Your Fierce Love (The Bennett Family)(8)

"Okay."

Come to think of it, it's far better for my work file to display Penny's  address. I wouldn't put it past Quentin to check where my address is  and realize I'm living next to Blake.

"Do you want water?"

He nods, and after I take two glasses out of the box labeled kitchenware, we both walk to the kitchen.

Handing him a glass full of water, I say, "I'd thank you again, but I  sound like a broken record even to my own ears. I'll make it up to you,  promise. Delicious dinner coming your way after I settle in."

"Looking forward to it." He gives me a wolfish smile and a wiggle of his  eyebrows, and my body reacts instantly: rushed breath, weak knees,  racing heart. Check, check, check.

While Blake helps himself to a second glass of water, I carry one of the  boxes labeled bed linens to my bedroom. When I return, Blake is  hovering dangerously close to an unlabeled box. As surreptitiously as  possible, I lift it, intending to carry it to my bedroom as well.  Several mishaps occur before I'm even halfway there. A strange sound  cracks through the air. I can't place it, but a few seconds later, two  loud bangs-metal on wood-follow. Two batteries fell from the box, but  how is that possible?

The cracking sound returns and I realize what's going on: the bottom of  the box is giving out. No, no, no. Not this box. Panic shoots through me  as Blake seems to realize this too and hurries my way.

"Here, let me help-"

"No need." I run to the bedroom, two more metallic bangs following me.  With a relieved breath, I set the box on the floor. Straightening up,  I'm startled to find Blake right next to me, holding out his hand, the  four batteries in his palm.

"Why in such a hurry to get that box out of the way? What do you have inside, battery-operated friends?"

My cheeks flush, and I can't form a comeback. Blake, who was probably  only joking, looks from one cheek to the other, then to the batteries in  his palm, finally lowering his gaze to my box. My mouth turns dry as  dust, and I think I could melt butter on my cheeks right now. I swear  the air between us charges. Suddenly, the room is too small, and there  is not enough air. Hastily, I reach out to take the batteries. Our  fingers touch, and holy hotness. The skin-on-skin contact is so charged,  it sends my senses into a tailspin. My eyes meet his, and there is no  mistaking the intensity of his gaze-or the heat in it.                       
       
           


///
       

Why, oh why didn't I pack my vibrator in my suitcase? This was an accident waiting to happen.

"You're killing me, Clara," he says, my name almost a groan. "The wall between our bedrooms has no phonic isolation."

It takes me a second to realize what he means, and I blush even more  violently. Then I drum my fingers against my thigh, plotting my revenge.  He could have been a gentleman about this and pretended nothing  happened, but instead he put me on the spot. Well, well, this just begs  me to turn the tables on him. After all, he did say he likes being  challenged.

"Don't worry, I have pillows. They're a good enough buffer."

He exhales sharply, his eyes zeroing in on my lips. "Sweetness, if  pillows are enough it means your battery buddy isn't doing a great job."  Advancing slowly, Blake pushes a strand of hair away from my face. The  contact zings through me, an almost imperceptible shudder traveling  throughout my body. Hold that thought!

Blake's lips curl up in a smile...yeah, my shudder was everything but  imperceptible to him. Instead of taking his hand back, he moves it down  to my earlobe, tracing the contour of my jaw. OhmyGod. It's all I can do  not to press my thighs together. An ache's formed between them, so  sudden and so intense that I don't know what to do with myself. How can  his proximity affect me so much?

A smarter woman would back down, but I'm determined to go toe-to-toe  with him. Some small part of me wants to know if I affect him as much as  he affects me.

"Oh, it's doing a great job. I just need the right inspiration."  Wiggling my eyebrows, I add, "I have an excellent imagination. And I'm  not afraid to use it."

Blake breathes out on another sharp exhale, and this time he's so close  to me that the rush of hot air lands just above my upper lip. My pulse  jackhammers, and I bite into my lower one, painfully aware that the ache  low in my body has intensified. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple  dipping in his throat. Up close, I can see the beginning of a  five-o'clock shadow on his chiseled features. How would it feel against  my fingers, my lips? Oh God, everything about Blake is too masculine.  Too potent. Too much.

My pulse ratchets up even more. Distance. I need distance. Ever so carefully, I tiptoe around him, just as his phone chimes.

"Have to go downstairs to the bar."

"Right. Thanks for all your help."

He quirks up a corner of his mouth. "My pleasure."

Ah, no! How can he pack so much sensuality into one word? No fair. Not at all.

"See you around, Clara." Taking my hand, he brings it to his lips,  kissing my knuckles with a feather light touch. The gesture would  ordinarily be gentlemanly, but sometime between him realizing what's in  my unlabeled box and me trying to outwit him, he lit a fuse inside me.  Feeling his lips on my skin is torture. The rhythm of my pulse is now at  an all-time high, and a wild pounding is in my ears. Which is why, when  he brings his mouth to my ear the next second, I almost don't catch his  words. Almost.

"You'll forgive me if I won't try too hard not to listen, Clara."

With a smile and a wink, he leaves my apartment. It takes me almost an  entire minute to calm down, and I swallow a few times until the rush of  blood in my ears subsides somewhat. The rhythm of my pulse is almost  normal, but then I hear three knocks from the other side of the shared  wall in the bedroom and it ratchets back up, even wilder than before.





CHAPTER FIVE

Clara

"Mmmm...delicious."

I'm elbow deep in preparing my "thank you" dinner for Blake.

I called Jenna, his mom, to check what Blake's favorite dish is. From  the numerous Bennett meals I attended, I gauged that it would be either  spaghetti arrabbiata or pork chops, but I wanted to double-check, just  in case. Jenna confirmed my guesses, which is when I realized I pay far  more attention to Blake than I thought. I haven't memorized anyone  else's favorite dishes.

Shortly after six, I hear footsteps in the corridor, and then Blake's  door opens and closes. Ten minutes later, I'm done with dinner. My palms  have started to sweat, which is ridiculous. Just as I finish setting  the table, there is a knock at my door. I open right away.

"Hello, Clara."

His hair is mussed, and his skin has a thin sheet of moisture-he probably just popped out of the shower.

"Come on in."

He steps in, running his hand through his damp hair, sending sprinkles  of water everywhere. A few land on my shoulder, and I shiver lightly.  His T-shirt sticks to him slightly, as if the skin is still damp.

"Wow, this place is barely recognizable."                       
       
           


///
       

"I wouldn't say that, but it looks lived in." Since moving in a week  ago, I put up decorations and ordered twinkle lights, which arrived two  days ago. I hung them around the window and have lit them up for this  occasion. It's cloudy outside, and they make a nice contrast, casting a  warm glow over the living room.

"Sit down. I'll bring dinner right out."

As I dash from the living room to the kitchen, I feel his gaze following  me. When I serve the dishes, his entire expression brightens.

"This is my favorite food."

I nod proudly. "Called your mom to make sure."

"You did all this for me?"

"Yeah."

"You're amazing."

We dig in, making easy conversation over dinner. After we eat, he inspects the changes I've made.

He approaches the bookshelf with a frown. "You have three sets of the Harry Potter books...why?"

"They mean a lot to me," I say simply. "Besides, each set has different covers."

"Different covers," Blake mumbles to himself, as if that isn't a good enough a reason to own different editions.

"If you tell me you aren't a fan of the series, I might seriously reconsider our friendship," I warn jokingly.

"I saw the movies, but I'm not a big reader."

"Ugh, stop right there."

"I liked them. But obviously, there are fans"-he points to himself-"and fans,"-he points to me and winks.

"I think I felt a big connection to Harry because he was an orphan too, and his life with the Dursleys was very shitty."

Shit! Why did I open the can of worms? I usually avoid any reference to  my childhood. People react weirdly when they find out I grew up in group  homes. Some pity me, and some simply don't know what to say. Blake  knows, of course, but it's still not a pleasant dinner topic.