I fly down the stairs to the first floor and hit the checkered tile in the lobby with a flourish, belting my coat as I go. Shoving through the door with my shoulder, I’m met by the late autumn chill and my boss.
“Mr. Kavanagh,” I squeak.
He leans against the back panel of a town car with tinted windows as dark as his stare. A gray wool overcoat has never looked better on any person in the world. He’s delicious and fuckable and standing four feet away. I suck in a breath and hold it for so long sparks mottle my vision.
Stuck on wobbling knees, I remain rooted as he devours me. I’ve no contract to hide behind today, and his gaze lingers on my breasts and hips. Down and up my legs, he strips me bare as if remembering every part of me naked. Pedestrians walk around us as he steps forward. One foot, two. His eyes burn in the early morning light as the sun barely peeks above the mountains made of brick.
“Ms. Walker. You’re late.”
Huh? “You waited outside my door to reprimand my reliability?” I shake my head to ensure the snooze alarm really did wake me up. “I’ll have you know I’ve not been tardy once during my service with Drake, Otter and Kavanagh. My record is impeccable.”
“That’s a lie. I remember a certain brief that was subpar. Performance coaching may be necessary,” he says, pressing in to my space so I have nowhere to go but meet his gaze.
He didn’t shave.
And his lips are full.
And he smells good, like leather and cinnamon and Jayce—and my body, God, it remembers him. The ache at the apex of my thighs throbs. So damn good.
I’ve never had the best self-control, and the little I do have slips. It’s slipping . . . it’s going, going . . . gone.
I lick him. I lick his chin like it’s a goddamn ice-cream cone melting on a hot day. He tastes better. Rough on my tongue, tough under my teeth, he growls and meets my mouth with a new kind of savagery. My few seconds of dominance are lost to the power of his. He pins my arms behind my back and kisses the life out of me. Truly, I have died and gone to heaven. I want so badly to wrap my arms around his neck and thread my fingers through his hair so I struggle out of his grip and I do it, tugging until we’re plastered together. A groan rumbles in his chest. We kiss, frantic and then slow, hard and then soft, for so long my body is on high alert. Vinnie will never be enough. Not now that the hunger for real desire has been satisfied by one fiery, hot-blooded male with a very large penis.
He’s the first to break away, but I chase him and pepper kisses on his cheek and neck.
“Maisie.” He chuckles and then clears his throat.
I blink into reality and the gorgeous man in front of me. “Oh, right.” I step back, lowering my hands to my sides. “I mean, good morning, sir. What a surprise to see you here in SoHo when you live on the Upper East Side.”
The brow over his right eye arches. “Stalker tendencies, Ms. Walker? I’ll add that to the list of things I’m learning about you.”
“I’m excellent at research and by the way, I could say the same about you. What are you doing here?”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, taking my elbow and maneuvering us around to his waiting car. “You took something of mine when you left last evening, and I would like it back.”
I stop walking. Mr. Kavanagh throws me a glance and then slips through the door his driver holds open. My smile is fleeting and bordering on psychotic when I realize that man witnessed me mauling his boss.
Oh, shit. His boss is my boss. What the hell am I doing? And who else saw me do it?
“Get in, Ms. Walker,” Mr. Kavanagh says from inside.
I’m thankful for the anonymity found in New York. Apparently my recent make-out session is not going to make headlines. No one spares me a glance. But, I repeat to myself, what am I doing? Minutes ago I pledged abstinence from this man and now here he is—tempting me on the sidewalk in front of my apartment with good looks and an attitude. I shouldn’t be anywhere near him. In fact, I should start walking. I can still make it to work on time if I leave right now.
“Maisie!”
“Oh, alright!”
I’m locked in a small steel box with a silent Mr. Kavanagh as we creep along Broadway. Not a good idea. It’s hard to remain still when his deliciousness is inches away. My thigh nears his, igniting a spark. I cross my arms and stare straight ahead at the divide between the front and back seat as a protection against what I want to do, rather than because I’m upset about what we’ve already done. Yet, I still have no clue as to why he’s here. “What have I taken that’s important enough to bring you to SoHo in the early morning hours, Mr. Kavanagh?”
“My sanity,” he says in a tone so low I barely hear him from the blood pounding in my ears. “You left without my permission, and I can’t stop thinking about . . . you.” Through my peripheral vision, I see him clench and unclench his fist as it rests between us. “Naked beneath me.” Clench, unclench. “Begging . . . coming.” Clench, unclench. “I’m not done with you.”
His intensity thickens what little oxygen flows around us. “Not done with me?”
“Not by a long shot.”
Cobwebs have grown in my brain. Clarity will have to come by way of questions because accuracy is key in situations such as this.
“What does that mean? We sneak around and you spank my ass when the mood hits you?”
He closes his eyes and then looks out the window for a beat. “Discretion, Ms. Walker. Are you capable of it?”
I’m having a hard time with the whole breathing thing again. But I manage a whispered, “Yes” while I press the button on the door to drop the window. It doesn’t budge.
“Our . . . situation is not ideal. Yet, with proper boundaries, I believe we can continue.”
Confidence is his strong suit, apparently, because his voice doesn’t waver when he speaks, but mine does. “Continue?”
“Fucking, Ms. Walker. I would like to continue fucking you. To do so, you would need to abide by certain stipulations.”
“Like a contract,” I whisper. Rules, restrictions—a secret.
“Precisely.” He turns imploring eyes on me.
My stomach clenches against the truth. I’ll be the dirty little secret, just as my mother said I would be. “You want to sneak around.”
He nods. “Caution. Last night you said you liked sex, and you hoped to continue having lots of it. It will be with me, Maisie, and only with me. But judgment would be swift and sharp should anyone learn of our recklessness. The contract would be there to protect us both.”
It’s such a perfectly wrong idea. If an affair ended badly it may add a road bump to his career, but it may totally wreck mine. With a reputation for impropriety, I’d have a hard time finding work with a reputable law firm in Manhattan. Along with that, there would be a sad farewell to Columbia Law and a move back to Greenwich to live with my mother. I’d be well-fucked but lacking direction and a career.
Sleeping with the boss is not a good idea.
However . . . an idea formulates in my mind.
“I’d like to walk from here,” I screech loud enough that the driver must be able to hear me through the glass partition.
“Ms. Walker,” Jayce says through his teeth.
“Kidnapping is a crime punishable with a lengthy prison sentence. Stop the car, Mr. Kavanagh.”
“Maisie.”
I tug the door handle again and again. “Stop the goddamn car.”
He sighs, pressing a button on the door to relay my instructions, and we come to a standstill three blocks from the office.
“Think about this,” he grounds out between his teeth.
“Oh, I have,” I say, and lean in to take a deep breath of Jayce Kavanagh. I smile. I smile so big my cheeks hurt.
Sleeping with the boss is a great idea. It’s getting caught that would suck.
“It would be odd if we walked in together, don’t you think? If we’re going to fuck, we’ll have to be smart about being seen only in the most professional capa
city.”
The corner of his mouth twitches and I press my lips to his, lightly brushing back and forth until he shifts to deepen my offering. I pull away. “Send me your contract, Mr. Kavanagh, and I will sign it.”
“May I remind you of the word discretion, Ms. Walker?” His voice is hard, but he can’t hide the bend of his smile.
I smooth down his tie—dark charcoal peppered with tone-on-tone checks. With his hard chest hot beneath my hand, I look up through my lashes. “You may remind me. But I’d like to think good judgment is a highlight on my resume and is what brought us to this”—I touch his nose with my finger as electricity tingles over my skin—“decision. I assure you I’ll apply the same level of dedication to our arrangement as I do all of my work.”
He shakes his head infinitesimally and has his hand wrapped around the length of my hair before my next breath. Pinning me to the back of the seat, he leans over me and holds eye contact. “My expectations are high.”
His gaze smolders. For me, Maisie Walker, the girl whose hips are the perfect fit for his hands. I’ve finally fallen into an I’m-better-than-good-enough category.
The seconds tick by with his growing erection digging into my stomach, and I know Jayce Kavanagh wants to try doggie-style with me.
“Is this a twice-a-day kind of expectation, or are you insinuating I’ll need assistance walking?” I ask in all seriousness. A girl has to prepare for every probable outcome.
“Where did you come from?”
“Greenwich.”
He chuckles. “Careful, my tempestuous wench, or I’ll see to it you don’t sit for a week.”
A shiver travels down my spine as I slide across the seat and open the door. I glance at him one last time before darting onto the bustling sidewalk. “I look forward to your hand on my ass, Mr. Kavanagh. Have a good morning.”
I LONG FOR a repeat performance with the boss. My body hums. The ache between my thighs is more of an intense throb compared to the tingles lighting up my skin when I think of him and his proposal. Which is often. Some days I can go for hours without daydreaming about his pouty lips and brooding gaze, or the bunch and flex of his shoulders outlined by his suit. Not today.
All morning I’ve fought to concentrate on the Blume case, research, and everything else I have on my plate. But my mind spirals and always comes back to one thing—the contract. Even lunch with Dee is a struggle. After all, as per Drake’s order, we’re huddled in a small conference room, steps away from the executive suite. It has a clear view of my boss’s office. Mr. Kavanagh has been in there for hours. I should know. I’ve waited for him to make an appearance. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Drake, on the other hand, has been in to check on Dee often. Quite often. Now that she reports directly to him, he can check her out all the time. Interesting turn of events.
“What kind did you bring today?” Dee asks, pointing to my sandwich.
The red jam smeared across wheat bread is a departure from my usual grape on white. Getting outside of my comfort zone felt like something a non-virgin would do. Be bold. Go hard. Rock that shit.
“Strawberry,” I say between bites. “Crunchy peanut butter, no crust.”
“Livin’ large.”
“It’s a new and exciting day. I wanted to mark the moment.”
“Why’s it so special?”
Shit. I stare at Dee. Caught. Trapped. Lie, Maisie, lie. And get used to it. Mr. Kavanagh demanded discretion and telling Dee we banged on his office couch doesn’t exactly fit the bill.
I shrug. “I finished Danny’s Macbeth costume last night. It’s fabulous.”
“Everything you design is extraordinary. I don’t get it,” she says, tossing down the last bite of her chicken salad on pumpernickel—talk about crazy. “Why Columbia, when you could be at Parson’s? Design is your thing, Mais. You’re so talented.”
Ah, wishful thinking. “The chances of becoming the next Stella McCartney are slim to none. Which translates to living with my mother or on the streets. That leads to selling sex for money so I don’t have to do either option one or two, and we both know how picky I am about sexual partners. So the law it is.”
“But you love fashion. It’s a shame you suffer through this hellishness.” She waves over the case files littering the table, and wouldn’t you know it, guess who pops his head in?
“Ladies,” Drake says as he steps through the door, jacketless, and with his hands tucked in his pockets. He’s the picture of relaxed male elegance. He wears dress clothes almost as well as Mr. Kavanagh. He’s leaner, but still cut with muscles. Cute too. In a blond, skater-boy-meets-the-office kind of way.
Leaning against the doorframe, he smolders. Seriously, smolders. And he’s not looking at me. “Stellar work on the Whimbley case, DeeDee.”
Say what? I glance at Dee and the pink painting her cheeks under his praise. She hurries to wipe her mouth, and bag up the remaining piece of sandwich and half-eaten apple in front of her. I savor a bite of my PB&J. This shit is better than daytime TV.
“Thanks, Lucas. I appreciate your guidance,” she says. I’m quite certain there is a bat of her lashes to go along with the gratitude.
He smiles. And by smiles, I mean smirks. A dirty I-want-to-fuck-your-brains-out kind of smirk. The kind I read about in romance novels. There is no mistaking that sexy, come-hither, I-want-you smirk. What the hell, Dee?
“It was my pleasure,” he says in a smokin’ voice to match the smolder. “And listen, to celebrate the Whimbley victory we’re heading to the new bar down the street, Kav’s. Can you ladies make it?”
Ah, yeah. I’ve been there a couple of times. Cool place. “The whole office is invited?” I ask. Because Mr. Kavanagh—at the bar. I. Am. In.
“Anyone who can make it at seven. See you there?”
Dee tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Flirting 101. I like her style.
“It’s a yes for me. My mom has the baby for an overnight visit.” She looks at me with hope in her eyes. How can I let her down? And any chance to see Mr. Kavanagh out of the office is a win. Supporting Dee makes it a win-win.
“I’ll be there. Lady Macbeth can wait.” I had no intentions of working on costumes, but the lie slips easily from my tongue. They get easier every time.
“Good.” Drake clasps his hands in front of him and his smirk softens. So do his eyes, which are connected to Dee’s. “So, I’ll see you later. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon, but I’ll see you when I’m done. Just let me know if you need anything. You can text me.” The proof of his availability must be in his cell because he holds it up. “You have the number?”
Dee nods and lifts her phone off the stack of papers sitting next to her. “Got it.”
“Okay, good. Thanks, DeeDee,” he says as the office stirs behind him. Lisa, Mr. Kavanagh’s secretary, pops up from her chair.
“See you later.” Dee waves and keeps waving well after he retreats and she’s gesturing to his back.
“DeeDee?” I ask. “Lucas,” I say. “What. In. The. Hell, Deirdre, is going on with you and Lucas Drake? And why am I just learning of this now?” Guilt settles in my stomach. I’ve got a huge secret I can’t confess to but I’m demanding she open her soul to me. That sounds about right. I need details.
“It’s nothing,” she says.
“Huh. Nothing doesn’t look like that, DeeDee. Neither do first names and nicknames and batted lashes.” I point to said eyes and take a sip of milk. One percent—the only way to go with peanut butter and jelly.
“Okay, it may be something. But it’s a little something, Mais. Lucas has been really good to me. He got me a lawyer and I know he negotiated a deal because the guy is hardly charging me a penny. And he’s good. So good. Mason moved Sunday.” She huffs a sad laugh. “I tried to get the bastard out for months and my new lawyer did it in days. Mason is quaking in his boots, literally. Lucas is a good friend.”
“A friend? I’m your friend. Friends don’t look like the big bad wolf about to do very bad things to little
red riding hood. Have yo—”
She holds a hand out to stop me. “Nope. Just friends.”
I nod, glancing over her shoulder at the commotion in the office.
Whispers turn to excited chatter and Carla rushes by the door. Keller follows. What the hell?
“I’m happy for you, Dee,” I say. “Friends or more than that, you need a good guy. And I like Drake. He’s a saint—full of good deeds, and that’s all you deserve after that douche of a husband.”
“Agreed.”
“So keep me updated as to how this”—I motion toward where Drake stood and where Dee sits—“progresses. You know I love a good . . . romance.” I stumble as my eyes are drawn to the scene outside the door. “Is that . . . holy shit. Is that Ash Crawford?”
Dee swivels in her seat and we both stare. If Lady Diva is the most popular singer in the world, then Ash Crawford is the most famous actress in the universe.
God, she’s beautiful. Blond hair blown into full waves settles on her shoulders. Perky breasts, round hips, long legs, a slim build. The slender bone structure and high cheekbones complement her perfect heart-shaped face. A black, skintight column dress hugs her curves and seems to accentuate her sparkling eyes.
I stand and hover near the door, watching as a dimple pops when she smiles. As she beams. As she glows and holds open her arms. As she steps into an embrace. Mr. Kavanagh’s embrace.
Jealously slices through me like an arrow. I clutch my stomach as it rumbles with this sickening feeling. I don’t like it. Not one bit. Why is this gorgeous woman touching him? And why does he look relieved to hold her?
I stare, dazed, while they walk into his office, the door closing them off from prying eyes, all while a new realization warms my heart. I had wanted Mr. Kavanagh’s mind long before I started with the firm. One look at him and I knew I wanted his body. Now that I’ve had him, without a doubt—I’m not giving him up without a fight.
Chapter Eight
“Life of the Party” 3:36
Jayce
Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1) Page 8
