Abyss (Elements of Rapture Book 4)

18. Kavi

KAVI

From: Kavi [email protected]>

To: Nathan [email protected]>

Date: June 12 4:43 PM

Subject: A place where the streets are not marked . . .

Okay, so you’re probably not going to like what I’m about to tell you, being the overly protective and annoying best friend you’ve always been.

I kissed my boss.

There, I said it. Go ahead, tell me what an idiot I am. Tell me you think I have no idea what I’m doing. Tell me, because you’d be right.

Going to have to cut this short because I’m almost home, but I will not lie. That was the single hottest moment of my entire life, Nathan. Like seriously, epic beyond words. I know you’re scrunching your nose, but I refuse to take it back. :)

Although, now I’m completely unsure of anything and everything.

I can pretty much guess what you’re going to say, but as usual, I’ll be waiting for your response.

xoxo

-Special K

My hand trembles as I slide the key into his apartment’s doorknob, a fusion of adrenaline, lust, and hysteria intermingling into an uncontrollable rush.

That kiss.

Like lightning striking a barren desert.

Like a symphony culminating into a climax.

I throw my keys into the bowl on the entryway table and find my fingers brushing against my mouth. I can still feel the assault of his lips, the graze of his stubble, and the glide of his breath across my skin.

It felt like one of those powerful, lucid dreams. The ones you wake up from in a cold sweat with your heart clutched in your palm, wondering if some part of it was real. Wondering if you somehow traveled to another dimension and lived out your wildest fantasy.

A half hour later, shockwaves still charge through my system, as if still reeling from the fact that I’d been set alight, blindfolded, and hurled into a dark abyss—one I’ll never find footing in.

How did I go from highlighting changes in project timelines one minute, to ending up with my panties sopping wet and my lips tangled with my boss’s the next?

One second I was walking away, feigning confidence and throwing barbs at him, and the next, my fingers were curled in his hair just to keep myself balanced.

The way he kissed, rough and self-assured—so much like himself—has me wondering if I’ve ever truly been kissed before. If so, they were mere pecks in comparison to the sheer devastation he left on my lips. Like a gentle breeze compared to a tempest.

I rush to the fridge, opening the door to grab a bottle of water. I lay the bottle on my neck, trying to cool off my heated skin. You’d think I’d have gotten my heart rate back in control by now, but you’d be wrong.

I pace the kitchen for a few moments, taking a few sips of the water.

I just kissed my boss. My very moody, and incredibly hot, boss.

Holy shit, I just kissed Madison’s dad!

My pacing speeds up as I consider the questions flying into my brain like a swarm of restless bees.

What does this mean? Where does one go from here?

How will I even face him again? Can anything ever go back to the way it was after this?

Setting the bottle on the center island, I lean down, propping my elbows beside it, and scrub my face with my palms. “What did you just do, Kavi?”

I’m living under the same fucking roof as the guy! I work for him, for heaven’s sake! What the hell was I thinking?

What the hell was he thinking?

I mean, this was just as much him as it was me, wasn’t it? Sure, I was goading him, but he’s the one who slammed his mouth against mine.

God, I wish I had a girlfriend to talk to right now. Someone who could either tell me how stupid I was for making a move on my boss or squeal in excitement with me like a little girl.

Unfortunately, the only girlfriend I’d ever think of calling is Madison, and I can’t imagine that conversation going well.

“Oh, hey Madison! So guess what? I think I felt your dad’s boner today. Oh, and he kisses like a wild, hungry beast. Wanna discuss?”

She doesn’t even know about my change of address.

I’d brought it up to Hudson this week while we were eating dinner, and he casually said it wasn’t something she needed to know at this time. I gathered that meant he hadn’t told her, but I was too scared to ask why.

Maybe he knows telling his daughter will cause awkwardness between us. Maybe he thinks it will create unnecessary complications having to explain our unconventional living situation.

Or maybe he’s embarrassed by it?

Either way, I didn’t want to press the issue. We’d figured out a good routine and were coexisting quite nicely as of late, and given the man was as moody as a premenstrual teenager, I wanted to avoid anything that could cause a sudden outburst and disrupt our newfound harmony.

But now I feel even more guilty about everything. How will I ever face Madison again?

Taking my water with me, I traipse to my room, feeling like I’m watching myself in an unscripted movie, where every step I take feels unpredictable and unrehearsed.

I need to talk to Hudson; we need to discuss what just happened. And the best thing would be for it to not happen again.

I mean, as life-altering as that kiss was—for me, at least—it was completely unprofessional and inappropriate. Not only is this my first real job out of college where he happens to be my boss, but above it all, he’s my friend’s father.

And though the rules were never stated, they shouldn’t have to be. What I did feels traitorous and dishonest, selfish and deceitful.

After begging her to get me this job, I go and kiss her dad!? What would she think of me if she knew? Probably that I’m some depraved and conniving bitch out for his money or something.

God, this was all such a mistake.

So why didn’t my body feel like it was when he was ravishing my lips like he’d never been thirstier? Why did I practically weep when he stepped away to go back to his computer like he hadn’t just caused a flood inside my underwear?

It doesn’t matter why.

The bottom line is, it can’t happen again.

I’m leaving at the end of summer. I’m living with him and working for him until then. Crossing lines of professionalism will only lead to trouble, heartache, and a dead end. Not to mention, a potential rift with one of my only friends.

With those thoughts firmly set in my mind, I tread to my bathroom for a shower, determined to speak to Hudson when he gets home so we can get this whole lapse in judgment put to bed.

“CanI paint something else instead of the apple you’ve asked us to draw?” Jojo asks, staring at her blank canvas with her hands resting on her knees while she sits on her stool. Her short ashy brown hair is tucked behind her ears.

She seems wistful today, so I make a note to talk to her after class.

“Absolutely. That’s what the class is about. I just brought in the apple I painted when I was about your age as an inspiration piece, but you can do whatever you’d like. But I do want you to talk to me about what you’ve painted. I want to delve into your brushstrokes and the use of your colors—both give me an indication of how you’re feeling.”

The seven kids in my class start picking up their paintbrushes. Most have been regulars since I posted my ad for free art therapy months ago. Most come from less-than-privileged or affluent homes and need an outlet to express their feelings constructively, and this class offers them that opportunity once a week.

Fortunately, I was able to secure a small room at the high school near my mom’s house, which generously allows me to host this class each Sunday without charging me, so that’s been a huge boon. In fact, the school has even supported me by sending out communication to parents for this summer session.

As the kids begin painting, I look out the window, turning the silver ring on my thumb absentmindedly, wondering if Nathan read the email I sent him.

My thoughts then jump to the fact that I still need to reestablish ground rules with my boss, even if every cell in my body rejects the idea, wanting to see those rules break again and again.

Hudson never came home on Friday night. So, after staying up past eleven waiting for him, I decided to go to bed, hoping to talk to him on Saturday. But he didn’t show up Saturday, either.

Nor was he there this morning.

I know he’s alive, given his responses to work emails over the past two days, but it’s clear he’s avoiding me. And since he’s flying out for a four-night business trip this afternoon to New Hampshire, it appears our conversation will have to wait.

Maybe he’ll text me? Call me? Though, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have already? But I suppose I haven’t, either.

I keep telling myself it’s because I want to have the conversation with him face-to-face, but a nagging voice in my head says I’m a bold-faced liar and the only reason I haven’t texted him is because I’m too chicken.

What would I even start with? Thanks for playing tonsil tennis with me, but let’s maybe not do that again?

I gather, based on his silence and absence, he’s regretting what happened. And though I don’t regret the kiss, per se, I understand if he does.

He’s always so composed, almost dispassionate about anything besides work. So, for him to lose control in such a way . . . I can’t imagine he’s not reeling from it, wondering how he lost control.

Or maybe he’s not.

Maybe it didn’t even affect him enough to matter.

Given the fact that he dated someone from the marketing department a few years ago, from what Belinda told me, maybe this isn’t even a big deal to him. Maybe he hooks up with women in the office all the time.

Though, with the way he draws lines and keeps things professional with everyone, I can’t imagine that being the case, either.

Whatever his reasons are, I’ll make it easy for him. I’ll tell him we can file our little moment off as a blip of insanity and move forward. Nothing else needs to change.

And as for my guilty conscience about Madison, it’ll be my own cross to bear.

I observe Jojo as she adds a good dollop of black to the navy on her palette before dabbing her brush into it and streaking the canvas. She’s so completely consumed in her thoughts as she paints over the same stroke, creating texture, that she hasn’t noticed me behind her. I’m just about to ask her if she’ll stay after class for a bit to talk when Elijah raises his hand.

I chuckle. “Elijah, you don’t have to raise your hand in this class. As long as you’re not speaking over someone else, you can feel free to talk.”

He points to my painting at the front of the class. “You always say a lot can be learned about the painter by the colors and textures they use.” At my nod, he continues, “So why is your apple damaged and bruised on one side? Why are all the colors so subdued, except for the dark blue bruise on the side?”

My eyes linger on my painting, taking me back to the day so much of my life changed, the almost four hours I cried myself hoarse, hoping someone would come get me out of that dark, dank closet, wondering if I’d die in there before I was rescued.

My logical brain told me I wouldn’t, that the maintenance staff would eventually come in and find me, but that’s the thing about fear . . . It keeps logic hostage, clouding rationality and intensifying despair.

I always loved art. I was good at it, but until that day, I was just a conformist—creating art that made others happy, coloring within the lines, and sticking to the rules.

I started painting my pain after that day, to hell with anyone else’s happiness.

“That apple represents a day that, despite the blue skies outside, washed everything in gray for me. For a long time after that day, I only painted in shades of gray and brown. But this painting also represents the last day I allowed anyone to bully and bruise me. I wanted to memorialize the way I looked, the way I felt in that moment, because that’s what rock-bottom looked like for me and I planned to rise from it. It took me a while, but I finally did.”

A few students stare at me, wondering if I’ll elaborate, but this class isn’t about my pain or my past—I’ve had years of therapy to deal with that—it’s about their needs and their trauma.

Elijah speaks again. “When did you decide to bring color back into your paintings?”

I smile, thinking about my first email to Nathan. “When I found my best friend again. It was the day I decided I didn’t simply want to survive; I wanted to thrive. I wanted to live and use my experience to help others. The day I made that decision, color finally seeped back into my life.”

They listen to me intently.

“Sometimes you need the gray to fully appreciate the color. Sometimes it’s okay not to chase away the pain, the sadness, and the heaviness. It’s okay to let it flow through you and express it in your own way.”

I walk over to my canvases and pull out the painting I’d created a year later, showing a woman with wavy dark hair, a red and blue flannel wrapped around her waist, and orange boots on her feet, holding a half-eaten red apple as she walks into a bustling city—the Golden Gate Bridge somewhere in the background. “Because sometimes that’s what it takes to find color again.”

I checkmy phone for the third time.

It’s Thursday afternoon and, in all honesty, it’s become somewhat of a routine all week. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. If he hasn’t messaged me all week, why would he message me now? It’s painfully clear he’s not interested in speaking, aside from copying me on work emails.

Just as I’m gathering my notebook to head off to yet another RCS project meeting, the elevator doors slide open, and Hudson strides out with his phone to his ear.

My heart somersaults in my chest as I run a shaky hand over my skirt unnecessarily. He’s engrossed in a conversation about replacing machinery at a client site, his gaze affixed straight ahead. His free hand runs through his hair as he walks on by without stopping.

No hi, no nod of acknowledgment, not even a millisecond of eye contact.

Well, okay then.

A jagged stone lodges in my throat as I watch him disappear into his office, shutting the door behind him without so much as a single backward glance.

My shoulders slump at the obvious dismissal as I trudge to the elevator to get to my meeting.

Why did his avoidance hurt so much?

Was it because I expected him to acknowledge me in some way after sharing such an intimate moment last Friday? Was it because I thought that—at least until that moment—we were getting closer, finding commonalities, even joking around a little, and that was grounds for getting at least some sort of reaction after days of silence?

Perhaps I’m the one who’s wrong here. Perhaps I’m the idiot who shouldn’t have expected an insignificant kiss to be anything but that, insignificant.

Two hours later I’m back at my desk, about to sit down, when Hudson emerges from his office.

He looks down at his phone when he addresses me, “Can you run my suit to the dry cleaners? It’s hanging in my office. And on your way back, get me a cup of coffee and one of those apple strudels from the coffee shop downstairs.” He takes a step forward, stopping again. “Oh, and book my trip to Portland next week. I’ll be meeting with Silas again.”

Before I can even respond, he’s headed down the hall into a meeting room with a few of his staff, leaving me standing there feeling like the dirt on his shoes.

An hour later, I’m back from running his errands with his coffee and pastry in hand. I head over to his office, knowing he doesn’t have any more meetings on his calendar.

I knock on his door before seeing myself in, noticing him standing near the wall of windows behind his desk, hands in his suit pockets as he looks across the city. His broad shoulders, his tapered waist, and his strong thighs have me taking a moment to admire him silently before I take a calming breath and close the door behind me, locking it.

He doesn’t acknowledge my presence so, accessing that part deep inside me that holds all my courage, I pace over to his desk and place his coffee and pastry on the corner before clearing my throat. “Are we just never going to talk about what happened on Friday?”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move.

I huff out a mirthless laugh. “Right. Well, I don’t know what I expected from you, but I came in here to tell you not to worry about it, in case you were. It’ll never happen again. It can’t happen again. I’m sorry about my part in crossing those lines—”

“I’m not.”

His voice stuns me silent before he turns to face me, taking me in from head to toe, like he’s cataloging the various parts of me.

“W-what?” I stammer, completely confused.

Eyes blazing like sapphires in a fire, he strolls over to me, covering the distance between us in a few steps. All my senses catapult and collide at once.

“I’m not sorry about it,” he repeats.

“But—”

“All I”ve done for the past six goddamn days is not be sorry about it, despite wanting to be. All I”ve fucking done for the past six days is think of ways to not be sorry about it, again and again.”

My mouth drops open as if my jaw has decided to take a mini vacation without informing the rest of my face. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

Hudson curls his hand around the back of my neck, those blue eyes glaring down at me. “Then let me clarify.”

Giving me only a second to catch up, his mouth descends on mine, molding and melting. His lips drag over mine in another brutal kiss that’s both hunger and longing wrapped into one. His warm tongue glides over the seam of my mouth, demanding access, while his left hand shifts downward, grazing my collarbone before brushing over the side of my breast.

And despite the lectures I’d given myself all week—despite the guilt and the mortification—my mouth responds, opening up like the hungry whore it is when it comes to this confounding man.

Holy crap, is this really happening again?

My eyes close on their own accord, and I lift on my toes to deepen the kiss. My fingers plunge into Hudson’s silken hair as I arch into him, partly because my knees are wobbling and partly because I need him closer.

Feeling the hard muscles of his chest under his shirt, I whimper as my nipples harden to stiff peaks behind my bra while a flurry of goosebumps rise all over my body.

Good lord, the way this man kisses—rough and possessive, as if he’s on a mission to conquer some new land or find buried treasure—leaves me gasping for breath.

And while there should be accolades given to such prowess, I don’t want to think about the type of practice he’s had to get to this level.

He sucks on my bottom lip, his hand fisting my hair before his tongue starts a duel with mine. I swallow his low groan, feeling the hardened bulge through his pants. Letting my hair go, his hand snakes down my back as if memorizing every inch of me before settling on my ass. He takes a handful of it before pulling our groins flush together.

Another rattled groan escapes him, demolishing all the sense inside me. I no longer know where, who, or why I am—nor do I care. In fact, if someone asked me to count to ten, I’d get lost somewhere around four.

My breath hitches, mind buzzing, as my skin heats up. Every atom inside me feels charged and ready to explode as Hudson kisses me ruthlessly, sending all my logic and reasoning straight into the wastebasket on the side of his desk.

I’m so dazed under the heat of his hands and the taste of his mouth, I don’t even realize he’s walking us backward to his chair. Bringing me down with him, he pulls me into his lap so I’m straddling him. It’s a little uncomfortable, given how tight my skirt is, but that becomes a non-issue when he unzips the side, keeping his eyes closed, and bunches up the material higher on my thighs.

Our kiss continues, burning me from within with each lap of his talented and torturous tongue. My fingers dig into his scalp as I return his kiss with just as much fervor. Hudson’s erection presses against my sex, and my body moves over it in time with the small gasps that release from my lips.

God, this is so not good . . . or maybe it’s really good, as evident by the heat swirling in the space between my legs. With the wetness seeping out of me, I would be surprised if he couldn’t smell my scent. I’m so turned on, I’m practically shaking.

Jesus, so much for all that self-talk and reaffirmations to set boundaries and be professional. One word, one touch, one kiss from this man and I’m a puddle in his lap. Almost literally.

Hudson releases my lips, still tingling and spent, before he drops his mouth to my jaw, kissing and sucking. His hand travels to my breast as his mouth drops to the column of my neck. I slant my head back to give him more access, and he nips my skin, eliciting a soft mewl from me.

“Fuck, Kav,” he pants. “Tell me you’re sorry about this. Say you don’t want it.”

I press my hands to his chest and he loosens his hold on me. A rare vulnerability dances in his otherwise wintry eyes.

“I haven’t stopped thinking—” I take a quick breath, cutting myself off. I feel flustered, both wanting and not wanting him to know how I feel. “But this would be such a bad idea . . .”

He nods in agreement. “Catastrophic.”

I lick my lips, nodding as well, though I’m still in a very compromising position, straddling him. In fact, I’m positive that when I get up, there will be a large wet spot on his crotch as a parting gift from me. Perhaps the thought should embarrass me, but with the various other emotions competing for first place inside, embarrassment is taking a spot near the end.

“I’m your admin, your daughter’s friend, and your roommate,” I remind him, running my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, my body clearly not in line with the words I’m trying to have him heed. “Everything would become so . . . complicated.”

His stubbled jaw shifts slightly.

Good God, that salt-and-pepper stubble. How I want it between my thighs, scraping against my most delicate skin. How is it possible this man looks this hot at forty-something, and only getting more attractive by the day?

“It could be a total mistake,” he agrees.

My fingers find the gap between the buttons of his shirt, as if my brain no longer controls them, and I pull him closer. His hands round to the back of my ass as he drags me over his erection again.

My forehead lands against his and a whimper trickles out of me. I bite my bottom lip, seconds from doing something that will forever cross every boundary and obliterate all the rules. “So . . . what do you propose we do, Mr. Case? You know, since you’re the boss.”

Pulling out my shirt from my waistband, his hand travels under it, skating over my heated skin. He pulls down one of my bra cups before brushing a thumb over my puckered nipple. “That we make the most catastrophic mistake of our lives.”