"No," he murmured, flipping through documents on Patrick's desk and relegating a few to the recycling bin. "They were in Maynard on Monday and they bought a farmhouse that's going to fall over on the next breezy day, and paid off the loan on this building. Then they were in Boxborough and Acton on Tuesday and bought two more old places. Then they went to the old Walsh homestead, and according to the Widow, they yelled at each other and didn't talk until the Bunker Hill buyers asked for a consult. They've both been hell on wheels this week, if you ask me. I'm thinking of getting a Taser."
"The Widow?"
"Uh-huh," he replied, shifting his focus to Patrick's bookshelves and carefully lining up the spines. "Shannon's nickname. You know, from The Avengers. The hot redhead who kicks a lot of ass? They all have nicknames. Mostly superheroes and comic book stuff. For all the time they spend screaming at each other and slamming doors, they're really tight in non-sentimental ways."
"Tom, you've let me work here for a month and not mentioned this? I'm hurt," I said, pressing a hand to my heart. Getting information from Tom required some theatrics on my part—before the Orgasm to Rule Them All, I spent half an hour charming the details on the Wellesley property out of him, only to discover he didn't know much or wasn't willing to share.
"That is what a coffee date is for," he teased with a wink. "It kinda makes sense, the nicknames." He shrugged and continued organizing the bookshelves. "They're like a little band of misfit street toughs. Shannon's the Black Widow. Riley's RISD because he went there and not Cornell like the rest of them. Sam's the runt and that's my favorite thing in the world, but he's usually Tony Stark—not Iron Man. Appropriate in so many ways. They never agreed on one for Matthew, although I'm still rooting for Jugger. And Patrick is Optimus Prime. Obviously."
The Architectural Digest feature on Walsh Associates neglected those details. "Why were they arguing about the Wellesley property?"
"He wants to get rid of it and she wants to rehab it because she's a sadist." Tom adjusted Patrick's diplomas to right angles and turned to me. "You have to come out tonight. You're the only one who can keep me from carbo-loading," he said. "I just reserved half of Pomodoro, which isn't saying much because it's literally the size of a broom closet, but the food is the best."
"He's right, it is," Patrick said from the doorway. "You should come. And she's definitely a sadist."
How Patrick always managed to sneak up on conversations, I will never know, but there he was, delicious as ever with his top button opened and his tie loose. I glanced at his dark trousers and instantly recalled his narrow waist and carved muscles, and salivated at the memory.
His eyes locked on me for a long moment while I studied him, and my body immediately betrayed me—my cheeks and neck flushed, my lips parted, and my nipples hardened—and Patrick noticed the subtle changes, smirking.
He dropped to his desk chair and motioned to Tom. "Are these it?"
I studied my plans—anxious to direct my thoughts away from crawling into Patrick's lap to taste his scruffy jaw, and the way his eyes gazed right into me—and ignored their quiet discussion. They paged through the documents, pausing every few moments when Tom pointed, repeating "and sign here" until Patrick snapped that he could see the lines without Tom's help.
"Any emergencies today, Asani?"
Looking up, I discovered we were alone and Patrick was skimming his email. "No," I replied. "Everything's fine. I sent you some notes, though. Updates."
"Great, well…" He swiveled away from his screen to stare at me. "Thanks for taking care of everything. It's been a long week. Head out for the weekend." I nodded, overwhelmed with disappointment.
I wanted to go back in time, back to Shannon's bathroom. There was the added benefit of reliving Patrick's mouth on me, but I only wanted to retrieve my thoughtless, knee-jerk words.
Tucked into layers of outerwear, I waved goodbye and was at the threshold when he spoke again. "You really should join us tonight. Pomodoro, on Hanover Street. Eight."
Between the food, wine, toasts, and Tom's incessant chatter, there was barely time to notice Patrick at the opposite end of the table. That wasn't to say I didn't notice—I did.
And Patrick noticed me.
I knew every time his eyes landed on me, and it wasn't long until I started matching his gazes. They were momentary, and in the excitement of the celebration, no one picked up on the building tension. Shannon and Sam were busy gushing over the new properties while Patrick pretended to listen, and Riley invited himself into the kitchen to talk basketball with the servers. Tom regaled me with tales of Patrick's endless string of assistants, and I indulged in his random questions about my interests.
"You need to try this," Tom said, pushing a plate of tiramisu to me.
My eyes flicked to Patrick while my mouth closed over the tines of the fork. The warmth of his gaze did something to me—something electric that awoke every cell and nerve and muscle in my body, and made my insides feel delightfully restless.
At the sound of Patrick's throat clearing, I slid the plate back to Tom. "Thanks. I'm not really into desserts." Tom sent me a dubious look, and I drained my wine. I think it was my third but after a few hours at the table and an eager server, I lost track. Glancing around the tiny restaurant, I spotted the restrooms. "I'll be right back."
I felt Patrick's eyes follow me from the table and down the narrow hallway. I wasn't surprised to feel his hand wrap around my arm when I reached the cramped bathroom, and I was even less surprised when he locked the door behind him and turned to me, scowling.
While his gaze pinned me to the wall, I realized something. None of it mattered. The wrong, the inappropriate, the out of line. I invented all of those things, and maybe there were good reasons for them at time. None of it mattered now.
It only took one step to be in Patrick's arms, his mouth pressing against mine with an urgency that matched the need screaming through my veins. His hands were in my hair, fisting around it and pulling, and I moaned against him.
Like clockwork, Patrick's hands landed on my backside and lifted me, wrapping my legs around him. It was my favorite kind of predictable. When my fingers met his soft hair, I felt the remnants of my long-held tension liquefying and draining out of my muscles. He kissed my throat and jaw, and I arched into him with a whimper.
There was no denying there was something between us, something potent. It was bigger than us, and it was pulling us deeper as each day rolled by. It was intense and real, and I was finished trying to push it away.
"I want to know what you're thinking," he demanded.
My thighs squeezed around his waist and I brought his attention back to my mouth. Tasting and breathing him in sent tingles through my system. "I'm thinking I've missed you."
"What else?" He pulled back, his head banging against the door, and stared into my eyes. "I want to know exactly what's in your head right now."
"And…" I studied the tendons of his neck while I attempted to bring order to my thoughts. "This is the worst idea I've ever had, and it is beyond irresponsible and unprofessional, but…"
"But what, Andy?"
I licked my lips and met his eyes. "I'm risking everything here… You know that, right?" He held my gaze, finally nodding and dropping his eyes to my throat. "I have sex with you in my mind. Frequently."
Patrick angled his head and I watched him absorb the weight of my words. Eventually he asked, "Is it any good?"
I nodded vigorously. "Incredible."
Patrick blinked twice, his eyes searching mine, before locking his arms around my waist and kissing me. The tension between us was shifting—one form of pressure released while another started building. His mouth was hard and demanding, and I dug my fingers into his shoulders to feel more of him.
"Why doesn't this change things?" he asked against my mouth.
"You tell me what this changes," I murmured, my lips leaving wet kisses along his neck and throat. "You're in control here, Patrick."
"If y
ou only knew." A humorless laugh escaped Patrick's mouth, and he dropped his forehead to my shoulder. "Everything," he breathed into my hair. "It changes everything."
"Then it has to stay between us," I said, my nails scratching along the nape of Patrick's neck. "They can't know."
"Whatever you want. I'll give you whatever you want." His nose and lips teased the corner where my neck and shoulder met. "I've missed you too, fuck, so much, but we don't have the best track record with bathrooms. Or Fridays."
I laughed against him, and pressed a series of kisses to his lips before dragging his bottom lip into my mouth and biting. He wasn't the only one with teeth. "Tell me what you want to happen next, Patrick."
"I'm going to leave, and you can come with me, or you can stay. I'll text you my address. I live three minutes away. I want you, but you have to decide how it's going to be. I want you to come to me."
Patrick brought his hand to my hair and crushed his lips against mine, our mouths moving together until I started unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled my wrist away and folded it behind my back with a pointed look, and set me on the countertop.
"It's your decision."
He slipped through the door, and I was alone. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I saw out-of-control hair, swollen lips, and the faint redness of stubble rash riding along my neck, all complemented by a wide smile that represented exactly how I felt.
13
Patrick
If I hadn't racked up enough points to earn a padded cell yet, leaving Andy in another bathroom surely put me over the edge. After sprinting to my apartment, I killed time picking up dirty socks, filling my dishwasher with the wreckage in the sink, organizing my refrigerator, and sorting the industry journals piled on my kitchen table.
I spent weeks believing I was a pervy creeper who leered at his young apprentice, and her admission in the bathroom felt like absolution. I wanted to celebrate the removal of my creeper status, and I wanted that party in my bed with Andy.
My pulse pounded against my temple while the minutes ticked by, and I glared at my phone as I begged for some confirmation Andy received the texts with my address and door code. More than an hour passed before I flopped to the sofa, dejected and doubly miserable.
I was fast-forwarding through the most recent Premier League games and devising a plan to transfer Andy to Matt's projects and bring Riley back onto my projects when her chime sounded from my phone.
Andy: I once heard someone say that if something is equal parts amazing and terrifying, you should always pursue it.
Rolling my eyes, I stopped the game and scowled at the phone. She was a never-ending trail of breadcrumbs.
Patrick: I've said it before and I'm saying it again: you don't give me much.
Patrick: And you are beyond confusing when
Patrick: A) you go radio silent for 2 hours
Patrick: B) you send me wildly ambiguous texts that require several more questions to understand when you could have just told me what you're trying to say
Patrick: And C) I can't read you at all unless your legs are wrapped around me and my tongue is in your throat
Patrick: And believe me, I'd like to do that ALL fucking day, but I can't so you need to give me a little more if you're going to keep dragging me into bathrooms
Patrick: Please, save me the trouble of interpreting your commentary, and tell me what the fuck you've decided because I'm two seconds away from an aneurysm
A sharp knock echoed from my door, and I glanced back and forth between my phone and the door, knowing that I'd either find a sibling too drunk to make her way home and looking to crash, or Andy.
Patrick: If you're not on the other side of that door…
Andy: You'll never know until you look
A ripple of joy mixed with absolute panic flowed over my body when I found Andy leaning against the doorframe, her head bowed over her phone.
She gifted me with a small smile and raised eyebrow. "You seem angry."
"You're impossible to read."
"I didn't know you were interested in reading me," she countered with a shrug.
I pursed my lips and closed my eyes with a tight groan. She was going to drive me to a new level of insanity, and I'd be arriving there very soon.
"Get your ass in here," I said, and she rewarded me with another smile as her shoulder brushed my chest.
She lifted her phone. "I'm here. Even though it's amazing and terrifying."
"I see that," I said, leaning against the door. Her words started feeling mischievous, almost like a flirty game that we were playing except I didn't know any of the rules. "Would you like to tell me why?"
Andy rolled her shoulders and tucked her phone into her bag. "You invited me."
I paced toward Andy, my frustration and arousal blurring together until I couldn't separate the two. "It took you two hours to decide."
"But it's not Friday anymore, and as you pointed out, we're tragic on Fridays. I was chatting with your sister. She's hilarious, and we had some wine, and we're going to yoga next Saturday."
"She's afraid I'm going to scare you off."
Unbuttoning Andy's coat, I tossed it to the sofa before plucking her gloves from her fingers and unwinding her scarf. Taking layers of clothing off of her, even outerwear, was an exquisite seduction, and I barely restrained my desire to throw her over my shoulder and charge for the bedroom.
"Hardly." Her fingers brushed down the row of buttons on my shirt and settled on my belt buckle. "A few weeks ago, at the bar?" She glanced at me, and I nodded for her to continue. "I've been thinking about it. I wish I had worn a skirt."
"Other than the fact your legs are amazing, and I would have spent the entire night staring at them, why is that?"
"Well," she whispered, her fingers releasing my shirt's buttons. "I've had this…fantasy."
Her eyes met mine when the word 'fantasy' rolled off her tongue, and they were wide, dark, and deviously twinkling. I swallowed a growl and fought to keep my expression flat. It was stay serious or fuck her where she stood, and I was doing my best to be slightly more evolved.
Slightly.
At least for a few more minutes.
"I'm expecting you to start explaining that comment, kitten."
Andy tugged my shirt loose, and let it hang open with her hands stilled against my chest. The flame in her eyes brightened and she licked her lips. Maybe bearded hipsters weren't her type anymore, which was good news because I really wanted to get rid of the overgrown stubble, and I did not want to start shopping for skinny corduroys.
"I had this fantasy about having drinks with you, and talking about minimalistic modern and preservation legislation—"
"You are so weird," I interrupted. Only Andy would have talking points in her fantasies.
"Maybe." She smiled, slipping my shirt from my arms. "But we didn't get to my opinion of laminate, and we didn't have an aged whiskey, and I would have liked your hand up my skirt, making me come under the table."
My eyes widened, my mouth hanging open in stunned silence. The oxygen seemed to vanish from the room. She was in my apartment, telling me about her public orgasm fantasies for fuck's sake, and we both knew the gray area between mentor and apprentice long ago faded to black.
"Have you been thinking about that all this time?" I asked, dropping to my knees and unzipping her boots. My hands stroked up and down the backs of her slim legs while I vacillated between my love and hate for her tight jeans.
"Longer." She glanced down at me with a smirk.
She thought I was in control. If she knew anything of my misery in the past weeks, she would know the inaccuracy of that sentiment, and gazing at her from my knees only cemented reality for me.
Her effect on me was profound, and it terrified me. I didn't understand Andy. I couldn't explain what she wanted. A small part of me knew she'd never truly reveal herself to me. It would always be breadcrumbs.
"How long?" Standing, I anchored my hands to her hips and nar
rowed my eyes at Andy. Her hands dropped to my belt and my pants hit the floor.
"Since the day I met you. When you interviewed me." Her fingers scratched down my chest, and the predatory smile playing on her lips had me hard in a matter of seconds.
I nodded, and yanked her soft black sweater over her head while I attempted to recover from her revelation. Her breasts came into focus from their seats in her smooth graphite bra, and my need to free those beauties and bury my face between them eclipsed my attempts to figure Andy out.
After tossing the gray fabric over my shoulder, I cupped her breasts, my thumbs circling her small, mocha nipples until they hardened against my palm. She arched forward into my hands, her fingers clawing at my waist as her breath hitched. Another wave of her soul-stirring lavender scent hit me when my nose coasted over the rise of her breast.
I groaned against her nipple when her flavor seeped into my senses. She tasted like warmth, honey, sex, and tart cherries. Her fingers tugged at my hair while I sucked that hard little gem into my mouth and I was dizzy with want.
"Bite it," she hissed. "I want your teeth."
My tongue traced her nipple before my teeth skimmed over her skin, scraping the tender flesh repeatedly while my hand mimicked my actions on her other breast.
"I said bite."
Whatever the opposite of docile was, Andy was it. If I believed for a second that she'd obediently take my directions, I was further along in my insanity than I initially thought. She was aggressive in her concise, pointed way, and she was content to make demands and argue about my technique while standing in the middle of my apartment, half-naked.
I fucking loved it.
Releasing her nipple with a sharp pull that elicited a throaty moan, I turned to meet Andy's eyes. "You're a dirty little kitten, aren't you?"
"Maybe. Is that a problem?"
"It's fucking fantastic." I met her dark eyes. "I knew there was something very naughty about you the second I laid eyes on you."
The Walsh Brothers Page 39
