“I see.” I swallow, my throat feeling far too tight. “And does the potential for success of those businesses have anything to do with your… ah… personal biases, by any chance?”
He laughs, a low undercurrent that sends fire through my veins. “I should think so. Everything is personal, Cassidy.” He reaches up. There’s a stray strand of hair I hadn’t noticed, come loose from the ponytail I put my damp hair into earlier. He brushes it back off my shoulder, his fingers lingering against the bare expanse of skin there, because I wore a tank top today, so stupid, I should have worn something more covered up.
A whole sheet over my body, maybe.
Even then, I get the feeling Lark would have been able to reach me through it.
“Especially business,” he murmurs, his face barely inches from mine.
My breath is unsteady in my chest. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating, eager to lean into his, to surrender to the desire that’s been coursing through me, unrelenting and trapped, for weeks.
“I thought you told me you learned not to mix business with pleasure,” I reply, my voice a barely-there breath. But he hears me anyway, the corners of his mouth edging up into a dangerous smile.
“Guess I’m a slow learner,” he says. Then he leans in, and God help me, I do the same. His lips collide with mine, searing hot, and his hand reaches up to cup my cheek, his fingers buried in my hair.
I groan into his mouth, and he grins against my lips, pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead against mine, gazing into my eyes.
“I haven’t been able to get you out of my damn head for weeks, Cassidy Marks.”
The sound of my name in his mouth thrills me. Sends sparks dancing in my veins. “Me neither,” I admit. “I should have—I wanted to, but—” I fall silent when he kisses me again. This time, I sink against him, let his free arm snake around my waist and pull me closer. At the same time, his lips part against mine, and his tongue tangles with my own, forceful, claiming.
I relinquish control. There’s a sense of relief in it, in finally letting myself fall, when I’ve been struggling to hold myself back for so long.
My hands slide up over Lark’s chest—God, I forgot how fucking muscular he is—and loop around his neck, tightening.
In response, he shifts in his seat, and in one smooth motion, drags me across the couch until I’m straddling his lap. This time he’s the one who groans, his lips vibrating against mine with the sound. As my legs sink into the soft cushions to either side of his lap, I can feel a solid press against my inner thigh.
He’s already rock fucking hard.
My belly tightens at the knowledge that I have the same effect on him as he does on me. It seems impossible to me, and yet here he is, unable to keep his hands off me. Unable to forget about me, the same way I couldn’t forget about him.
Somewhere in our entanglement, I feel something brush my shin, and glance over. Unable to help it, I laugh.
My damn eyeshadow palette. Lark was holding it. Now it’s face down on the couch, the colors smeared in a rainbow riot across the dingy gray cushions.
Lark notices where I’m looking and he laughs, too. “My fault,” he admits.
“You’re paying to clean this,” I inform him, right before I cup his face between my hands and lean in to kiss him again.
“I’ll do one better,” he replies when we break apart again. At the same time, he slides his hands up the back of my shirt, tugging it up and over my head, then tossing it aside. He pulls me against him again, his face level with my chest, and starts to kiss and lick his way around the edges of my breasts, still tightly confined in my bra. “I’ll replace the whole damn couch, I promise.”
With my head tipped back, my eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of his tongue on my skin, I almost don’t hear what he said. The moment the words register, though, I jerk back upright, my eyes flashing. “I don’t need your charity.”
He’d been in the process of unhooking my bra. Now it hangs between us, my nipples bare and hardened, but he’s not touching them. He’s peering up at me, expression unreadable. “It’s not charity if I destroyed the thing. I’m merely replacing what I owe you.”
“I don’t want to be spoiled,” I reply, chin raised.
But that only makes him grin, slowly. “Don’t you?” One hand slides up to cup my breast. His thumb traces over my nipple, which was already hard in the cool air of my apartment. Now it could probably cut a diamond. “That’s a shame,” he says, bending close. He runs his tongue over my other nipple, making me gasp and arch up—which he takes advantage of, his free hand gripping my hip and pulling me down against his cock, the hard length of his shaft falling right between my legs, pressing against my swollen clit. “Because I had so many plans for how exactly I’d spoil you today, Ms. Marks…” He speaks with his mouth close to my chest, his breath heating the damp spot he left against my nipple. Then he sucks it between his lips again, gently closing his teeth around my nipple, and I gasp, my head falling back, my protests forgotten.
I’m pushing my hips down, grinding against his cock, desperation building. The couch argument can wait. I want him now—no. I need him. “Fuck me already, damn it, Lark,” I say, my voice practically a growl.
In response, he grins, and reaches down to undo the buttons on the presentable work pants I wore today—foolishly thinking this would just be another business meeting. Not planning for this.
Somehow I never plan for Lark.
By the time he finally gets both of our pants out of the way; when we’re perched on the couch naked, me still straddling his hips, I’m so wet I’m surprised it’s not dripping down my inner thigh already. His cock is swollen, red with want, and he takes his damn time rolling a condom over himself before he positions the throbbing tip at the entrance of my pussy.
“I’ve dreamt of this for weeks,” he tells me, his eyes blazing where they catch mine. “I’ve been missing that sweet, tight pussy of yours so goddamn badly…”
“Lark, please…”
I try to sit right on him, but he holds my hips in both hands, smirking all the while.
“Not so fast,” he tells me. “I want to savor this.”
When he finally guides me down onto his cock, it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to cry aloud with pleasure. I manage to keep it to a low, throaty moan, as the sensation of his cock sliding into my pussy, slowly spreading my lips, making me ache to contain him, fills me up.
I move slow, sinking onto him. Every time I think I can’t possibly take him any deeper, I move a centimeter closer, feel him stretching me to my limits.
“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, and the tightness in his voice almost undoes me as much as the feeling of him inside me.
When he starts to move again, tiny motions at first, bucking me up off him and pulling me back down again, I have to cling to his bare chest for support, because I’m already halfway to an orgasm already, the sensations filling my body like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
He takes it slow. Torturously slow. But by the time we both come together, my whole body jerking against his, it feels like we’ve melded into one body, one mind.
That’s the moment I know I’m in trouble.
6
Cassidy
I wake up the next morning to a loud buzzing at my door. I roll over with a groan, unsure why every muscle in my body is screaming for mercy—until I remember the couch.
And after the couch, the shower.
And after the shower, this very bed, which dammit, I’ll need to wash the sheets now. But not yet. For now, I roll back over with a groan and pull a pillow over my head. Lark left sometime this morning—I vaguely remember him kissing my cheek and promising to keep his promise soon, whatever that means. I wasn’t awake enough to process it.
Just like I’m not awake enough now for whatever that commotion is outside.
But the horrible raucous buzzing continues, and I finally sit upright in bed, realizing. Oh shit.
Doorbell.
“Coming!” I shout, which is inane, because nobody can hear me at the front entrance from all the way up here. Groggily, I pull on the nearest clothing—a pair of sweats and a baggy sleep shirt. Then I pad into my living room and hit the buzzer. My hair is a mess. I take one look in the mirror and grimace, pulling it up into a ponytail and heading into the bathroom to splash the worst of the sleep from my face.
I don’t expect the knock on my door, a few minutes later. I had figured the buzzer was just the mailman or someone locked out of another unit in the building.
Confused, I pad back to the entrance and ease open the door a crack, my stomach a riot of butterflies. Because, sure, I might be expecting Lark.
Instead, I find a man in a delivery uniform outside, holding out a form. “Ms. Marks?” he asks.
“Uh, yes, that’s me.” I rub at my eyes, frowning. “But I didn’t order any—”
“Right here, boys,” the man calls over his shoulder, and the next thing I know, a series of delivery men are shouldering open my door and hauling a brand new couch through it.
I watch, my jaw dropping, as they work. Lark. I thought I told him not to do this.
The main delivery man notices my expression, and grins. “Mr. Anderson warned us you might be, ah, surprised by the delivery. Don’t take it too personally. He has a tendency to do this sort of thing.”
I fold my arms and watch the man’s assistants expertly disassemble my sagging, stained couch, and reassemble a replacement in its place. “To do what, barge into other people’s lives and force gifts on them?” I reply.
“Pretty much.” The man laughs.
But, I have to admit, looking at the new couch they’re unwrapping, Lark chose well. It’s in a similar style to the one I owned, with big, puffy cushions and a simple fabric pattern—dark gray this time instead of light, which I have to admit does pair better with my shaggy carpet and steel coffee table.
Still. He could have at least consulted me first.
“You should see his apartment,” the delivery man continues. Before I can say I have, he adds, “Or the house he used to share with his wife, for that matter. Everyone who visits compliments Sheryl on her eye, but he’s the one who really put the place together. All for her sake, of course.”
His wife. Not his ex-wife. My stomach does an unpleasant backflip, all my earlier worries flooding straight back. “So I take it you’ve worked for Anderson Investments for a while?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual, light. As if the answer doesn’t interest me more than I could possibly explain.
“Been with them ever since they got their start,” the man declares proudly. “One of those power couples. You could tell from the get-go they were both driven, smart, wanted to make a name for themselves.”
“I see,” I reply, and I can’t quite hide the quiver in my tone. Thankfully, the man doesn’t seem to notice.
“Shame about their troubles of late.” He shakes his head. “Can’t help but think it’s because Lark’s a stubborn one. He didn’t see what was right in front of him all the while.”
My throat has gone tight. I clear it, forcing myself to smile and nod. To act normal. “Isn’t that always the way?” I say.
The man laughs. Across the room, his men have finished assembling my handsome new couch—which looks like it probably cost more than every other piece of furniture in my apartment put together. They’re carrying out the disassembled pieces of my old one now, when their overseer pauses, glancing at the rainbow, makeup-stained cushion.
“You got kids?” he asks, squinting at it, and then around my place, as if wondering where I’ve stashed a toddler.
I flash back to last night. To Lark pulling me onto his lap, the makeup spilling around us. “No,” I say. “But you could say someone immature did that.”
The man laughs again, and then offers me his hand. “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure if you’re an Anderson employee, we’ll meet again soon.”
I shake, a small frown creasing my forehead. “Oh, no,” I start to say. “I’m not a—”
But he’s already following his men out the door with a single backward salute at me. I wait until they’re in the hallway, and then shut the door behind them, locking it, and leaning backward against it. My head hits the wood with a faint thud.
I raise it, and let it fall back again with a harder smack this time.
What a mess.
And if I thought the day started out awkwardly, it’s only about to get more so. Less than an hour after the delivery men leave, I get two texts in a row. One from Lark.
I still cannot stop thinking about you. Tell me how you like the new addition to your apartment. Or better yet, how about I come over to test it out tonight?
And another from Sheryl.
So sorry I wasn’t able to come to the demo yesterday. What about a makeup (wink) meeting today? Lunch downtown at 1pm? My treat.
Followed by an address, a restaurant I’ve never been to, mostly because the only thing I’d be able to afford there is a single appetizer plate.
Shit.
* * *
It’s hard not to think about the fact, as I watch Sheryl unfold her napkin and set it primly in her lap across the table from me, that just last night I was in bed with her husband. Her ex-husband?
Either way. Guilt churns in my stomach. The dish she ordered me, some kind of rare steak from Japan I’ve never heard of, smells incredible. But it’s difficult for me to even hold my fork and knife long enough to cut it, let alone raise it to my lips.
Sitting between us on the table is my makeup palette. The same palette that destroyed my former couch, albeit now it’s been cleaned and refilled properly. Looking at it now, I picture it in Lark’s hands, as he turned it admiringly this way and that in the sunlight streaming through my windows. Then I think about the way it slid from his grasp onto the couch beside us, when he pulled me over to straddle him, his hard cock digging into my thigh.
“It’s beautiful,” Sheryl says, dragging my attention back to the present. “Do you mind?” She reaches for it but waits for me to nod before she takes a few swatches and tests them along the inside of her wrist, admiring the color in the dim restaurant lighting.
She doesn’t cross to the window for a better look. I try not to hold it against her.
While she examines the merchandise, I force a piece of steak into my mouth. It melts on my tongue, buttery and supple. It’s possibly the most delicious steak I’ve ever eaten.
It’s hard to swallow. I have to wash it down with a gulp of sparkling water—Sheryl refused still when the waiter asked, practically offended by the notion.
“What did Lark say?” she asks, after a long pause. The lump in my throat doubles in size, having nothing to do with the steak.
“Pretty much the same thing.” I manage to keep a tremor from my voice. Good.
“He has a better eye than me for these sorts of things,” Sheryl admits, setting the palette down to take a bite of her own meal. “I’m more of a flavors-and-scents type. He’s the visual one.” She points with her fork. “Is something wrong? If they’ve overcooked it, I can send it back.”
“No, no. It’s delicious.” I raise my fork and knife again with effort. “I’m just… savoring.”
“A girl after my own heart.” Sheryl smiles at me, conspiratorially.
I grin back, trying not to let the guilt overwhelm me. Lark told me things were over between them. And I believe him. But the look in her eyes whenever she brings him up… Not to mention how often she brings him up…
I think about the delivery man again, from earlier today. Shame about their troubles. And here I am, adding to those troubles. Maybe at first I was innocent, unaware of Lark’s complicated situation. But now?
“Do I have anything in my teeth?” Sheryl asks, an eyebrow lifted, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“Sorry, no.” I drop my gaze. Search for an excuse. “I was just trying to figure out what shade of lipstick
you’re wearing.”
She grins. “I appreciate how your mind is always on your work. Makes me feel confident to be your first investor.” She cuts off another piece, and I mimic her, the savory steak tasting like a solid block on my tongue. “I’m not sure of the name actually. Or even the brand. To be honest, I rarely wear makeup. Some old trifle Lark bought me years ago.”
I take another, longer gulp of water. Clear my throat. “So you two are…?” I let the question linger, unfinished.
Sheryl’s smile turns rueful. “Were,” she corrects, and I have to admit that the single word nearly makes me slide off my chair, weak with relief. At least that part is true, then. “We were married, for four years.”
“And you still manage to be business partners?” I can’t keep the note of surprise from my tone.
But it doesn’t seem to bother her. She leans back in her chair with a sigh. “Lark and I never did do anything the conventional way.” Her expression has turned inward, fond. “When we got married, we opened Anderson Investments the same year. Everyone told us it was mad, but we insisted. In for a penny, in for a pound, I always thought. Suppose some of those people are probably thinking told you so right about now, but…” She shakes her head, her mouth drooping at the corners. “I don’t mind. At least the business still keeps us somewhat connected now. Friends, if not anything more.”
“So, if you’re friends… you’d be okay with it if he moved on?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better. Before I can shove another piece of steak past my lips to make me hold my tongue.
Sheryl’s gaze jumps to mine, suddenly sharp. When she smiles again, it’s sharper than last time, pointed. “Are you interested in him?” she asks, point-blank, in a way that throws me completely.
Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance Page 21
