“Yeah, and we’ve already established that’s not me.” But the words felt like a lie, because he couldn’t imagine wanting anyone but her. Probably because he hadn’t had her. The notion made him feel better. That had to be it.
“I thought you were spotting me,” she said softly.
He looked from the television and took in every gorgeous inch of her. “I was.”
“If you want out of our deal—”
He stood and pushed the door shut. No need for the whole place to hear this. “Dammit, Kelsie, I don’t want out of our deal.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then why did you leave me?”
“Because this is about you meeting someone else, and that’s not going to happen with me staring at your ass.”
“Has that been my problem all these months?” Her arms flailed, and he had a flashback to the night they met. “The reason I haven’t been able to meet anyone? Not so much my shit cooking or my territorial dog, but you staring at my ass?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
God, this woman. She couldn’t let it drop, and yet she didn’t understand why he didn’t want a full-time commitment to listening to this kind of crap? “You want to know what I don’t understand?” he asked. “I don’t understand why you care. You tell me not to touch you, then you give me hell when I try to get some distance. What exactly do you want here, Kelsie?”
A long moment passed without either of them breathing a word. Fine. He put his hand on the doorknob, only to hear her soft voice behind him.
“You were trying to get away from me?”
“Yeah,” he said without looking.
“Why?” She sounded so damned small. And hurt. And she had no right to that because these were her rules, and he was doing his damnedest not to break every one of them, but his thumb flicked the lock anyway. He stared at the knob for the longest time, because he knew that would be his undoing. The sight of her, gorgeous. Wounded. Skin glowing from her workout. Eyes dark because he’d hurt her. He could already see her, and it was too much.
Something touched his arm. Her hand.
He turned. Slowly. All the measured control in the world, but it wasn’t enough. Genuine questions darkened her eyes, and he had but one answer. “Because I can’t stop wanting this.”
He closed his mouth on hers, foregoing the polite nudge for permission in favor of a devastating kiss. All of that sweet, polite shit from the couple days prior was obliterated by an urgency that demanded he possess her, and she responded like she’d been waiting for it. Wanting it.
In a blink, he had her hoisted against the wall, her legs wrapped around him, her breasts pressed tight against his chest. He held her ass and ground against her while she whimpered his name and clutched his hair. The wall got old fast… He wanted his hands free to touch every piece of her, so he moved her, with extraordinarily bad intent, to the sofa and went down after her. In that moment—the last moment before he kissed her again—he hesitated. He wanted everything, but it started with her permission.
She immediately dragged him against her mouth, then it was she who tasted him. He caught up quickly, but he couldn’t get close enough. He worked his hand up her shirt, landing on a sports bra. He settled for cupping her breast while she moaned and wiggled and deepened the kiss. Before he had any idea what happened, she was tearing at the elastic of his track pants and with surprising dexterity had her hand wrapped around his shaft.
He froze.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“If you move any part of your hand even a tenth of a centimeter, there’s a good chance I’ll shoot you in the eye.”
“In the eye?” She was bewildered, comically so, and still the spell didn’t break.
“I’m not kidding.” And he didn’t have a condom, which was probably a good thing. If he ever got the chance to have sex with her, he didn’t want it to be in the employee break room of the fucking rock gym. But if she begged, he’d be toast. He’d also be in the men’s room praying that ancient condom dispenser worked.
Fortunately, she didn’t beg. And she didn’t listen. Instead, she ran those smooth, silky hands along his length until his arms shook and he completely lost the ability to hold himself upright.
“Ladies first,” he said through gritted teeth. He never finished first. Not ever.
“Not happening here,” she said sweetly. But she didn’t say it wouldn’t happen at all. That was something.
Her hands were something else. Stroking and teasing, driving the last of his tattered resolve to oblivion. Wherever that was. No wonder he couldn’t—
“Watch your eyes,” he muttered in warning as the release that had threatened came crashing through, scattering what was left of his brain cells. He prayed his elbows would hold him. And—thank God now for those damned glasses—that he hadn’t shot her in the face.
And cursed the fact that she hadn’t gone there with him.
A couple of lifetimes passed before he found his voice. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be first.”
“Wasn’t the first time someone finished without me,” she said. “Won’t be the last.”
It took him a minute to realize she was talking about some other guy. And some other future guy. She literally still had his dick in her hand, and she was talking about some other guy.
Welcome to your world, Sawyer Chase. He scowled. “Hand me a paper towel?”
She grinned, still pinned beneath him. “You’re going to need more than that. It’s got to be all over the inside of your shirt.”
Christ. He’d have to hit the front desk to buy a tee. He eased from on top of her and managed to extract himself from the one he wore without getting it all over his face, then he balled up the shirt and cleaned up the stray mess. And he wondered what to say. Thanks for the hand job didn’t quite cut it.
“I shouldn’t have…kissed you,” he said.
Yeah, like that was any better.
“Don’t worry about it. The tension was bound to happen. I mean, you’re hot, and you’ll sleep with pretty much anyone, so…” She shrugged, but he didn’t buy her smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, and he had the worst feeling she felt used. Or like she’d somehow joined his lineup.
“You’re not anyone,” he said. He needed her to know that. To believe it.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll try not to take that the wrong way.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I guess I should tell you something,” she said.
Her soft, vulnerable tone caught him off guard. He did his best to match it. “What’s that?”
“My ex told me I sucked in bed.”
His brow lifted, and she actually laughed.
“Not in the good way,” she said. “It killed my confidence, which wasn’t great to begin with. I’d love to say it doesn’t matter what he thinks, but—”
“He’s wrong.”
She blinked. “What?”
“He’s wrong. Want proof? I’ve never tried so damn hard to resist the inevitable end, and I don’t think I’ve ever gotten there faster.”
She laughed, but he wasn’t convinced she found anything funny. And that made him ache. In the bad way. Quietly, he asked, “What do you want me to do, Kelsie? Just tell me.”
“Only one thing I can think of,” she said, her smile slightly more believable this time around. “Let’s get back out there and climb the walls.”
He almost smiled. Almost. Because with his desire for her nowhere near sated and the feel of her body fresh against his fingertips, climbing the walls wasn’t merely a metaphor.
It was the goddamned truth.
Chapter Seven
Kelsie hated to admit how exhilarating the rock climbing had been. Granted, she’d never made it more than ten feet off the ground, but the pure concentration and exertion had her on some kind of high, her muscles deliciously sore. Kind of like awesome sex—or even a near miss—and she even had th
e hot guy to complete the package.
Package. She had to go there, didn’t she?
Literally.
Her last-minute ploy to stave off the playboy likely backfired. If anything, his looks had grown in intensity, his gazes lingering longer. And her. Oh dear God, she wanted more. She wanted it bad enough to know one night wouldn’t be enough, which threw the whole sordid idea back into bad idea territory. And there was no way out. Except…she wasn’t sure what had prompted her little confession about her ex, but if things between her and Sawyer did reach that inevitable end, at least she could ask him for tips. Not. Awkward. At. All. But something, at least.
Something like a mood killer. Which made it a better idea by the minute.
Sawyer pushed a hand through his hair, wrecking it to perfection, and smiled down at her. “Hungry?”
Despite what that smile did to her, she was glad to see it again. The immediate aftermath of their encounter had left him brooding, but he’d clearly worked out whatever was bothering him on the rock wall. He’d scaled the rocks to the ceiling, freestyle, while the guy he’d left to spot her glared and muttered something about not using a rope and breaking the rules and breaking his neck. She got the part where he was a stubborn ass, but that didn’t stop her awe. She now knew firsthand how much agility and muscle mass was required to climb those walls, and the idea of those arms around her made her ache now more than ever.
By the time he made it back down, jumping the last few feet, he wore the cocky smirk that made her feel all was right with the world.
Even when it wasn’t.
Nevertheless, Sawyer hadn’t quit grinning at her since they’d left the gym. He looked relaxed and happy, and the ease with which he’d traversed those crags had upped his hotness factor from a perfect ten to surface of the sun. She was past the point of regret for toying with him. She’d hoped it would ease the tension between them, but instead it had multiplied. Tenfold. But sex with him couldn’t happen—and not just because she didn’t want to be the latest notch on his headboard, but because there’s no way she’d ever forget it.
Hungry. Sure she was. But for once, he was talking about food, and it was she who had her mind in the gutter.
“Grimaldi’s?” she asked.
“You’re speaking my language, babe.” They grabbed a cab for the short ride, then joined the long line that was a fixture outside the pizza joint. Fortunately the place was used to the traffic, and they were inside in minutes, but the wait had given her plenty of time to study him. After he’d left the employee lounge to buy a clean shirt, he hadn’t mentioned what happened between them. He hadn’t even alluded to it, which made her think, despite the smiles she credited to his happy ending, he wasn’t the least bit affected by it. At least not on an emotional level. It was a harsh reminder to keep things platonic, but the logic of it didn’t exactly take away the temptation. She’d bet he was amazing in bed. Too bad the thing had a revolving turnstile at its foot.
After sharing a pepperoni pizza with him, she wasn’t ready for the afternoon to be over. But she didn’t know what to say. Would a part two to the day make it date four? Or had that happened with the pizza? Although, he hadn’t given her any of his tips, so she could argue that point, but why would she? She just wanted this thing with him over with…preferably with a date on the other end. She had to give him credit—she had definitely spoken to more men since her agreement with Sawyer than she had in the months since her ex dumped her. But if he kept swooping in and declaring every single one unfit… Well, wait. He’d declared the guy at the gym nice. And then she had ditched the literal Mr. Nice Guy to give a hand job to Mr. Disaster Waiting to Happen. Apparently she was a glutton for punishment.
But at least she owned it.
“Want to walk the bridge?” she asked. The Brooklyn Bridge had a great walking trail, and the views were fantastic.
But Sawyer turned white. And then she vaguely remembered he’d done the same thing when she’d told him about her sister’s wedding, which had nothing to do with bridges.
Before he responded, she asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, albeit a bit unsteadily, “but I’m not walking across the bridge.”
At first she thought he was joking, but there was no trace of humor in his expression. “You can’t be afraid of heights. We just left a rock climbing gym, where you broke half the posted rules by climbing to the top without a harness or a belayer or whatever the guy with the rope is called.”
His façade didn’t break. “Not. Walking. On. The. Bridge.”
She persisted. “We crossed the bridge into Manhattan when we went dancing.”
“In a taxi,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not on foot.”
He had to be kidding. But no, he wasn’t smiling. Not at all. He looked as if she’d asked him to jump off the bridge, not walk across it. Or maybe jump out of a plane. Or, like, commit to a relationship. “Are you serious? You won’t walk across the bridge?”
Realizing they were clogging the sidewalk, she took a step to one side. He let her go, waiting for a large group of sightseers, their cameras firmly gripped in their hands, to pass before joining her. You sure could tell who the tourists were. New Yorkers looked down when they walked. Everyone else looked up, their gazes usually trained through the lens of a camera.
“You won’t walk on it? Not for anything?” When he only stared, she tried again. “What if your brother and his girlfriend want to get married on the bridge?”
Sawyer scowled. “Then they do it without me. He’s the reason I won’t go on the damned thing to begin with.”
She stared. “Your brother made you afraid of bridges?”
He shook his head. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t. And it’s not bridges. It’s large bodies of water. Bridges just have a proximity problem.”
She cast a dubious glance in the direction of the East River. Large bodies of water were oceans, or at least Great Lakes. Places where you couldn’t see the other side. Not distances over which you could throw a baseball. “This is a large body of water?”
“Large enough,” he said stubbornly. “And I need to be able to see the bottom.”
“I don’t think you’d want to see the bottom of the East River.”
He almost smiled. “Also my point.”
She crossed her arms and took a deep breath. Big mistake. The day had warmed, and the smell of the water left a lot to be desired. “What happened?”
“Not important.”
“Um, no. If I can face the eternal humiliation of admitting to you that I can’t get a date and subject myself to becoming your charity case on seven separate occasions, then you can tell me why you’re afraid of large bodies of water.”
“Say it a little louder next time,” he muttered.
She folded her arms across her chest. “I will. And don’t think I won’t.”
After a long, sun-drenched showdown steeped in the faint odor of river water, he relented. “Fine. When I was around ten years old, my parents and brothers and I went on a fishing charter in the harbor. Crosby waited until everything was packed up at the end and the engines were running to push me off the back of the boat. While I’m floating there in the goddamn river in my life jacket, my entire family is riding off into the sunset.”
She covered her mouth to hide a smile. Not because his story was the least bit amusing, but because of the way he told it. “What happened? I mean, clearly at some point you were reunited.”
“My mom is a serial head counter. Apparently she figured out she was down a kid, and they circled back.”
She relaxed a notch. With his aversion to the water, she’d expected to hear something about the Atlantic Ocean and a helicopter rescue. “And that’s it?”
“What do you mean that’s it?” He glared. “Do you know how many bodies they find in that water?”
“Did you?” she countered. “At ten years old?”
He sighed. “I can’t drag you back to that place wit
h me to feel what I felt, but suffice to say even a few minutes bobbing in that dirty water, watching my family leave, realizing either they didn’t notice or didn’t care I was gone, was enough to give me nightmares. And frankly, it was a little insulting. I was the practical joker. The life of the party, even then. How could they not miss me? That screws with you as a kid.”
“I understand why that traumatized you, but it was, what, almost twenty years ago? How hard can it be to step foot on a bridge?”
He leveled a ruthless look at her. “I guess it’s about as hard for me as it would be for you to go to a wedding by yourself.”
Ouch.
“I guess boats are out of the question?” she asked. “Have you even tried?”
“There is no goddamn way I will ever step foot on a boat again.”
Disappointment flittered through her. She’d thought about asking Sawyer to go with her to the wedding—there’d be no awkward first date moments, at least—but the wedding was on a yacht. In the harbor. And he had promised she’d have a date, so there was no real need to ask him. By then, he’d be out of her life, at least until the next time she saw him stumble out of the elevator with some skank on his arm.
She sighed. “All right. No bridge. No boat, no water. But I’m not going to find the kind of guy I want to spend my life with hanging off a wall when he should be at work, so the next date is my call.”
The tension in his shoulders visibly eased. “Okay, I’ll give you that just for laying off the water thing. You pick the next date, and we’ll see if we can find your kind of man in your natural habitat.”
“Deal.” She turned and started walking toward home, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Don’t leave me hanging. What’s it going to be? Wine tasting? Museum browsing? Library?” His tone and expression suggested he was quite literally ticking off the most boring, torturous things in the world.
And he’d missed one.
“Good to know you find me so fascinating,” she said, “but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. It’s none of those.”
For Seven Nights Only (Chase Brothers) Page 7
