by Lauren Runow
When a slight moan escapes my body and my shoulders drop, he moves in more. Pressing firmly against me and sweeping his tongue out for a taste. His kiss is soft and tender, making my entire body light on fire with a craving for more. I kiss him back, wanting every drop of what he’s offering, but he pulls away.
My heart is racing like wildfire, and my mind goes blank as I tame the ache swirling within me.
His forehead leans against mine as he takes a deep breath in. “Yep. That’s what I thought,” he whispers.
My mind finally decides to make a presence. “That’s what you thought?”
His mouth tips up with a smirk. “You want me.”
I push him away and raise a hand to wipe my mouth.
He stops me. “Don’t wipe it away. A kiss like that doesn’t deserve to be wiped away.”
My mind freezes again. I hate that this frustrating man kisses like a god and leaves me in a puddle of goo.
He turns, and once I have my space back, my brain decides to work again.
“This changes nothing.”
“This changes everything.” He gives a full smile, a rare one, which showcases his perfect white teeth. “Are you ready to leave for lunch?”
“I can’t take a lunch today.” My stomach disobeys me and says otherwise.
“You need to eat.”
I place a hand on my hip. “I had a lunch prepared, but you tossed it.”
“I gave it to a homeless man on the street.”
I stomp my foot. Yes, it’s childish, but what other reaction do you have when someone you’re mad at says they did an incredibly decent thing? “That was my lunch.”
“That was barely rabbit food.” He grabs his keys and wallet off the desk. “Come on. I know a great burger place right around the corner.”
My mouth salivates at the thought of wrapping my lips around a greasy burger that I’m sure is to die for if he’s recommending it. I haven’t had a good burger in a while. Unfortunately, my budget only calls for the fast food variety, and they don’t hold a candle to a real, stacked, delicious restaurant version.
Damn him.
He hands me my purse, opens the door, and gives a gentlemanly gesture as he says, “Ladies first.”
“I’m ordering dessert, too.”
His eyes light up as if he just remembered something. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a bar of Godiva chocolate.
I curve a brow. “What’s that for?”
“My mother said to always buy a lady candy.”
I suspiciously eye him but take the candy anyway. I mean, it is Godiva.
His deep laugh vibrates as he closes the door behind us. “Stefanie, I’m taking a long lunch.”
I turn to him. “Not long. I have to be back at my desk in thirty minutes.”
He groans and looks at his assistant. “Stefanie, I’m taking a short lunch.”
I look at her, and she’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Good luck,” she whispers to me.
I don’t want to tell her that I think I’ll need it.
We wait for the elevator, and I pray someone will be in there when it opens. To my dismay, it’s empty. We enter, and he presses the button for the ground floor without looking at me.
My heart pounds as we stand side by side. I look at our reflection in the steel doors. His wavy, dark hair and tan skin is similar to my own, but that’s where the comparison ends. His features are squared with sharp angles. I’m daintier with soft curves. He’s the freeway, jetting through the mountains, and I’m like a scenic drive along the coast.
Still, it has me wondering what it would be like to be up against this hard mountain of a man, feeling every ridge of his body and claiming it as my own. I’m not one to have such racy thoughts in the middle of the day, but that kiss has left me feeling insatiable.
My hand rises to my mouth as my finger skims my lips at the memory.
“I’m not going to kiss you again until you’re ready,” he says.
My head pops up, and our eyes meet in the reflection of the steel. “Why kiss me at all?”
“I had to see if you were worth the chase.”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. He turns to me, winking before he exits. I’m stuck in my place, and it’s not until the doors start to close that I step out and catch up to him, trying to ignore his statement but having it on repeat in my head.
The extremely fancy restaurant is only a few blocks away. We make our way through the afternoon crowd, and he opens the door, holding it for me to walk through.
“Hello, Mr. Sexton. Your usual table today?” the hostess asks with the batting of her lashes.
“Two, please,” he responds, placing his hand on the small of my back to bring me forward.
The girl’s eyes widen, and her smile falls when she realizes I’m standing here. She recovers quickly and goes back to hostess mode. “This way, please.”
We’re led to a corner table covered in a white tablecloth that leaves just enough room for our plates, cups, and nothing else.
The hostess hands me a menu but doesn’t hand one to him. “I’ll be right out with your drink,” she says, making sure all her attention is fixed on Austin while I get her backside.
He doesn’t watch her walk away, which, from the way she’s swaying her hips, I’m pretty sure was the goal.
“I take it, you come here often?” I ask, opening my menu.
“Yeah. I usually come here alone. It’s not exactly the business-lunch kind of place.”
“I think the hostess has the hots for you.”
“We fucked last week,” he says nonchalantly.
I take in a sharp breath, dropping my menu.
“I’m kidding. I just wanted to see your reaction.” He smiles, placing his napkin on his lap.
“Ha-ha. Very funny.” I lean over and pick my menu up off the floor.
“Thank you. I thought it was.”
The waitress approaches our table with a small glass full of ice and a brown liquid filling only an inch or so. “Just as you like it,” she says.
“I’ll have an iced tea.” I lean forward to get her attention.
When her head turns my way with a closed-mouth smile, I give her my own and watch her leave. Austin seems oblivious as he takes a sip of his drink.
“Do you always drink in the middle of the day?”
“Yes. And most mornings.” He stops and raises his eyes to the ceiling in contemplation. “Not so much the last week or so, but, yes, I enjoy a cocktail or two. Now, this”—he taps the glass—“this is special. I only have it when I come here. It’s Louis XIII Cognac.”
“Is that something special I should know about?”
“Only if you’re into cognac.”
“And like to throw away money?”
He laughs. “Yes, I guess you could say that, but why have money if you can’t enjoy it?”
I lift my eyebrows and shake my head, looking down to my menu again. I have no clue what that feels like.
The waitress brings my drink and asks, “Are you ready to order?”
She’s looking at me, and I’m still clueless over the menu.
“She’ll have what I’m having,” Austin answers for me.
“I will?” I glare at him.
“I seem to know what you like more than you do. Trust me on this.”
The waitress grabs my menu and leaves.
He eyes me as I sip my iced tea. “Do you want that spiked?”
I shake my head. “I don’t drink.”
Leaning back, he punches a hand on his heart like I just drove a knife through it. “Why not?”
“My father’s an alcoholic.”
He stops his mock theatrics and straightens up. His hand goes straight for his glass but then releases it.
“It’s okay. You can drink. I don’t think everyone who drinks has a problem. You have many vices, but addiction doesn’t seem to be one.”
“How can you be so sure?” he asks,
looking away.
“Your eyes. You can see a lot in an addict’s eyes.”
I also don’t want to tell him I see other things in his, too. Like right now. He’s looking at me like I just uncovered a greater truth. Something he has been searching for but can’t seem to find.
“So, what did you order me for lunch? I don’t usually let men order for me,” I state as I fluff my napkin on my lap.
“It’s chivalrous. Remember, I’m the good brother.” He grins.
“It’s barbaric,” I deadpan. “I’m only here because you threw away my lunch.”
He chuckles. “Peanut butter and jelly?”
“It’s a delicious meal!”
He holds up his hands in retreat. “Not gonna hear me complain. My mom made it for me every day when I was a kid.”
“Then, why wasn’t it good enough for me to eat?”
“Because a beautiful woman deserves a beautiful meal,” he says.
And I find I don’t have a retort.
Damn, I hate when he wins.
“Tell me about this big interview you got. The one Rosie mentioned in the break room,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“Do you remember hearing the name Sergeant Miller a few years ago?”
“I’m sorry. Sergeant who?”
“Did you ever hear the story of the guy who entered a building in Fallujah after it was bombed and rescued twelve soldiers with the last one barely escaping death as the building toppled on top of them?”
I narrow my eyes while slowly nodding. “Actually, I do remember that when I was interning for FOX40 in Sacramento. He was awarded the Medal of Honor, right?”
He reaches for his drink, holding it in his hand but not taking a sip. “Yes, he was. He saved their lives that day, and we’re getting his first official interview.”
“His first one? That was a few years ago.”
“Yes, it was. He was severely injured from going back for the twelfth guy.”
“Wow. But he saved him, right?”
He brings the glass to his lips but pauses, closing his eyes before taking a sip. “He was injured badly, too, but they both survived. Sergeant Miller burned over half of his body and broke his back along with getting some amputations. It’s been a long recovery, and he’s always asked for his privacy.”
“And he agreed to meet with you now?”
“He did.”
“Man, so this is a big deal.”
His eyes glaze over for a brief second before he abruptly changes the subject. “So, Miss Journalism Major, why did you decide to work at Sexton Media?” he asks.
“I needed a job, and you were hiring. The temp agency sent me, remember? It was a huge plus that it was in the media industry.”
“That’s it? It’s that easy?”
“What did you expect? I stalked you and Bryce, begging for my chance to get close to you guys?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Most girls do.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re ‘famous,’” I say with air quotes, and he turns red with an embarrassing smile. “Get over yourself. I didn’t know anything about you until I Googled you.”
“Ah, yes, let’s discuss what you Googled about me.” He lifts one eyebrow.
“I wanted to make sure I wasn’t being harassed by a sociopath.”
“Harassed? That’s a little harsh. I need to work on my game.” He runs a finger along the rim of his glass. “What did you find?”
“Just a bunch of posed photos. My friend told me you were kind of a mystery though.”
He takes a slow sip of his drink, nodding his head before replying, “So, you’re talking to your friends about me, too?”
“Get off your high horse. She asked about my day; that’s all.”
“Well, no need for Google. I’m right here. What do you want to ask?”
“Last time we talked, you said I asked too many questions.”
“Well, I’m in a better mood today. Ask away.” He holds out his arms in offering.
I feel like I’ve been given the key to a secret vault. I have so many questions, but I know he’ll close up if I ask the wrong one. I think for a minute, looking at him in this crisp suit, a stark contract from the hooded driver called Falcon who has been haunting my dreams since the day he told me to get into his car.
“Why do you race?” I ask the simple question.
“Because I like the rush. Sex and fast cars—those are my things.”
I close my legs at the mention of sex, and he must notice because a grin creeps up his face.
“Then, why do you hide who you are?”
His jaw twitches as he thinks about his answer. My attention is focused on the way his lips pucker and are only drawn away when he answers.
“It’s twofold. You have no idea how much it sucks, being known by everyone—except you, of course. Everywhere I go, people want to talk, get to know me … be my friend. But they really only want my wallet or my connections. I like the freedom I get at night when I’m Falcon.”
I nod in understanding. “That’s fair. You seem to go a little too far with keeping up with the disguise. Dirk Diggler and all.”
“As you know, it’s not exactly legal, and my getting arrested could have a more severe consequence than jail time.” He adjusts his cuff links for no reason. He seems like he just needs something to do with his hands.
When he’s done, he looks up at me and continues speaking, “My family didn’t always have money. My mom started a local magazine almost thirty years ago. She used to talk about putting Bryce in the stroller and walking door to door, delivering magazines because she couldn’t afford a delivery boy. That magazine grew to be the most successful in our county by the time I was born, and I spent most of my childhood going with her to businesses, getting advertisements for the magazine, and on interviews. She wrote most of the articles on her own—all human-interest stories. She said that was what made it so successful. The heart.”
He takes a deep breath and continues to reminisce. “Anyway, my mom was brilliant. She expanded into other states, built a publishing warehouse, had a delivery route, and started taking over failing magazines and newspapers when I was in middle school. Every dollar she had, she poured back into the business. She invested in a digital presence—something my dad thought was a waste of money and fought her tooth and nail over. She did it anyway, creating an internet magazine. That is how Sexton Media made its first million. By the time she died, we had more money than we knew what to do with. That is why she wrote her will the way she did.”
He looks up at me and speaks as if he trusts me with his soul, “Bryce, Tanner, and I inherited her half of the company. If any of us gets convicted of a felony, we forfeit our shares to our father.”
I’m taken aback by the idea. Why a mother would put something like that in her will is confusing. “Were you bad kids, so she thought you’d do something that would land you in prison?”
He laughs lightly. “The complete opposite actually. She didn’t put it in there because we were bad. She did it because she wanted us to stay good. She knew that, if she died young, we would be way too young to come into this fortune. Too many men have made mistakes at the hands of money. She needed to hold us accountable. That’s also why she put in there that we have to work for the company for a minimum of twenty years.”
“Why didn’t she just leave her shares to your father?”
“Maybe she knew he’d want to sell it. He’s not like her. He was a good dad when we were kids, but the money? It changed him.”
I slowly nod my head, taking it all in. “Is that why you joined the military?”
“That’s a conversation for our fourth date.” His tone changes, altering the mood from semi-somber to oddly flirty.
“Fourth date?” I ask just as the waitress is arriving with ketchup for the table and extra napkins.
We’ve been talking for so long, I almost forgot we came here to actually eat. When she walks away, I notice Austin is takin
g another drink, as if he didn’t just declare we’d be going on another date.
“Fourth date?” I ask again.
His eyes crinkle at the sides when he sees my slack-jawed expression. He slightly leans in and states clearly, “Dating is like racing a car. First, you have to see the track, feel it. In this case, taste it, like I already have.”
My mind drifts back to that kiss, and a tingle runs up my spine.
“On the second date, you do what’s called tracking the curb. You commit every delicate detail to memory. You want to feel every curve, so you can ride it with your eyes closed,” he says. “When it comes to us, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you another one of my secrets and you’ll let me explore every peak and valley of your smooth skin.”
I let out a tiny gasp as I imagine what it would feel like to have his hands on my breasts.
He continues, “The final lap is called the cooldown because the brakes are hot enough to melt rubber. The key is to use all of your fingers, gripping the wheel to get the best response. That’s what happens on the third date.” He pauses as he comes even closer to me. “Do you want me to tell you what it feels like when you cross the finish line on the fourth date?”
Yes.
I swallow hard and barely whisper, “No.”
I’m sitting here with my nipples hard as rocks and my breaths coming out in tiny pants as the food comes out and I sit back in my chair, needing the breather and distraction from the moment.
I’ve never been so turned on by words, but the way his voice turned deeper, I could feel my body craving the wild rush of the ride he was offering.
11
AUSTIN
My suspicions were right. There’s something different about this girl.
When our lunch came, I watched as her eyes lit up at the sight of her meal. The burger I’d ordered was the biggest, messiest piece of heaven on earth, and I’d wondered how she would react to it.
I hate a girl who can’t eat in front of a guy, but she didn’t seem to care one bit. After cutting it in half, she picked it up and devoured every last bite. The little sounds she made once the grease explosion hit her mouth were some of the sexiest noises I’d ever heard over food.
Afterward, I played it cool, and we walked back to the office, saying good-bye in the hallway and heading in our different directions. I wanted to kiss her again. Hell, I wanted to take her back to my place and strip her bare, but I know I’m fucked for going as far as I did. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’d be wise to stop it before it goes any further.
