Forbidden to Taste

by JC Harroway

  Is she flirting...? My smile is feeble. She’s looking at me like she’d love nothing better than a session of verbal foreplay, culminating in a round or two of high-calibre fucking, right here on the stainless steel, but her eyes are red-rimmed and she’s pale, probably about to drop with fatigue.

  Plus, I’m no hero.

  ‘I have a few skills.’ The pan sizzles, breaking the tension and splattering my shirt.

  ‘You should let me make that—you don’t want to get grease on your suit.’ I feel her stare slide down my body to my toes.

  Fuck my suit.

  ‘I’m tough. You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten lukewarm boil-in-the-bag stew in the middle of nowhere.’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘I’ll take your word for that.’

  I slide the eggs onto a plate and add some milled black pepper with a flourish. I disguise my turmoil with a dash more of bossy. ‘Now, eat my substandard omelette and then go home, have a bath, work out all those kinks with a long, hot soak.’

  Stop. Don’t imagine her naked and wet, water running down her phenomenal body... Thank fuck she can’t read the one-track nature of my far from friendly mind.

  She rolls her eyes, covering a yawn with the back of her hand. ‘Sounds like heaven.’ She reaches for the fork. ‘But I only have a shower—bathroom’s too small for a bath.’ She takes a bite of the omelette, moaning with pleasure.

  ‘I have a bath,’ I say, surprising us both. ‘Why don’t I take you home to mine—it’s just around the corner—you can have a soak and sleep in my spare room?’

  Damn and fuck it all to hell.

  She looks up. Swallows.

  Say no.

  Say yes.

  I hide behind clearing away the ingredients and wiping down the stove. Why am I so set on littering my own path with the ultimate in temptation?

  When I look up she’s staring, but quickly covers her indecision with a smile. ‘Sounds like a plan...if you...don’t mind.’

  I shrug like it’s no big deal, while my heart beats its way into my throat. She’ll be in my house. In my bath. Sleeping in my spare room.

  I fall back on my old mantra: hands, eyes and filthy mind off.

  She covers another yawn. ‘Excuse me. I have to be back here for the early shift in five hours.’

  ‘Great, it’s sorted.’ While she finishes the omelette, her little moans of appreciation pulsing my dick, I keep my back to her, don rubber gloves and begin to wash up the bowls and cake tins filling the sink.

  ‘How had you planned on getting that home?’ I tilt my chin at the cake, which is at least thirty centimetres high—not the easiest thing to transport across London on the Tube.

  ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead... Taxi.’ She shrugs, washing down omelette with a sip of wine I poured. I scrub at the cake tin, my attack on the burnt-on dollop of cake mixture doing little to distract me from the sight and sound of Kenzie enjoying my food.

  ‘I didn’t really have much time to make a birthday cake this year, and Tilly’s getting a little old—’

  ‘Can you ever be too old for a birthday cake?’

  She points her fork at me. ‘Good point. Anyway, I’ve been making them for Tilly for years, since Mum and Dad died. It’s a family tradition, one Mum started and now I continue—can’t mess with tradition.’ Her eyes lose focus for a second, and I dry my hands on a tea towel, fighting the urge to go to her, hold her, kiss the sadness from her lips. To tell her we—her, Tilly and I—can make new traditions...

  ‘That’s a nice tradition.’

  She nods, her eyes darting away, but I’ve already seen the sheen in them. ‘I tried to keep those family times alive for Tilly. Birthdays, Christmas—Mum and Dad always made them special.’

  I turn away, an intruder to her private moment, even when every cell in me wants to comfort her for the things she’s lost. ‘I’ll have the cake delivered tomorrow.’ She starts to protest but I hold up my hand, silencing her assertions that she can cope. ‘Just let me do something for you, take care of...this simple thing.’

  Take care of you.

  I step closer, my chest so tight the words I manage to push out surprising us both. ‘Let me keep my promise.’ Try to be your friend. Try to make up for what you’ve been through because of me. ‘Please.’ The last is a gruff whisper, my throat closing on the word. Because not only am I the shittiest friend alive, to both Sam and her, but I also have the grubbiest intentions where this beautiful woman is concerned.

  She nods, her big eyes round.

  The victory leaves me so conflicted my chest aches. I knew she’d be the death of me...

  * * *

  Having Kenzie in my home is akin to an eternity locked in the London dungeons, every lash to my raw back a sentence, because I can almost taste how different my life might have been if I’d approached her instead of stepping aside for Sam.

  I saw her first. Saw her the second we walked into the club, at the bar with her friends, her stunning face hard to ignore and her laugh infectious. The next time I looked her way, scoping out her ring finger, Sam had spotted her, too. And then she looked in our direction, catching his eye and quickly looking away. I should never have taken his wager, literally putting my fate in the outcome of a coin toss.

  She’s so tired, I take her straight to the spare room, every step she takes at my side a self-inflicted flogging. Hiding my mistake, I turn down the covers on the bed, silently praising Fiona, my housekeeper, for keeping everything shipshape. I catch Kenzie eyeing the huge bath in the en suite with longing, so I detour there, robotically turning on the taps and adding half a bottle of bubble bath to the steaming stream of water.

  ‘There are fresh towels on the warmer and a new toothbrush in the drawer.’

  Kenzie nods and smiles like I’ve handed her a winning lottery ticket. She heels off her shoes and removes her coat.

  I’m still standing here, probably with drool on my chin, waiting to be invited into the bath, the bed... I force my body into submission and force my eyes away from the swell of her breasts beneath her simple white T-shirt.

  ‘Well...goodnight.’ I make for the door, clearing the tightness in my throat. ‘I’m going into the office early tomorrow, so I can drop you off for your shift.’

  A small smile. ‘You don’t need to do that.’

  ‘I’m going anyway.’ A lie. Who goes into the office at seven on a Sunday morning?

  She nods, her eyes heavy... I tell myself it’s with fatigue, rather than the longing I hope to see. ‘Thanks, Drake.’

  I’m in my own bathroom cleaning my teeth when I look up into the mirror and see the smear of vivid green icing she must have rubbed on my cheek back at the Faulkner. She’s managed to talk to me all evening with a straight face. My bark of laughter breaks some of the tension coiled in me, only for it to be replaced with a profound ache.

  Fuck, she’s incredible. I glance at the closed bedroom door, every muscle straining to go to her.

  I sober quickly, tossing down my toothbrush with disgust.

  The blast of hot water from the shower does little to settle my strung-out nervous system. How am I ever going to sleep knowing everything I want is just across the hall? Knowing how good it felt to cross into forbidden territory?

  It’s three-fifteen by the time my head hits the pillow, the cool sheets a balm to my fevered naked skin—I always sleep naked.

  My last thought, one of wishful thinking, that the chances of Kenzie walking in here and finding me this way are depressingly slim. My dick hates the odds.

  What feels like only five minutes later I’m being shaken awake. My heart thunders as reality and sleep merge, images of Sam running ahead of me, just out of reach, lingering. I stretch out my hand—he’s so close I see the weave in the fabric of his combat gear, but then he slips through my fingers like the acrid smoke filling my
lungs.

  I emerge fully into reality. The room is dark, but Kenzie’s silhouette and big eyes are easily recognisable in the shaft of light from the hallway.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she whispers, releasing my arm.

  I sit up, scrub my hand down my face, the roar of blood through my head as deafening as the explosion that took Sam. ‘I’m fine—’ I clear my aching throat. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You were having a nightmare—calling out in your sleep. Sorry. I thought it best to wake you.’

  Fuck, that’s the second one this week.

  She rubs her arms. She’s wearing her T-shirt and underwear, her bare skin scattered with goose-bumps. A chill has settled through the room—it must be close to dawn. I reach for the throw at the end of my bed and drape it around her shoulders, while I try to straighten my head.

  Kenzie tugs the blanket across her chest and tucks her bare legs up under herself. ‘Was it bad? It sounded bad.’

  With a sigh, I switch on the lamp. ‘I’m okay. I don’t have them anywhere near as frequently as I used to.’ But the subject matter is always the same—Sam. Chasing after him, only to watch him get blown up, the knowledge it should have been me slamming home with the predictable inevitability of a high-speed collision.

  ‘Was it Sam?’ She reaches out, her touch whisper-soft on my arm, torture and redemption.

  I stifle a groan. ‘Don’t do that.’ She snatches her hand away and I quickly intercept, grasping her fingers and holding tight. ‘I don’t deserve your comfort.’

  But I’ll fucking take it, suck it dry, if that’s the only part of her I can have.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes widen with alarm.

  I step back from the edge of the precipice. ‘Nothing.’ I grip tighter, silently begging her not to push for answers. Not now. When I’m naked and she may as well be. When the vestiges of my nightmare cling, dragging me down into the familiar pit of endless guilt.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ It’s barely a whisper, as if I’m a frightened animal. But the only thing to fear is keeping control of my burgeoning feelings for this woman. Feelings I’m struggling to contain.

  I shake my head, squeeze her fingers. ‘I’m fine. I’m sorry I woke you.’

  Time to get her out of here.

  ‘You didn’t.’ She looks down at our still clasped hands. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  My pulse soars, but that’s not a hangover from the nightmare. ‘You should go back to bed.’ Now. Before I do something stupid. ‘It’s freezing.’

  She nods but her only movement is her warm fingers pressing against the back of my hand.

  I’m trapped by my nakedness and the hard-on that roared to life the minute my body registered her proximity. And by the fact that touching her is exactly where I want to be.

  Am I strong enough to fight it?

  ‘Thank you for today,’ she says, lifting her eyes to look at me from under her lashes.

  ‘What for?’ My throat is sandpaper-rough.

  Ask me to kiss you again. Ask me to fuck you again.

  ‘For all of it.’ She smiles and my heart pounds. ‘Helping Tilly, brunch, washing up, making me food and running me a bath.’ Her eyes are searching as a slow sigh gusts out across her lips like she wants to say more but is holding back.

  ‘No problem.’ My voice croaks. The only problem here is if she doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to do something we’ll both regret. Something unforgivable, because she made her position clear today.

  Fuck, why didn’t I sling on some tracksuit bottoms to sleep in? At least then I could climb out of bed, make her a glass of hot milk and tuck her back into the spare bed, out of reach.

  I glance at the door, the slant of light from the hallway. ‘I’d take you back to your room...but I’m...kind of naked under here.’

  She lifts her eyebrows, her lips parting. ‘You are?’

  I shrug. Did I imagine the way her eyes sparked? I must still be dreaming, making up the shit I desperately want to see. Because it’s over, right...? Friends, she said.

  Her eyes cling to mine while we breathe. And stare. And wait. For what, I’m not sure, but I want to break the spell as much as I want to run around the dark-shrouded streets of Chelsea stark bollock naked.

  ‘Do you regret it?’ she asks, a whisper.

  If I weren’t so fascinated with her lips, I’d have missed the question completely.

  My pulse thrums painfully in my head. ‘Regret what?’ All I can think about is how I want her so bad I can already taste her.

  Her shoulders rise and fall with rapid, shallow breaths, her tongue darting out to moisten her bottom lip. Her reply is whisper-soft, as if she’s afraid to speak any louder in case the words become too real. ‘What we did.’

  My heart stops altogether. Regret it...? I’ve fucking replayed it a million times, reliving every incredible second until I’m drunk with its rightness. I shake my head, my tongue thick in my mouth.

  ‘No.’ I scrub a hand through my hair, tempted to tear it out at the words formulating in my head. ‘But I don’t want to hurt you, either.’ Hurt you any more than I already have. ‘You’ve been through enough. And I...I made him a promise.’

  Her eyelids lower, taking her eyes from wide to sultry, heavy with want, as if she needed to hear confirmation I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But that can’t be what she’s saying, can it? Because we agreed, only this morning... A mere thirteen hours, ten minutes and forty-three seconds ago.

  I can’t look away, even though I should. I can’t speak, because what I’d feel compelled to say is ‘go back to bed’ and, right now, I’d rather cut out my tongue.

  When she speaks again her voice is breathy, but with a firm enough tone that speaks of her sincerity. Her certainty. Her need. ‘You can keep your promise to him.’ Her breath shudders out and then back in. ‘But don’t make me a promise you can’t keep, Drake.’

  My name on her lips, husky, uttered on a breathy sigh, punches me in the chest and makes my blood sing through my veins and pool in my groin. How does she know me so well? Better than I know myself? Because right now, with her scent in my head and her eyes on mine, I couldn’t swear on the life of my brothers which way this will go. Which way I’ll go.

  She’s temptation personified.

  But I’m strong. Practised at self-denial and tolerating discomfort.

  The friends mantra loops through my head.

  ‘You wanted friends—I can keep that promise.’ The words tear at my throat. Her hand is still in mine. One lunge, one tumble and she’d be under me. Where I want her, her mouth on mine, her wet heat clamped around my cock while I drive us both to oblivion, drive away the memory she was ever anyone else’s but mine.

  Her eyes glow, their depths full of things I must be dreaming, or concocting in my mind.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says.

  One word.

  One meaning.

  All it takes to seal my doom.

  She slides the blanket from her shoulders and I tug her under me in one move, as I imagined. A move so perfect, there’s a fanfare sounding in my head. My mouth covers hers, my hand sliding under her shirt, up her smooth belly to her breast, and I succumb, my weakness for her obliterating every resolution and mocking the friend, the disciplined soldier and the man for a liar.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kenzie

  JUST LIKE THE first time, his touch rains down liquid lightning on my skin. I gasp into his kiss as he rolls my nipple between his fingers with the perfect degree of pressure to leave me panting. His erection, hot and bare, digs into my thigh and I spread my legs, angling the hard length where any shift of my hips will rub him over my clit.

  ‘Drake.’ He swallows my ragged cry and then rears back, his hips rocking into mine, reproducing the exquisite friction I crave, over and over.

 
‘Say it again.’ His stare glitters, the bite of command telling me how close he is to the edge.

  Thrust. Grind. Rock.

  He’s braced on his arms, looking down at me, and I want to chant his name until I’m hoarse.

  ‘Drake... Drake...’ I want my underwear gone. I want to feel the head of his cock sliding through my wetness, waking my hungry clit with every glide. I bite my lip on the urge to voice my desires in case their ferocity scares him off.

  How could I convince myself I only wanted friendship? That one time with him would end this yearning?

  His mouth silences my thoughts, his tongue surging against mine as a growl vibrates from his throat. His hand is back under my top and I writhe and wriggle until I’ve scraped the fabric overhead and tossed it to the floor, breaking our deep, drugging kiss in the process.

  I slide my hands over Drake’s naked chest, his sculpted shoulders and up into his hair, while he grinds against my centre, his chest working hard and his eyes locked to mine with twice the passion of last night.

  No matter what we said, this isn’t over, for either of us.

  His skin scorches me. He’s big and solid, surrounding and engulfing me in the best way. Holding me like he’s held me all day with his actions and his encouragement and his thoughtfulness.

  ‘Tell me you want this.’ He barks out the command as if he’s as close as I am to totally losing control. How can this be better than the first time? How is this need nowhere near diminished?

  I nod, too pleasure-drunk for words, but then I pull myself together. ‘Yes, oh, fuck, yes.’ My desire breaks free, starkly honest. Seizing this moment with Drake feels as important as seizing the chance at my dream job. More important. Because with him I feel powerful, capable, strong.

  But I shut out the growing emotional attachment we’ve developed today, telling myself I can enjoy and control the sexual storm he’s awoken in me. Telling myself I want nothing from him beyond incredible sex.