Tangled(21)

Weeks of want and frustration are coursing through me. I’ve brushed with Colgate for far too long—and it’s tasted like shit.

“Do you know how much I want this? Want you? God, Kate…I’ve fucking dreamed about this…begged for it. You make me…ah, I can’t get…enough of you.”

Her hands are on my chest now, rubbing, scratching, moving down my abs, until one brushes against the front of my pants and I hiss in pure agonizing pleasure. Before I can inhale, she’s stroking my dick through my pants, and I thrust forward. Any semblance of control or finesse is gone.

My hands come up to her breasts, and she arches her back to bring them closer. I squeeze, and she moans again. I skim across where I know her nipples are, frustrated by her blouse and bra. I want to tug and pinch those beauties until they’re two sharp peaks. Her mouth is on my neck, kissing, and I raise my chin.

It’s never been like this. I’ve never been like this. I’ve never felt so much for any woman, no matter that it’s a mixture of anger and lust.

“Drew…Drew, I can’t do this. I love Billy,” she pants.

Her confession doesn’t affect me like you’d think it would. Mostly because she still has one hand on my cock when she says it. Her actions speak the complete opposite of her voice. Hands and hips that are pulling me closer, stroking me, pleading for more.

“That’s good, Kate. Fine. Love Billy. Marry Billy. Just please…God…please just fuck me.”

I don’t even know what I’m saying. Don’t even know if I’m making sense. One thought and one only drums in my head like a primal melody:

More.

I bring my chin down, wanting to taste her mouth again. But instead of her lips…I make contact with her palm. I open my eyes to find her hand covering my mouth, blocking me. Her chest is heaving, rising and falling in brisk, rapid pants.

And then I see her eyes. And I feel like I just took a wrecking ball to the chest. Because her eyes are wide with panic…and confusion. I try to say her name, but it’s muffled by her hand.

I hear a sob in her voice as she says, “I can’t do this, Drew. I’m sorry. Billy…this job…this is my life. My whole life. I…I can’t.”

She’s trembling. And suddenly, my need, my lust, and my still-raging hard-on are all pushed to the backburner, behind the overwhelming desire to comfort her. To tell her it’s okay. Everything will be all right.

Anything. I’ll say anything to take that look off her face.

But she doesn’t give me the chance. The moment she takes her hand off my mouth, she runs out the door. And she’s gone before I can draw a breath. I should go after her. I should tell her it’s okay that she put the brakes on. That this hasn’t—and won’t—change anything. Though that’s one big fat lie, and we both know it, don’t we?

But I don’t follow Kate. And the reason is simple: Have you ever tried to run with a boner staring up at you?

No?

Well, it’s damn near impossible.

I collapse onto the couch and rest my head back. Looking up at the ceiling, I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers. How is it that something as simple as sex just became so frigging complicated? I don’t know either.

Christ, I’m so hard. I want to cry—I’ll admit it. I’m not ashamed. I want to weep from the throbbing ache in my groin that will have no relief. The idea of going out and finding a substitute for Kate never even enters my head. Because my dick knows what my brain is just starting to admit.

There is no substitute for Kate Brooks. Not for me. Not now.

I look down at the tent in my lap. The one that shows no indication of going down any time soon.

It’s going to be a long, long night.





Chapter 8

THE NEXT DAY, Kate doesn’t come into the office until eleven o’clock. I don’t need to tell you that this is unusual for her.

She’s avoiding me. I know this because I’ve done it myself on more than one occasion. Discreetly sneaking over to the other side of the club when I happen to vaguely recognize one of my previous hook-ups. But to actually be on the receiving end of this? It sucks.

I don’t get the privilege of speaking with her until two, when she comes striding into my office—looking drop-dead gorgeous. Her hair is pinned up in what Alexandra would call a French twist. She’s wearing a black dress that flows out slightly at the knee, with matching high heels and a black blazer.

She puts a small stack of poster board on my desk, her charts and graphs shrunk down to notebook-size like we agreed. “Okay. You’re right. You should lead with Anderson. I’ll be second chair.”