His Forbidden Kiss

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Let’s see if you can bring it, Wolf.” It was a challenge he accepted.

  He nestled one of her knees in the crook of his elbow, lifting her leg and deepening their connection. She couldn’t form any words other than “Yes, Royce, yes.”

  Pleased by her reaction, his smile turned rogue. Refusing to go into the abyss alone, she gripped him with her internal muscles. Surprise colored his face for a beat before he captured her mouth with his.

  Seconds later, his head bucked. He bared his teeth, his hips pistoning, the slick skin of their thighs gently slapping. She watched the entire display, smugly satisfied to have her theory proven.

  He was quite gorgeous when coming.

  * * *

  “They’re clean.” Royce handed over a pair of leggings and an MIT sweatshirt. “Gia stopped by here to change for the gala and left them. They’ve been laundered.”

  He announced it evenly, as if having his clothes laundered rather than doing it himself was a normal, everyday occurrence. She supposed for the Knox family it was. She’d never seen Gia load a washing machine.

  When Taylor moved from her parents’ house and rented her sizable apartment, she found she enjoyed cleaning her own space. As soon as she was promoted to COO and her hours increased, she hired a part-time housekeeper. With the hours she worked, it was impossible to do it all, but she kept a few tasks on her own to-do list.

  One, cooking—the kitchen was a bright, open space that sparked her creativity—and two, her laundry. It wasn’t about finding joy in domesticity, a trait she definitely hadn’t inherited from her mother. She was particular about her clothes and what didn’t have to be dry-cleaned she cared for herself. It didn’t make sense for Royce, with his array of starched shirts and suits and bow ties, to stand around doing the wash.

  “Thanks.” She accepted the clothes, covering herself with the slip first. She was strangely nervous now that they’d had sex, and him standing over her made her feel more vulnerable. “Could you...?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I’ll give you a minute.” His frown returned like it’d never left and she wondered if she’d imagined the smooth-talking, smiling man who’d just turned her inside out.

  Neither of them reacted as expected. She’d come here to seduce him, until her spine had turned temporarily weak. He’d reacted the complete opposite—pouncing on her the second she gave the okay.

  “No. Wait. Sit down.” She lifted her hips and rolled on her thong as discreetly as possible. Royce sat, his eyes glued to her legs. “We don’t have to make this weird.”

  “Too late.” His dry tone held a note of humor.

  She tugged on the black leggings next, grateful to Gia for leaving them behind. As the clock ticked on, the temperature was dropping. Taylor didn’t want to drive home wearing only a slip and a tiny trench coat if she didn’t have to.

  “No, we don’t have to make this weird.” He leaned an elbow on the arm of the sofa and raised his wineglass as she pulled the sweatshirt over her head. It was butter-soft and elephant gray, the wide neck falling off one of her shoulders. Royce’s eyes didn’t leave that swatch of bared skin, where the strap of her slip was visible.

  “So.” She lifted her wineglass, too, snuggling into the opposite corner of his couch. “It’s taken ten years for you to notice I’m a woman.”

  He rolled the wine around his mouth before swallowing. “I noticed.”

  “You did?” That shocked her down to her chilly toes.

  He chuckled, his chest expanding within the deep navy blue T-shirt he’d paired with baggy pajama bottoms. His feet were bare. He had nice feet. Big feet, but nice. She’d never dated a guy who wore pajama bottoms, had she? Sweats, yes; boxers, sure; but cotton pajama bottoms with skinny navy blue pinstripes? Not that she could recall.

  “I’m surprised you care,” he said.

  She made a choking sound in the back of her throat.

  “Not a blow-off,” he amended. “More an honest observation. You were Gia’s best friend, closer to Brannon’s age than mine. What would an eighteen-year-old want from a twenty-four-year-old, anyway? Did you expect me to scoop you up and steal away your virginity?”

  “Joke would’ve been on you since I’d lost my virginity two years prior.” She hoisted an eyebrow, pleased when his lips twitched. “You were twenty-four, not forty-four. It wouldn’t have been that unbelievable for us to date back then.” But even as she said it, she had her doubts. He’d had his sights set on college girls, not a high school senior who dreaded showing up to every richie-rich function their parents made them attend. He’d had no clue she’d watched him, admiring his breadth and height. The way he held himself. Always the confident one, his walk tall and words evenly spaced. Bran was quicker to laugh and less serious, which she enjoyed in a friendship, but boyfriend material to her was and always would be a man she could count on.

  Like my father.

  She swallowed the unexpected lump of emotion and swiftly changed the subject. “You could have asked me to be your date at any one of the charity functions I had to be dragged to.”

  “And here we are a decade later still attending them.” His tone hinted that he found them as asinine as she did.

  “You don’t enjoy going?” She genuinely believed Royce didn’t mind attending stuffy functions and donning tuxedos and bow ties. He fit in, drink in hand, genial expression on his face no matter who he was conversing with.

  “Hide it well, don’t I?” He lifted an eyebrow. The slightly roguish expression went well with his relaxed attire and the sex-warmed buzz vibrating her limbs.

  “You hide lots of things well.” The words were muttered against the rim of her wine glass. She liked sharing this slice of time with him. In his space, the fire burning in front of them—the one burning between them. She liked sharing wine and truths while sitting three feet apart.

  “I do what’s expected of me. Always have.” He shrugged. “Consummate firstborn.”

  She was sure the last thing anyone would “expect” was for him to take Taylor Thompson to bed—er, to couch. And no one would have put money on her showing up to seduce him, either. A bubble of pride lifted her chest. Finally, she’d taken what she wanted.

  “The Valentine’s Day gala has always been my least favorite. Until this year. Coincidentally.”

  She caught his heated gaze and returned it, the air between them practically igniting. He cupped her toes with one large, warm hand.

  “Want some socks too?”

  “Thanks, but I have to strap those puppies back on.” She pointed to the shoes beneath the coffee table, which were about as inviting as an iron maiden. She’d kicked them off when he went to change, past ready to give her toes a break.

  “I like them, if it’s any consolation.” He gave her foot a squeeze, a gesture that felt familiar even though it’d never happened before.

  “I bet I was the last person you expected to find standing on your porch tonight.” It’d been outrageous to expect sex simply because she showed up almost naked, but her instincts were rarely wrong.

  “The very last. I half thought you were Bran coming to kick my ass. Figured Dad told him...” His lips pressed together like he’d said too much. “Nevermind.”

  Did he really expect her to let a whopper like that one go?

  “What? What did you think Jack told him?”

  Tongue swiping his bottom lip, Royce seemed to turn over telling her versus not. He stood and crossed the room to fetch a thin blanket, tossing it over her before he continued, which was sweet.

  Wineglass in hand, he watched out the large window behind the dining room table.

  “CEO is mine.”

  She blinked, shocked. She couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d found Royce standing at her front door wearing naught but a trench coat.

  “How...do you feel about it?” She had to ask. She couldn�
��t read his tone or his body language.

  “It’s my responsibility.”

  “Do you want it?”

  “Of course,” he snapped. A warning. Best not to push the topic. They slept together but it didn’t grant her entry into his inner circle.

  Boundaries were important. They had a lot at stake—more now that Royce was going to be named CEO. Sneaking around wasn’t the wisest course of action.

  “I should go.” She threw off the blanket. “Early day tomorrow. Breakfast with my mom.”

  He didn’t argue, but what had she expected? A heartfelt plea that she strip out of her clothes and follow him to the bedroom? Romance wasn’t in the cards for them—especially when she’d started them off on a very unromantic note. Sexy yes, romantic... Not so much.

  She buckled her uncomfortable shoes and stood. Royce followed behind her without a second’s hesitation. Once they entered the mouth of the foyer, he handed over her clutch and keys. Outside a crisp breeze blew the palm fronds overhead, black against a blacker night sky.

  “Good night.” Sweeping her hair behind her ears, she guessed a good-night kiss was pushing it. “Congratulations. On CEO.”

  She turned to walk to her car parked in the driveway when he said her name. Hope rose fierce and full, pressing against her breastbone.

  Ask me to stay.

  He descended one porch step, all that capable masculine beauty hovering over her. Then he opened his mouth and “Don’t say anything to Brannon or Gia” came out.

  “Oh. Sure.” She nodded. That hope deflated, going limp in her chest and sagging her lungs.

  He folded his arms over his chest to ward off the air’s chill. “Mom and Dad want to tell them separately. Before the official announcement is made at the ThomKnox offices.”

  Words failed her.

  He nodded, a succinct dip of his chin before he walked back inside and shut the door.

  So much for romance.

  Twelve

  Jack Knox’s birthday dinner was held at the Hourglass, a posh fourteen-room hotel in San Francisco that was formerly, of all things, a marble factory. Recently overhauled and designed by Mercury Hill, an acclaimed architecture firm, the building echoed elegance from a hundred years ago while still maintaining a bohemian feel.

  The backdrop of the bar was chalkboard-black wood, the floors were a herringbone pattern, and the columns black with contrasting white wood grain. Curved, stuffed chairs in tones of brick red, olive green and deep gray surrounded brass-edged tables dotted with cocktail napkins, on which sat a variety of glasses. Lowball, highball, flutes and the occasional beer glass.

  Royce arrived by car, Gia in tow. It occurred to him to invite Taylor to join them, but since he wouldn’t have normally asked her to join him, he didn’t. The way they’d parted last night left him confused, but then he wasn’t great at reading women—this woman in particular.

  He preferred his situations black-and-white, like a spreadsheet. Each bit of information in a clearly marked box. Outlined. Precise. Relationships, and women in general, were not so easily contained.

  Taylor was about as navigable as a ship in a storm.

  They’d had sex—exquisite sex. Did that mean he should call her? Were they dating? The more he thought about it, the more aggravated he became. He’d decided before he arrived to compartmentalize that bit of info. Tonight was about his father’s birthday. That was it.

  “The man of the hour is on his way!” Bran announced to the crowd, loud enough to be heard by those who had wandered out to the rooftop seating area. He pocketed his cell phone, his smile bright and his shoulders back. It was good to see him not pissed off. Royce guessed their parents hadn’t broken the CEO news to him, or else his brother would be a lot less happy. He’d also noticed, during the hour-long drive with his sister, that Gia wasn’t in the know, either. She undoubtedly would have brought it up.

  “Scotch for you, sir.” The bartender served Royce his drink.

  “Thank you.” Royce had been here for less than five minutes so he hadn’t taken inventory of the room. He guesstimated sixty-plus people in attendance for the party that was scheduled to start at eight o’clock, the man of the hour to arrive not fashionably late, but Jack late. Jack was on time when he needed to be—he never missed a meeting. But for casual functions like this one he kept his arrival to a fifteen-to-twenty-minute window after the party was scheduled to start. Royce would venture that everyone knew tonight had a twofold purpose for his father: a birthday celebration and a retirement announcement.

  Taylor approached him wearing a basic black dress and a smile. Though modest, the frock sent his mind to the gutter. The skirt was knee length and hugged curves he now knew a lot about, and the neckline reminded him of her lingerie—her in it and out of it. Of her undulating beneath him, her mouth open to sigh his name. Of the thong he’d peeled off her long legs. He wondered if she wore a similar undergarment tonight. Judging by the soft outline of her breasts and shy press of her nipples against the fabric, she hadn’t worn much beneath the dress.

  “Hi,” he said. Because Are you wearing underwear? wasn’t polite.

  “You made it.” She carried an empty wineglass, apparently catching him on her return to the bar.

  “White or red?” He took her glass.

  “Rosé.”

  Leave it to Taylor to choose the undefinable in-between. He found himself smiling as he placed her order.

  “Fitting,” he said, handing her a full glass of pink wine. But he meant more than her being in the middle of two certainties. “Nearly the color of your cheeks when you came to visit me last night.”

  Those murmured words took him by surprise—flirting wasn’t exactly his MO—but Taylor always drew the unexpected from him.

  She lifted her glass to her lips and the heavy gem-studded bangle on her wrist caught the overhead light.

  “I’ve never been here before.” She glanced around the room, the brass light fixtures bent to highlight the paintings on the wall, some of them fox-and-hound hunting paintings, others splashy abstracts that complemented the furniture.

  “The bar is one of my favorites, and not only because they carry 1926 Macallan.” He raised his own glass. “I like the chairs. They look like they belong in a seedy bar, but they’re the finest leather, and damn comfortable.”

  “They snub pretension here.”

  “There’s a painting of dogs playing poker in the men’s lavatory.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “No.” He grinned, enjoying teasing her.

  She laughed, demurely tilting her head to the side. The move sent her hair over her shoulder, the blond and brown strands sliding into a unique pattern.

  “You changed your hair.”

  “I had it done today.” She sifted a hand through the silken locks and again he was drawn in by the way the various colors fell. “How observant of you.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her what he’d noticed last night. The pink in her cheeks, the citrusy scent that clung to his skin after she left. The way her hair had tickled his arms whenever he drove into her. The way he woke up this morning with a hard-on, the echoes of her hoarse cries of completion ringing in his ears...

  “Hello, good people.” Bran swaggered over, beer in hand.

  “Bran,” Royce greeted.

  Taylor put distance between herself and Royce, but Bran didn’t seem to notice, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

  “You look nice.” She nodded approvingly at Bran’s casual slacks and button-down.

  Royce felt the uncomfortable prickle of jealousy. She hadn’t mentioned his suit and bow tie ensemble.

  “Ready for anything,” Bran said, his gaze seeking the door again for their father’s arrival.

  Dammit. He doesn’t know.

  Jack was spontaneous. Liked the spotlight. Even though his f
ather had told Royce he’d announce CEO in a meeting at work, part of him wondered if their father had something a bit more spontaneous in mind.

  “There he is!” someone shouted, moving in from the rooftop toward the front door. Jack entered, their mother Macy on his arm, and lifted a hand to wave.

  “Let the party begin!” Jack shouted when someone placed a drink in his hand.

  Bran was the first to approach their father and embrace him, Gia second. Royce hung back, allowing close friends and coworkers to go ahead of him.

  “Your dad. So caj,” Taylor said next to his ear.

  “What is that?”

  “Caj? It’s short for casual.”

  “Short for casual? Is it such a long word that we needed to shorten it?”

  “Showing your age again, Royce.” She winked, standing closer to allow space for the press of bodies that had gravitated toward Jack like he was sun to their planets.

  “Which reminds me. I have to be in the car on my way home by nine.”

  “Oh?” He loved the look of disappointment that swam over her features. Like she’d miss him when he left.

  “That’s when I watch my true crime shows and work my evening crossword puzzle.”

  It took her a second to realize he was kidding. “Tease.”

  He leaned in, mostly to smell her lemony skin. “You started it.”

  She held his gaze, not bothering to move away from him this time. He liked being close to her. Without anyone in the way. Without any expectations. How rare for him to enjoy anything without expectations.

  “Have you seen the rooftop?” he asked.

  “But the guest of honor is in here.” She pointed at Jack.

  “No,” Royce disagreed, taking her elbow. “She’s right here.”

  He led them away from the crowd and onto the now-abandoned private rooftop.