Meet You in the Middle

by Devon Daniels

  He wraps his arms around me and lifts me clear off my feet. God, the fact that he can just pick me up like I weigh nothing is such a turn-on. I’m about to tell him I want to ride him like a bike when he starts to walk us toward the couch, and I can’t help myself.

  “Wait.” I press a hand to his chest, feet dangling.

  “What’s the matter?” Concern brackets his eyes.

  “I’m just not sure we should do this . . . without some background music. Maybe some Nickelback? Or a little Fall Out Boy?”

  He closes his eyes and blows out a breath. “Kate, I swear to God. I will put you over my knee.”

  “So that’s the kind of thing you’re into? I was going to ask.”

  We laugh against each other’s mouths; then we’re kissing again and he’s walking and we hit the couch and collapse in a jumbled heap.

  I can’t talk anymore because: the kissing. It’s old-fashioned making out, the kind where my lips will be swollen in the morning, face chafed from Ben’s stubble, and I don’t even mind. In fact, I hope he marks me. I’ll wear my face abrasion as a badge of honor.

  He explores me with his mouth, an achingly slow and thorough study. With each press of his lips I sense that he’s learning what I like, teasing out what makes me respond and rewarding me with more. He goes slow, then fast. Deep, searching kisses that steal my breath, then light, affectionate nips and pecks that leave me begging for more. He’s peeling me back, layer by layer. He’s under my skin.

  His fingers stroke my face, lace into my hair, cradle the back of my neck. His tongue dances with mine, in and out, warm and wet. When his mouth moves down my neck I shiver, gooseflesh pebbling my skin. He kisses it away.

  At one point I pull back and study his face. It’s perfection. Symmetrical and chiseled. Pupils savagely dilated. I run the pads of my thumbs over his cheekbones, trace the smile lines at the corners of his mouth, tweak his chin. I groom the mussed hair at his temples.

  “What are you doing?” His smile is amused.

  “Looking at you. I’ve always wanted to just stare at you, and now I can.”

  He seems to like that answer, his kisses taking on a new intensity. It’s unexpectedly emotional, this closeness with him. The teasing, the laughter, his eyes on me hooded and soft, almost reverent. He makes me feel coveted and cherished. Each touch denotes another wall torn down, bulldozed to rubble.

  After a while we both seem to need more, our hands straying beyond the boundaries of our clothing. I roll on top of him and slide my hands under his sweater, and—yes!—I’m finally getting my greedy pincers on his abs, which are every bit as washboardy as I imagined. I nudge his sweater up, up, up until he pulls it over his head and oh my God.

  He’s all muscles and skin, gloriously tan skin and hard abs everywhere. I’m momentarily blinded by the sight. I don’t know where to focus my eyes first. I reach out and lay my hands on his biceps, taking pleasure in the curved, heavy muscles filling my palms. Firm muscles, soft skin. I slide my hands to his stomach, flatten them and push. Everything about him is rock-solid and sculpted to perfection. I let out a choking noise and blink in odd, irregular bursts. He laughs, abs flexing on each deep rumble, and I nearly pass out.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I murmur.

  “Nah, it’s just me.”

  “Funny guy.”

  He smirks, cocky and pleased. “Hey, now. If my shirt is coming off, then so is yours.”

  I don’t need to be asked twice; my skin is a thousand degrees. Still, I feel a little shy as I lift my sweater over my head and drop it to the floor. I’m wearing a silky camisole underneath and when I reach for that next, he stills my hands and does it himself. His sharp intake of breath feels like it was snatched straight from my lungs.

  I’d chosen a pale blue lace bra to match my sweater—one of my rules for simplifying life: match my underthings to my outfit—and he looks fiercely worshipful of my choice. I send up a prayer of thanks to whatever divine power compelled me to bury all my utilitarian beige bras in the bottom of my drawer after my night of drunken debauchery.

  He sits there and stares, appreciating me. His eyes move over my body like he’s memorizing every curving inch of me. He stares until I’m so self-conscious I want to cover myself, but I resist. His hand moves up as if in a trance, then stops about an inch from my skin.

  “Yes?” he breathes.

  “You can if I can.”

  When his fingers touch my skin his eyes briefly close, as if the sight and feel of me put together is too much. His other hand moves to my right breast, and his eyes look drugged as he runs his index finger lightly along the top edge of my bra, back and forth, featherlight. When he dips his fingers inside, I gasp and arch against him.

  He coils an arm around me and sits us up, our chests pressed together. Skin on skin at last. I’m straddling his lap, knees bent and bracing him on either side. I grab the back of the couch and my arms cage him in.

  “Got you right where I want you.” I’m so turned on, I’m practically slurring.

  He slides me forward until the heavy jut of his erection presses against my groin.

  “No, now you’re where I want you.”

  I shiver and moan and attack him with renewed energy. I kiss down his throat, across his shoulder, along his pectoral. He doesn’t want to let me—he keeps trying to pull me upright—but I persevere. I wiggle my butt in his lap, grinding against him. If his ragged breathing is any indicator, I might be killing him.

  “It’s my turn,” he says on a groan, his voice hoarse.

  I try to respectfully decline but he ignores me, using his superior strength—not really fair—to drag me back up. He repositions me on his lap, gripping my hips while he places a series of wet, swirling kisses on the swell of my breasts. When his eyes flick up to mine, I nearly slither off his lap. It’s the single most erotic experience of my life—and I’m still half-clothed.

  He migrates across my chest with agonizing slowness, focusing first on one breast, then on the other, giving each equal time. I’m about to commend his commitment to fairness—if I can form words—when he slips a finger underneath my bra strap. I suck in a breath. He toys with the lace, pinching the elastic between his fingers, gliding his hand up and down the strap. He can see the effect he’s having on me; I’m coming undone. He smiles and lingers at my shoulder, teasing me. Torturing me. Finally he slides it off, leaving it dangling over my arm, and presses a soft kiss to my collarbone.

  His other hand’s been resting on my ass, and he slides it into my jeans between the denim and my underwear and squeezes. I buck against him, his hardness and our combined friction nearly driving me to madness. I want more. I need more.

  I’m burning up, our bodies heated and glazed with sweat. These jeans are restricting my movement and I need them off. I’m simultaneously fumbling with my zipper and wondering how we can teleport to his bedroom when the sudden blare of loud voices jars me out of my lust fog and I nearly fall off his lap. Ben’s TV has somehow switched on, and the brash male host of this particular news show is currently shouting down his female guest.

  “The current welfare system incentivizes people not to work. The president has every right to make changes and it’s long overdue.”

  “I know that’s a favorite talking point of conservatives, Spencer, but the president can’t just unilaterally decide to cut the welfare budget by half. That’s a radical move that will leave the most vulnerable Americans out of options. We’re talking single parents, low-income families, the disabled. There are forty million people on food assistance programs. These aren’t just numbers. These are kids who won’t be able to eat.”

  “Shit,” Ben mutters, fumbling in the couch cushions to find the remote.

  “Enacting basic work requirements to get welfare benefits isn’t a radical idea. Having to pass a drug test isn’t a radical idea. I’d like to remin
d you that Democrats are the ones who said, ‘Welfare should be a second chance, not a way of life.’ The point here is to separate the needy from the greedy. These people have been freeloading for—”

  The screen goes black midsentence and the room lapses into silence. My heart is racing, as much from lust as from fright, but now there’s something else: foreboding.

  “Sorry about that,” Ben murmurs, sliding me back onto his lap. I feel vaguely out of body as he replaces his mouth on my neck, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to lose myself again in the feel of his lips on my skin.

  You’re hooking up with the enemy.

  The thought materializes unbidden and I nearly gasp. My eyes pop open and I glance at Ben, but his face is buried in my cleavage. He’s pulled my other bra strap down and in about two seconds, it will be off altogether. I start to panic, unpleasant thoughts and questions ricocheting in my head, so loud I can’t ignore them.

  Nothing’s changed here. He’s still for everything you’re against.

  How exactly will this relationship work? What will you talk about over dinner? Certainly not about what you did all day.

  He wants to turn you. That’s what tonight’s been all about.

  Just because your bodies are compatible doesn’t mean this is a good idea.

  Ben hums against my chest and all I can think is, I just want my piece of chocolate. Please, just let me have my mother-fudging piece of chocolate!

  His fingers dip into my waistband.

  This is never going to work.

  I pull back, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wait. I’m sorry. Time out.” I climb off him and curl into a ball beside him, hugging my knees.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I brave a glance at him. It’s a mistake. He is glorious. An Adonis. Skin flushed. Lurid, raging bedroom eyes. Hair a hot mess, ruffled and wild and sexy as hell. Even sitting, the most universally unflattering position for all mortals, his abs stay flat and firm with nary a belly roll in sight. Am I seriously pumping the brakes on this? I’ve officially lost my marbles.

  I bury my face in my hands. “I have no idea how to verbalize what’s going through my head. It’s going to come out all wrong.”

  He reaches out and clasps my hand. “Hey. Just tell me.”

  When I meet his eyes, my throat constricts. He’s so beautiful I could cry. He’s impossible to resist when he looks at me this way: eyes nurturing and kind, even in the face of my bizarre behavioral whiplash.

  “I’m freaking out, okay? You were an idea before. A figment of my horny, hyperactive imagination. Now, you’re . . . look at you! You’re rippling everywhere!” I motion to his abs like they’re holding me hostage. Which they kind of are. “This is a problem, okay? We work together. Actually, no, it’s worse. We work against each other. We’re professional enemies. We barely even get along most of the time. How on earth are we supposed to navigate this?”

  He blinks. “So you’re telling me while we were just doing all that, you were thinking about work?”

  “Ben!” I’m nearly hysterical.

  “All right, calm down, just trying to lighten the mood. I like teasing you almost as much as I like kissing you.” He grimaces, shifting again on the couch. “Almost.”

  “I’m sorry. I feel really bad about . . .” I gesture uselessly.

  “Stop apologizing. I told you I had no expectations and I meant it. I just . . . need to not be looking at you for a minute.” He grabs my camisole from the floor and passes it over. “Put this on.”

  I obey, then nudge him. “What do you think of when you’re trying to calm down? Hammond naked?”

  “Jesus Christ, Kate. No.” He laughs softly and grinds the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

  I reach out and brush his arm, and a powerful wave of desire threatens to pull me under. “I don’t want you to think I don’t want to. I do want to. Like, a lot. I’m just . . .”

  “You’re not ready. I get it.”

  He puts his arm around me, pulling me close, and kisses my temple. It’s such a casual, affectionate gesture, and simultaneously devoid of any expectation, that I mentally exhale. He doesn’t hate you. I wrap my arms around his middle and press my cheek to his chest. Maybe if we stay right here, nothing will touch us.

  “There’s no rush. This is a lot for one night. I pressed my luck even bringing you back here. I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to you.”

  I smile and look up at him with lusty eyes. He hugs me tighter and when I snuggle into the crook of his armpit, I have to talk myself out of sniffing him. I’m a heathen.

  “All right, let’s deal with this. You’re concerned about . . . work implications.” I detect a note of skepticism in his tone, like he doesn’t believe me.

  “You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about this for a long time, okay? But I can’t just ignore how complicated it’s going to be. I refuse to wear Ben blinders. Reality is right outside that door. It’s the exact reason I fought this for so long.”

  “I think you’re overreacting.”

  “Ben, we work together. It’s an issue.”

  “We really don’t. We’re not in the same office. I’m not your superior. We’re not even on the same side.”

  “Aha! And therein lies the bigger problem.”

  His eyes narrow. “I don’t care who you work for.”

  I press my lips together and don’t say a word.

  “But you do.” He exhales, shaking his head. He’s pissed. “Really, Kate? Still with this?”

  “It matters. Stop pretending it doesn’t.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “You think this won’t come between us? Our jobs are literally to obstruct each other’s progress. We’ll spend all day bad-mouthing each other, shooting poison darts, then what? Come home and eat dinner?”

  “You’re being dramatic.”

  “I’m being realistic. What happens when I have to publicly denounce the tax plan? No hard feelings?”

  He scowls. “Are you done listing all the ways this isn’t gonna work?”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t make me the bad guy. I’m trying to tell you I’m worried. Sticking your head in the sand isn’t going to help us figure this out.”

  He blows out a breath. “Fine, so there are some minefields to navigate. We’ll handle them.”

  “We’ll handle them? That’s it?”

  “What do you mean, that’s it? You just laid this on me two minutes ago.” He squeezes my knee. “Look, I don’t have all the answers. Yet. I just know we can figure this out, if we want to make it work. And I want to make this work.”

  “So do I,” I whisper.

  He brushes some hair out of my face, trailing a finger down my neck, and I nearly stop breathing. “I can separate work from personal. Can you?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I can try.” I pause. “Along those same lines, I think we should keep this to ourselves. At least until we figure out what this is.”

  His finger ceases its movement. He leans back, giving me a looong look. “Why?”

  “Because of all the reasons we just talked about! We work together. It’s frowned upon. I don’t want to be the subject of speculation. I don’t need people wondering where my loyalties lie. People who’ve made this mistake before have watched their careers implode. Take your pick! We have a lot to figure out and we hardly need other people getting involved.”

  “This isn’t a mistake.” His voice is flat.

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  He regards me silently and I squirm inside my skin.

  “Come on, you just said it yourself. Separate work from personal.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  He sits back on the couch, putting even more distance between us. A muscle ticks in his jaw and even though I know h
e’s not happy with me, it takes all my self-restraint not to press my lips to it and kiss the tension away.

  “So what, we’ll be in a secret relationship? I’m not supposed to look at you or talk to you?”

  “No,” I say calmly, resisting being drawn into a fight. “We can do what we did before. Talk. Eat lunch. Invent reasons to drop by each other’s offices. Pretend not to watch each other through the window.”

  The corners of his mouth turn up briefly.

  “Oh look, I got a smile.”

  He rolls his eyes at me, and this time I do lean forward and kiss him. His hand automatically cups my cheek and I can feel when he relaxes, the taut muscles of his upper body loosening beneath my fingertips.

  Eventually I pull back an inch and make eye contact. “Are we okay?”

  “We’re okay.”

  “And we’re agreed about . . . ?”

  He exhales. “Fine, we can keep this under wraps for now. Only because one day we’ll look back and laugh about all this hand-wringing you did.”

  My eyes widen. It’s the closest we’ve come to talking about Long-Term What Does This Mean. My stomach’s twisting as I sidestep.

  “I’m pretty sure only grandmas use the term hand-wringing.”

  He smiles but his eyes dim a little, and I know it’s because I ignored his comment. I also know he’s going to give me a pass.

  He pats my knee and stands, pulling me to my feet, but instead of dropping my hands he loops them around his lower back. When I step into his hug, his arms wrap around my shoulder blades, pressing me to his chest. Still bare. Still divine. I feel the pressure of a kiss to the top of my head and try to commit this moment to memory. Everyone should experience a hug like this.

  “We’re going to be fine,” he murmurs in my ear.

  “We’re such a mess.” My words are muffled by his magnificent chest.

  “A beautiful mess.” He tips my head up and kisses me, gentle and sweet. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  I grab my sweater off the floor and hand him his undershirt reluctantly, beating back a wail of despair when he pulls it over his head. When I finish pulling on my boots, I stand and lean into him again. His eyes are soft as he embraces me, and my heart swells.