Chapter 22
22
Kit
The last person I kissed was Clark.
I remember the last time he kissed me.
It was a quick kiss, distracted, granted mid-sentence, while he grabbed his stuff to run out the door for an early class. He asked me to pick up more of the coffee pods he loves—the only stuff he’ll deign to drink, aside from what he gets in coffee shops—which were, of course, only available at the grocery store on the other side of town. So, since I didn’t have to work for a few hours because the restaurant doesn’t open until later and he had to be on campus early, I made the trip for him. It never once occurred to him to pick the damn stuff up himself, say, after work.
Now, of course, I know that after work, while I was running a restaurant, he was fucking her in my bed. Giving her the baby he’d refused me for the last decade.
Ugh. I’m a mess.
I swallow back the memories that still feel too raw, too new, and shake my head. “No. We still need rules.”
He doesn’t nod or respond at all. I’d say he’s unconvinced, but it’s hard to gauge now that he’s blanked his face out. “Time to renegotiate.”
“Look, that’s not a good idea. If we start with?—”
“One.” He edges me off his warm, surprisingly comfortable lap and stands, reaching for his last shirt button. “I take my clothes off.”
“Oh. I…” It’s not a lot to ask, I suppose. If it makes him happy. He’s doing all this for me. “Okay.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I’m not your boss here. You don’t have to?—”
“I know, Kit.” His gaze snags mine with annoying ease and holds it. “I know that.”
“Good.” I have to turn away from that stare. I look down at myself, wearing an old pair of yoga pants—which I’ll never see the same way again since the hallway incident—and a soft, long sleeve cotton shirt. A comfortable bra underneath. I chose my ugliest cotton briefs, too, thinking I wanted to make myself as unsexy as possible. I want this whole thing to be clinical.
At least I did.
Now, watching him go back to peeling off his shirt and shucking the black molded tank before getting to work on those worn jeans, I don’t know how I possibly imagined this could be anything but carnal. I’ve also got to face the distinct possibility that giving in on this one rule isn’t about pleasing him so much as it is about finally getting a look at his body.
Which, given everything, seems immeasurably selfish.
Can I do this? If we get physically close, the way he’s demanding, can I really continue to make it about fluids and nothing else? It doesn’t have to be intimate or loving. It can be bodies, doing this one thing they’re designed for. That’s it. Mechanical and necessary. A means to an end.
Right. Like that purely functional orgasm in the hallway.
Oh, god. I’m an idiot.
Straightening my back, I start on my pants, working hard not to notice the way his skin’s so tightly-packed full of muscle and sinew. The wide mounds of his shoulders, his lightly furred chest, the slim cut of his hips and heft of those thighs, not to mention what’s between them, covered now in nothing but the dark cotton of his boxer briefs. Everywhere I look, I see nothing but intimidating strength. Well, that and loads of ink.
He looks up to catch me staring and a succession of expressions cross his features: surprise and then satisfaction and then intensity as hot as fire.
Flushing hard, I turn away and roll my pants the rest of the way down my legs, kick them off and stand there in the least sexy lingerie I could find. My body’s an angry mash-up of guilt and annoyance and desire, despite every attempt not to want this. Or him. Or anything.
It’s wanting that leads to heartbreak.
He sits on the end of the bed in that perfectly-molding underwear and watches me, his erection obvious enough that I don’t have to look down to know he’s big. I wouldn’t have to anyway. I’ve felt that monster inside me.
“What do you need?” I ask him, wishing his gaze wasn’t quite so heavy or warm, wishing I couldn’t see the admiration there.
“Come here,” he says, casually adjusting himself through the cotton with one large hand. “Let me just…look at you.” He flicks his gaze up to my face, eyes narrowed in challenge. “That allowed?”
“I guess.” My attempt at a laugh is sickly. “Not like you can help but see me in daylight.” Swallowing hard, I walk over to where he’s made space for me between his spread legs, and stand, feeling awkward and pale and absurd.
“What if,” Jake says, taking in my half-clothed body with lascivious interest. “I said I wanted the shirt off?” He leans back on straight arms, body hard and somehow lazy all at once. On display, too, which I think might be purposeful. There’s so much of him that I’ve got no idea where to look.
“It’s against the ru?—”
“Is it?”
No. He’s right. I didn’t put clothing in the contract.
There’s an evil light glinting in his eyes. Like he got a plan and wants to play. “Contracts get renegotiated, right?”
I pause, breathing quick and light through a mouth that’s slightly open. “Um. Yeah?”
“What do you want in exchange for taking the bra off?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll take a pay cut. At work. Twenty-five percent.” His eyes narrow to shiny slits.
“What? No. Stop that.” As I start to step back, he grasps my hand and holds it, lightly enough that I can break away if I want. I don’t. “No, that would involve money and that’s not…I’m not. No. That’s firm.”
A hint of humor lights up his glare.
It takes a second for me to realize that his hold on my hand’s changed. No longer intent on stopping or holding me, but slowly, imperceptibly caressing my thumb, my knuckles.
“Take off the top.” His voice has gone hoarse. “Show me those tits and I’ll…fix that front walkway outside.”
I try to pull away and he tightens his hand again. “No! God, that’s so?—”
“Nice? Handy?” His hold shifts so we’re palm to palm, then he eases his fingers between mine. “A good way to make sure you don’t trip and fall coming home from work late at night?”
“I don’t want anything from you. I’ll just do it. Okay?” With an irritated huff, I drag myself away from him, reach for my top and yank it up and off. “No trading. None of this?—”
“Tit for tat?”
A surprised laugh forces its way up and out of my throat and before I know it, I smack him with my T-shirt. He of course gets a hold of it, wraps it in his fist and pulls me toward him in a slow tug-of-war I haven’t a chance in hell of winning. I let it go and continue undressing, ruing my choice of a sports bra when he has to help me untwist it and wrench it over my head.
Suddenly, I’m half across his lap and we’re both in nothing but our underwear, breathing like we’ve just run a sprint. His hair-rough thighs are doing things to my sensitive, naked breasts.
“There.” There’s that lion playing again, in the depths of his gaze. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Which certainly can’t be said about the erection prodding my belly. The desire to bear down is almost stronger than me. Which is exactly what prompts me to jump back up to standing.
But of course, this is way worse, because now I’m here, planted in front of him in nothing but my underwear, on display with my breasts out and my thighs in full view.
It’s a body I love. A body I’m proud of. But nobody has seen this body naked—aside from my asshole ex—since I was in my twenties and, truly, forty is a whole new ballgame.
“Jesus, Katarina,” he whispers, while those wildcat eyes eat me up.
I guess Jake likes it.
If anything, his erection’s more prominent than a second ago, his cheekbones flushed darker. “Touch ’em,” he says, staring at my chest. A chest I’m fine with, but my boobs are big and heavy and always— always —hoisted up by underwire.
My brain’s running circles in my skull, but somehow my body’s bypassed all these doubts. I swear my hands were locked and loaded before he uttered a word. Every argument I might have come up with seems to have disappeared into thin air and I’m touching myself in no time, the feel of doing this under the heat of his gaze like nothing I’ve experienced in this lifetime.
“Looks so good, Katarina.”
I shiver at the sound of my name and tweak myself harder.
“See? We don’t need those rules. The rules weren’t helping.”
“The rules,” I hiss, as contrary as a human can be while touching her body for the pleasure of a man. “Keep this civilized.”
“Yeah?” His gaze focuses hard and bright on my face before returning to where my hands have fully repudiated my brain’s jurisdiction. Nothing civilized about the way he looks at me there. “That how babies are made? Over fucking tea and…whatever those little cakes are.”
“Scones,” I say, using both thumbs to toy with myself. “Crumpets. Iced fairy cakes? Hot cross buns?”
“Fuck. That’s it, Kitty. List off snobby British food while you show me how sexy you are.” He swallows, the sound a dry counterpoint to my rushed breathing. We’re both almost smiling. Almost, because being this turned on is a serious business, I guess, and there doesn’t seem to be room inside my tight skin for both mirth and the way he makes me feel.
“Harder,” he orders and, my god, my body’s into that idea. I can’t help the slight forward press of my hips when I lift my own breast and squeeze, pull at the other nipple, then hold them both up and together, as if offering them straight to his mouth. “That’s good. Yeah.”
That’s when I notice that he’s reached down to grip himself through his shorts. His eyes flick up to my face and back down, then up again. He dips into his underwear and pauses, looking me dead in the eye. “Nudity’s on the table. That rule’s gone, Katarina.”
I shut my eyes at the overwhelming flood of pleasure I get from no longer being in charge. He’s ripping down my walls, one flimsy rule at a time.
“I know ,” I say, sounding snarky as hell.
I’ve never once been this turned on. Well, aside from the last time. From every time. The hotel, the restaurant. The hallway.
And this is so much more, I think. In my home, my room.
He’s going to fuck me on my bed. On my clean sheets. In broad daylight.
No. No, not fuck me. If I start thinking like that, I’ll be done for.
Oh, shut up. We both know it’s too late.
With obvious eagerness, he yanks the waistband down, baring the thickest, longest cock I’ve been in a room with.
Oh. My. God.
My mouth drops, along with the heavy weight in my belly. It takes everything I’ve got not to moan as my eyes take him in, as ravenous as the rest of me. I don’t think I’d have let him fuck me if I’d seen him first.
Now, when he starts stroking himself, it’s with rough, quick movements. I know this because I’m staring, rapt. I know it, too, because I’ve heard him do it in the dark. I’ve pictured just this. My imagination did not do him justice. The whole picture, the full naked man, is a thing of wild, unrestrained—and frighteningly unrestrainable—beauty. The sight is decadent and scary. He’s too thick, too strong, too hairy, his eyes too hot, his hunger too obvious. My vision dims.
A single drop of clear fluid gathers at his slit and starts to roll down the head where his palm catches it on its way down, rubbing it into his skin.
As if it has a mind of its own, my tongue slides out to lick my lower lip.
He sees me and stills. Dead serious, he looks me straight in the eye. “You want a taste, Katarina?”