I cart empty takeout boxes to the garbage chute down the hall, sweep and vacuum, stack away all my excess belongings, and even manage to start dusting some of the furniture before the door buzzer rings. The intercom has been broken for years, and my super is next to useless, so I just buzz it open, my heart in my throat.
I brace myself for it to just be Sheryl standing before me, in her prim suit, with her perfect hair done up. That would be disappointing, but it would be the far easier option.
Much simpler than if both of them show up on my doorstep. Lark, looking picture perfect and handsome as ever, those bright eyes of his following my every move. If the three of us are alone in my apartment together, Sheryl won’t fail to notice the way her ex keeps looking at me.
At least, assuming Lark hasn’t moved on already. I remind myself that we only had one night together. A night I told him would never be repeated. He’s probably long since forgotten about me.
In fact, by the time there’s a knock at my door, I’ve convinced myself there’s no way he would even come here. He’ll be too busy hooking up with his latest fling. Someone far more attractive than me. More interesting and funny and sexy and—
I wrench open my front door, and my thoughts stop spiraling. Even my heart stops for a split second, I swear.
Because he’s here. Lark stands in the doorway, wearing jeans, a button down shirt, and a small smile. He looks even better than he does in my memories. The planes of his cheekbones are sharper, the green of his eyes brighter.
His smile far more dangerous than I remember.
“Cassidy. Good to see you.”
I move aside, my tongue temporarily tied, and glance past him into the hallway, confused. “Where’s your business partner?” I ask, unable to keep a faint note of annoyance from my tone.
“Unfortunately, Sheryl couldn’t make it today. She asked me to fill in. Something I was all too happy to do.” He tilts his head, and his gaze drops over me, taking me in.
My stomach tightens. I know I just showered and finished putting on a full face of makeup—I know I look good—but it still steals my breath away to watch his pupils dilate, to see him take a sharp breath, the same way I must have when I laid eyes on him.
“You look good, Cassidy.” He smiles. “I have to admit, even better than I remember.”
He’s been thinking about me too. The revelation hangs in the air between us, making me dizzy if I think about it too hard. Does he lie awake at night the same way I’ve been doing? His hand sliding down until he wraps a fist around the base of his cock, thinking of me as he starts to stroke his hard, pulsing length…
I clear my throat. “You, too. Look good, I mean.” Great start to this business meeting, my inner voice groans. I straighten my shoulders and gesture toward the living room table, which I’ve laid out with what I have so far: three full eyeshadow palettes in complimentary colors, as well as individual pots of more daring colors to sell on their own. “The merchandise is over here, if you’d like to take a look.”
Lark’s smirk only widens at my sudden professional shift in tone. But he steps into the room anyway, letting me close the door behind him, and after a pause, he takes a seat on the couch. The couch almost swallows him whole—it’s ancient, and the cushions have lost any supportive abilities they once had.
“Sorry,” I murmur, coming around the far side of the couch. I don’t have any other chairs in the living room, but I make sure to perch on the farthest cushion from the one where Lark is sitting, just to be careful. “This sofa’s seen better days.”
He snorts. “I’ve seen mattresses in alleyways that have seen better days, Cassidy.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us can afford to live in luxury penthouse bachelor pads,” I grumble, and he smirks at me.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s got character.”
“Character is code for ugly, and you know it,” I reply, rolling my eyes. But I’m grinning now, too.
“Only if you think pretty things have to have no personality.” Lark shifts a little closer to me on the couch—not that it’s hard. With the way the cushions sag, we’re both slowly sliding toward the center of the thing, an inevitable progression. It feels like the universe trying to throw us together once more.
I’m determined to resist it.
I reach out to grab one of the color palettes and practically shove it under his nose. “Here. You can be my first tester.”
He laughs, holding it up to the light. “Not my shade, I don’t think,” he teases. But his face softens as he actually studies the makeup. I watch him take a small amount, spread it across the back of his hand, then turn it this way and that to admire the colors.
After a moment, he surprises me by standing and pacing over to the window.
“Natural light,” he says over his shoulder. “It helps to see better.”
“I know.” I smile, watching him. “I just didn’t realize you would.” There’s something absorbing about his expression when he’s concentrating. Like he’s stepped out of this world and into the inside of his own head. It makes me want to know what’s going on up there. To burrow inside and spy.
“I wouldn’t have, a couple weeks ago.” Lark returns to the sofa, apparently satisfied now. I can’t help but notice that when he takes a seat again, it’s far closer to me this time. Close enough that our thighs bump against one another, the warmth of his leg searing through mine, electrifying my entire body.
Fuck.
I’m in trouble.
“You aren’t the only one who’s been busy the last couple weeks.” Lark catches my eye. We’re so close that in my overbright apartment lighting, I can see the individual flecks of yellow scattered through his green irises. I can see the way his pupils dilate ever so slightly, as we hold one another’s gazes. “As soon as we signed your contract, I started to research makeup design and color theory. Just the basics, of course. I don’t have your eye.”
He hands the palette back to me, and I take it, our fingertips brushing as I do. His hands feel strong as ever, and the sensation sends fireworks through my veins.
“You’re very talented, Cassidy,” he says quietly. “Even a novice like me can tell.”
“Do you always research every new company investment you take on?” I ask, my own voice coming out soft too. Or was this one different? I don’t ask that second question. It tiptoes too close to asking what I really want to know.
Have you been thinking of me as much as I’ve been thinking of you?
“I try to, yes.” Lark’s eyes jump back and forth between mine, studying me. “It’s good practice to understand some of what you’re putting your money into. But…” He glances down at where our legs touch on the sofa. Back up at me. “There are some companies I take more interest in than others, I have to admit. Some businesses that seem more… promising, to me.”
“I see.” I swallow, my throat feeling far too tight. “And does the potential for success of those businesses have anything to do with your… ah… personal biases, by any chance?”
He laughs, a low undercurrent that sends fire through my veins. “I should think so. Everything is personal, Cassidy.” He reaches up. There’s a stray strand of hair I hadn’t noticed, come loose from the ponytail I put my damp hair into earlier. He brushes it back off my shoulder, his fingers lingering against the bare expanse of skin there, because I wore a tank top today, so stupid, I should have worn something more covered up.
A whole sheet over my body, maybe.
Even then, I get the feeling Lark would have been able to reach me through it.
“Especially business,” he murmurs, his face barely inches from mine.
My breath is unsteady in my chest. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating, eager to lean into his, to surrender to the desire that’s been coursing through me, unrelenting and trapped, for weeks.
“I thought you told me you learned not to mix business with pleasure,” I reply, my voice a barely-there breath. But he hea
rs me anyway, the corners of his mouth edging up into a dangerous smile.
“Guess I’m a slow learner,” he says. Then he leans in, and God help me, I do the same. His lips collide with mine, searing hot, and his hand reaches up to cup my cheek, his fingers buried in my hair.
I groan into his mouth, and he grins against my lips, pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead against mine, gazing into my eyes.
“I haven’t been able to get you out of my damn head for weeks, Cassidy Marks.”
The sound of my name in his mouth thrills me. Sends sparks dancing in my veins. “Me neither,” I admit. “I should have—I wanted to, but—” I fall silent when he kisses me again. This time, I sink against him, let his free arm snake around my waist and pull me closer. At the same time, his lips part against mine, and his tongue tangles with my own, forceful, claiming.
I relinquish control. There’s a sense of relief in it, in finally letting myself fall, when I’ve been struggling to hold myself back for so long.
My hands slide up over Lark’s chest—God, I forgot how fucking muscular he is—and loop around his neck, tightening.
In response, he shifts in his seat, and in one smooth motion, drags me across the couch until I’m straddling his lap. This time he’s the one who groans, his lips vibrating against mine with the sound. As my legs sink into the soft cushions to either side of his lap, I can feel a solid press against my inner thigh.
He’s already rock fucking hard.
My belly tightens at the knowledge that I have the same effect on him as he does on me. It seems impossible to me, and yet here he is, unable to keep his hands off me. Unable to forget about me, the same way I couldn’t forget about him.
Somewhere in our entanglement, I feel something brush my shin, and glance over. Unable to help it, I laugh.
My damn eyeshadow palette. Lark was holding it. Now it’s face down on the couch, the colors smeared in a rainbow riot across the dingy gray cushions.
Lark notices where I’m looking and he laughs, too. “My fault,” he admits.
“You’re paying to clean this,” I inform him, right before I cup his face between my hands and lean in to kiss him again.
“I’ll do one better,” he replies when we break apart again. At the same time, he slides his hands up the back of my shirt, tugging it up and over my head, then tossing it aside. He pulls me against him again, his face level with my chest, and starts to kiss and lick his way around the edges of my breasts, still tightly confined in my bra. “I’ll replace the whole damn couch, I promise.”
With my head tipped back, my eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of his tongue on my skin, I almost don’t hear what he said. The moment the words register, though, I jerk back upright, my eyes flashing. “I don’t need your charity.”
He’d been in the process of unhooking my bra. Now it hangs between us, my nipples bare and hardened, but he’s not touching them. He’s peering up at me, expression unreadable. “It’s not charity if I destroyed the thing. I’m merely replacing what I owe you.”
“I don’t want to be spoiled,” I reply, chin raised.
But that only makes him grin, slowly. “Don’t you?” One hand slides up to cup my breast. His thumb traces over my nipple, which was already hard in the cool air of my apartment. Now it could probably cut a diamond. “That’s a shame,” he says, bending close. He runs his tongue over my other nipple, making me gasp and arch up—which he takes advantage of, his free hand gripping my hip and pulling me down against his cock, the hard length of his shaft falling right between my legs, pressing against my swollen clit. “Because I had so many plans for how exactly I’d spoil you today, Ms. Marks…” He speaks with his mouth close to my chest, his breath heating the damp spot he left against my nipple. Then he sucks it between his lips again, gently closing his teeth around my nipple, and I gasp, my head falling back, my protests forgotten.
I’m pushing my hips down, grinding against his cock, desperation building. The couch argument can wait. I want him now—no. I need him. “Fuck me already, damn it, Lark,” I say, my voice practically a growl.
In response, he grins, and reaches down to undo the buttons on the presentable work pants I wore today—foolishly thinking this would just be another business meeting. Not planning for this.
Somehow I never plan for Lark.
By the time he finally gets both of our pants out of the way; when we’re perched on the couch naked, me still straddling his hips, I’m so wet I’m surprised it’s not dripping down my inner thigh already. His cock is swollen, red with want, and he takes his damn time rolling a condom over himself before he positions the throbbing tip at the entrance of my pussy.
“I’ve dreamt of this for weeks,” he tells me, his eyes blazing where they catch mine. “I’ve been missing that sweet, tight pussy of yours so goddamn badly…”
“Lark, please…”
I try to sit right on him, but he holds my hips in both hands, smirking all the while.
“Not so fast,” he tells me. “I want to savor this.”
When he finally guides me down onto his cock, it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to cry aloud with pleasure. I manage to keep it to a low, throaty moan, as the sensation of his cock sliding into my pussy, slowly spreading my lips, making me ache to contain him, fills me up.
I move slow, sinking onto him. Every time I think I can’t possibly take him any deeper, I move a centimeter closer, feel him stretching me to my limits.
“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, and the tightness in his voice almost undoes me as much as the feeling of him inside me.
When he starts to move again, tiny motions at first, bucking me up off him and pulling me back down again, I have to cling to his bare chest for support, because I’m already halfway to an orgasm already, the sensations filling my body like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
He takes it slow. Torturously slow. But by the time we both come together, my whole body jerking against his, it feels like we’ve melded into one body, one mind.
That’s the moment I know I’m in trouble.
6
Cassidy
I wake up the next morning to a loud buzzing at my door. I roll over with a groan, unsure why every muscle in my body is screaming for mercy—until I remember the couch.
And after the couch, the shower.
And after the shower, this very bed, which dammit, I’ll need to wash the sheets now. But not yet. For now, I roll back over with a groan and pull a pillow over my head. Lark left sometime this morning—I vaguely remember him kissing my cheek and promising to keep his promise soon, whatever that means. I wasn’t awake enough to process it.
Just like I’m not awake enough now for whatever that commotion is outside.
But the horrible raucous buzzing continues, and I finally sit upright in bed, realizing. Oh shit. Doorbell.
“Coming!” I shout, which is inane, because nobody can hear me at the front entrance from all the way up here. Groggily, I pull on the nearest clothing—a pair of sweats and a baggy sleep shirt. Then I pad into my living room and hit the buzzer. My hair is a mess. I take one look in the mirror and grimace, pulling it up into a ponytail and heading into the bathroom to splash the worst of the sleep from my face.
I don’t expect the knock on my door, a few minutes later. I had figured the buzzer was just the mailman or someone locked out of another unit in the building.
Confused, I pad back to the entrance and ease open the door a crack, my stomach a riot of butterflies. Because, sure, I might be expecting Lark.
Instead, I find a man in a delivery uniform outside, holding out a form. “Ms. Marks?” he asks.
“Uh, yes, that’s me.” I rub at my eyes, frowning. “But I didn’t order any—”
“Right here, boys,” the man calls over his shoulder, and the next thing I know, a series of delivery men are shouldering open my door and hauling a brand new couch through it.
I watch, my jaw dropping, as they work
. Lark. I thought I told him not to do this.
The main delivery man notices my expression, and grins. “Mr. Anderson warned us you might be, ah, surprised by the delivery. Don’t take it too personally. He has a tendency to do this sort of thing.”
I fold my arms and watch the man’s assistants expertly disassemble my sagging, stained couch, and reassemble a replacement in its place. “To do what, barge into other people’s lives and force gifts on them?” I reply.
“Pretty much.” The man laughs.
But, I have to admit, looking at the new couch they’re unwrapping, Lark chose well. It’s in a similar style to the one I owned, with big, puffy cushions and a simple fabric pattern—dark gray this time instead of light, which I have to admit does pair better with my shaggy carpet and steel coffee table.
Still. He could have at least consulted me first.
“You should see his apartment,” the delivery man continues. Before I can say I have, he adds, “Or the house he used to share with his wife, for that matter. Everyone who visits compliments Sheryl on her eye, but he’s the one who really put the place together. All for her sake, of course.”
His wife. Not his ex-wife. My stomach does an unpleasant backflip, all my earlier worries flooding straight back. “So I take it you’ve worked for Anderson Investments for a while?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual, light. As if the answer doesn’t interest me more than I could possibly explain.
“Been with them ever since they got their start,” the man declares proudly. “One of those power couples. You could tell from the get-go they were both driven, smart, wanted to make a name for themselves.”
“I see,” I reply, and I can’t quite hide the quiver in my tone. Thankfully, the man doesn’t seem to notice.
Kiss Me Now Page 5
