already leaving, Claire?”

  My eyes briefly squeeze shut before I cast my gaze to the couch we just baptized. Crap, crap, crap.

  “I have . . .” Act, Claire, act!!! “I think I forgot to feed my roommate’s cat.”

  Smooth, so smooth. Not.

  Jake saunters toward me, still naked as the day he was born. He’s all hard edges and sinewy lines, something I didn’t have the chance to appreciate before when lust clouded my vision. But now . . . I suck in a deep breath. His abs ripple with each step, clenching and unclenching, as do his thighs. And his cock, while no longer fully erect, is thick and huge and, oh my God, but I want him.

  “Don’t look at me like that unless you’re down to have me
inside you again,” he murmurs, stopping in front of me. Tempting me to get down on my knees and have him inside of me in a completely different way. “As for the cat thing . . . you don’t have a cat.”

  My shoulders stiffen. “You don’t know that.”

  “I’m allergic. If there was a cat in your house, I’d break out in hives within minutes.”

  The idea of Jake Matthews, so suave and handsome, being allergic to cats is so ludicrous that I laugh. Just a little.

  His hand lifts to cup my cheek, and I stop just short of nuzzling his palm. “What’s the issue, Claire?”

  “You’re naked.”

  Full lips stretch into a naughty smile. “From the way you keep looking at me, I’d venture to say that’s a non-issue.”

  I gulp. “I can’t”—I wave at him—“I can’t think when you’re walking around like that.”

  “No?” Oh God, it’s not fair the way he corners me, dragging his hands up my sides and then pulling me into his arms. Flush against his naked chest. Against his naked . . . everything. “How ’bout now?”

  My nose brushes his flat nipple. “This isn’t fair.”

  “Life’s not fair,” he tells me, his chest rumbling with a husky chuckle. “I’m helping you out. Now you don’t have to see me.”

  “I can feel you, though.”

  More chuckling. I’m dying of lust over here, and the dratted man is just laughing it up. “I like the sound of that, Holloway.”

  Holloway.

  This time, I don’t let him get away with hugging me close. I need space to breathe, space to think, space to forget—not that I suspect Jake will let me do any of those things. With my hands to his chest, I push out of his embrace.

  “I feel like I should be honest,” I say, trying to keep my gaze off his body, “I don’t do relationships.”

  “I don’t either.”

  Unexpected hurt strikes me, landing in my chest and then twisting in my stomach. I don’t . . . “You said that I’m yours.”

  Can you sound any more pathetic?

  “I know.”

  Finally, the man is putting on clothes—and, trust me, I never thought I'd be thankful for that. He slides his dress slacks up his muscular legs, but leaves the zipper undone, along with the brass button. The material hangs loosely about his lean waist, threatening to pull the adult-version of a peepshow.

  My ears pop as I swallow. I jerk my gaze up to his face. “I’m confused.”

  “I don’t do relationships. Never been that sort of guy. But I want one with you, Claire.” His voice drops to a purr. “I want you in my bed, in my life. I want to take you out for dinner and then bring you to the movies like we’re a pair of teenagers going on our very first date.” A corner of his mouth quirks up in a sexy half-grin. “We’ll grab a seat in the very top row, so no one will see when I put my hand between your legs and make you come.”

  “Oh.” I need to find my breath. My silk dress against my skin feels too tight. “We barely know each other, Jake.” Be rational, girl, do the rational thing. “I mean, we know each other, but not . . . like that. God, I’m not making any sense.”

  “So talk me through it.” He takes a seat, balancing his butt on the couch’s armrest. His shoulders are hunched, his biceps bulging as he rests his elbow on one thigh. “What’s going on in your head? Talk to me.”

  The laugh that escapes me sounds high-pitched and awkward. Jake Matthews was officially put on this earth to tempt me. Because instead of being all alpha male—which he is—he’s taking a step back to metaphorically keep me from walking off the ledge. If I were into relationships, he’d be my first choice. Hands down, no questions asked.

  Well, he asked for it.

  I point at the couch. “We just had sex, and it was great, it was fantastic—”

  Lips curling in a grin, Jake murmurs, “It was, wasn’t it?”

  I point at him. “Yes, of course it was. I’ve never orgasmed so hard in my life.”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  My mouth falls open before quickly clamping shut. “You’re not helping matters.”

  “I’m being me.” His arms spread wide, temptation at its finest. “And that’s something that you love about me, Claire. So, let’s get beyond the sex—what’s holding you back? I want you, you want me. In theory, we should be one big happy family.”

  I bit down the inner side of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Please don’t quote Barney at me.”

  “It wasn’t a direct quote,” Jake says, leaning back, propping one heel up on the couch and lacing his fingers over his hard stomach. “But it gets the point across well enough. Claire, we’ve been dancing around each other for weeks now.”

  “And we satisfied the itch by sleeping together.” The words pass my lips like a lie. I’m nowhere near satisfied, not forever. I want more of Jake, more of his humor, more of his calming presence.

  “So, what, you think now that we’ve slept together that I don’t want you again? That the itch has been scratched and we can continue on our way?” Although he’s motionless, his blue eyes are alert, intent. He reminds me of a lion waiting for the opportune moment to strike. “You want to know me a little better, baby? How’s this for you—since I first saw you in the damn chicken suit outside of my parents’ restaurant, I wanted you.”

  Butterflies erupt in my belly, fluttering so hard that I’ve suddenly got the urge to vomit. “You didn’t see my face that day,” I tell him, “you didn’t that day and you didn’t for another two weeks.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “I heard your voice. I heard your comebacks and your grumblings, and I heard the way you didn’t put up with my bullshit. You weren’t married—I knew that from your application form. So, I set out to get you to remove the costume’s chicken head.”

  “That sounds ridiculous.”

  “No, what’s ridiculous is that I spent every free moment I had thinking about you. The woman beneath the suit—not to be confused with the man behind the mask. I wanted to know you, and you so utterly consumed me that I stopped seeing anyone else. Which, if you think about it, explains the torrent of women showing up all upset that I’d called everything off.”

  Oh. Now that I think about it . . . had I ever seen him arm-in-arm with any of the women who claimed to date him? Had he kissed any of them? Not that I ever saw.

  The realization mingles with his words, the woman beneath the suit—how incredibly accurate. I swallow, squaring off my shoulders. “What if I’m not the woman you think that I am?”

  Despite the brief, considering once-over he gives me, his tone remains casual, easy. “Everyone’s hiding something, Claire. You think it was easy to tell you at the gala that I was an alcoholic? Still am, I’m sure, if I let myself.”

  My heart leaps into action, and I want to go to him. Soothe away all his self-disgust. “I don’t like that word,” I tell him.

  His brow lifts. “Alcoholic? Unfortunately, that’s what I was. I was in a bad place, working crazy hours at my old law firm. Actually, it was worse than just being in a bad place. I was drowning. Drowning in the work load and the expectations and the long-ass hours. Drinking was an outlet.”

  There’s no other option—my feet carry me to his side. I curl up on the couch, legs tucked under me. The straps of my dress keep falling, and so I hold them up. Jake’s gaze follows me like blue fire, and then he twists his body just so, so that he’s facing me head on.

  “It started easily enough,” he says, “just as I’m sure it does for everyone. I drank when I went out with Max and Devin—we all worked together, even then. Then there were the functions my firm threw, and I drank there, too. One glass turned into two, and then two into three, and so on. But whereas Max and Devin cut back, I didn’t find that balance. Suddenly, I was popping booze into my coffee, just for the kick, or bypassing all of that and drinking straight from the bottle in my office. It’d be six, seven at night, and I’d look at the time and realize I wasn’t going to be able to leave for hour
s yet, and so I’d just . . . drink. To pass the time. To make myself feel less miserable.”

  I can’t even imagine Jake that way. The Jake I know is pulled together, professional (unless he’s around me, admittedly), and way too ambitious to allow anyone to hold him back. Feeling brave, I touch his knee. “How long did that go on for?”

  Jake squints up at the ceiling. “A while,” he finally answers. “Long enough that I lost thirty, forty pounds. Long enough that when Max and Dev forced me to look in the mirror one day, I didn’t recognize the man staring back, and that’s . . . that’s a terrifying reality.”

  “Is that when you started going to AA?”

  His burst of laughter isn’t warm. “Nah. Not then. Probably took me another few months before I realized that I was slowly killing myself. I quit my job, enrolled in AA. Dev and Max quit the firm not long after, and we decided to open our own. The good thing was, despite the fact that I was destroying myself, my drinking never affected my work. We had clients waiting out the doors, and that was just more motivation for me to get my ass into gear.”

  We fall into silence. I admire him—for taking his life back into his hands, for starting anew, even though he did have the support of his friends. Seeing him in this moment, shirtless and clear-eyed, it’s hard to imagine him as anything but the powerful man that he is now.

  In a way, knowing that he’s struggled only heightens my attraction to him. The Jake Matthews Manhattan sees is too-charming, too-slick, too-everything. But this Jake Matthews, the one opening up next to me, is all of that and so much more—vulnerable, wickedly funny, sexy as sin, honest to a fault.

  And what of me?

  Shadows. Lies. Fake.

  In a perfect world, I would reach out to him and do the same. Bare my soul. Show my physical scars. But this isn’t a perfect world, and so I reach over and cup his face, and say, “I’d say every misstep was worth it. Every single one. It brought you to who you are now, and that’s a man who people look up to, whose opinion they value, whose career is based on his values.”

  Hypocrite.

  “Claire?”