Chapter Thirteen
ISOBEL
Boston
“Did you read over everything they sent?” I asked, closing my food container and setting it on the coffee table. I still couldn’t believe he’d found my favorite wine and brought me dinner. I knew it was what I’d demanded of him, but I didn’t think he’d follow through.
“Yeah. And I looked at the notes from Sam’s first pass through. It’s so much better than the first draft. I wasn’t being facetious when I said Chase had worked some magic on Evan.”
Shaking my head, I laughed. “Could have picked a better way of phrasing it in front of Kristine. She was ready to rip your balls off. And I might have let her.”
“Aw. And here I thought you liked my balls where they are.”
“Don’t,” I warned, tipping my glass in his direction. “I may tolerate your bullshit occasionally, but don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything bad.”
“This time.”
“Fair enough.” He paused, rising from the couch to deposit his now empty container on the edge of my kitchen counter. He walked back toward the door and bent down to retrieve his computer from his bag. His snug dress pants tightened across his ass, and I shamelessly ogled him like he’d done to me earlier.
“Quit staring at my ass.”
Smothering a giggle, I tipped back my wine, setting the nearly empty glass on the corner of my coffee table.
“You didn’t deny it,” he observed with a smirk while he returned to his seat on the other end of the couch.
“Am I supposed to? You know you like all the appreciative looks your suit porn gets.”
His grin was borderline obnoxious as he opened his laptop, refraining from responding to my comment. He had to know how despite his mouth being a problem; he was often a source of gossip among the women of the office. Typically, because we were all bemoaning that a man that attractive had the emotional intelligence of a gnat. But Adrian had fooled us all, thinking he was a colossal douchecanoe when he could be a thoughtful, considerate human being.
Maybe I needed that last swallow of wine after all.
“Wasn’t aware I was the star of your pornographic menswear fantasies, but I can’t say that I’m mad about it. You’re often the focus of my nocturnal emissions as of late.”
He laughed as my eyes widened, my mouthful of wine nearly becoming a choking hazard as I sputtered.
“Do you need a napkin?”
This smug bastard.
“You keep your emissions off my couch, mister.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, is this an emission-free zone?”
Why did our conversations always lead to something suggestive? Maybe it was because the thinly veiled mutual attraction we shared seemed to be fully out of hiding. Or maybe because I could still remember the taste of him in my mouth. Whatever it was, I was in trouble.
“Sorry, this couch is pristine in more ways than one. You keep your dirty thoughts away from my baby and keep your pants on.” He chucked as I lovingly petted the soft material of the first possession I bought when I moved into this apartment after the divorce.
“Do we have to keep yours on?” Adrian asked, with one eyebrow raised slightly. His tongue made a slow pass between his lips and my mouth went dry at the sight of it, but I wasn’t letting him suck me back into the orbit of his sexual brain fog. I made impulsive decisions around him, and I needed to keep this professional for my own sanity.
“Just pull up the document and stop flirting with me.”
Quickly reaching forward, I grabbed my glass—tipping in the last few drops lingering in the bottom, rose from the cushion I’d been slouched against, and carried my partially empty container to the kitchen counter. I eyed the bottle of wine on the table, debating on a refill, but we needed to get something productive done tonight regardless of his flirtatious advances. The consumption of more alcohol would just make interacting with him cloud my brain further.
I grabbed my tablet off the table before I returned to my end of the couch, quickly typing in my passcode and sitting down.
“If you want to see my notes, you need to sit a little closer than that.”
My pulse skipped as I shifted across the empty cushion between us, his arm perched across the back of the couch, seemingly welcoming me into his side. I may have known what he tasted like, but we hadn’t exactly cuddled after what we’d done in our adjoined hotel rooms. Or what he’d done to me, despite my best efforts to escape. Couldn’t he just let a girl fellate and flee? Sometimes you just wanted a mouth full of—
“Can you see alright, or do I need to make the font larger?” he asked, interrupting my line of thought. He’d leaned toward my ear, his warm breath stirring the stray hairs against my neck, the sensation not entirely unpleasant.
“Are you calling me old?” I whispered, my voice tense at his proximity. The warmth from his side radiated through my sweater, sending a shiver up my spine. Despite spending the day in the office and coming straight here, he still smelled amazing, and I was finding it hard to concentrate on the words on the laptop screen propped on his legs. His strong, muscular legs, that had flexed when I grasped them, while my lips surrounded his—
“You’re shaking. Are you cold?” he whispered back, shifting slightly in my direction.
I didn’t dare look at his face. He could read me too well. He’d know by the flush on my cheeks and the dazed look in my eyes that my thoughts weren’t entirely on work.
“You seem tense.”
I am tense—was what I wanted to say, but admitting that would only lead to more questions. Questions I didn’t have the answers to. I was wondering about my sanity lately, too. I was never this scattered when it came to work.
If Kristine wasn’t so meticulous about putting things into our shared calendar, I would have been lost this past week. I didn’t like that I was letting a man distract me from my professional life, but I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. Adrian was slowly endearing himself to me when we were alone, although I still had a hard time trusting that he was being sincere. This all seemed too easy to be real.
“I thought maybe that glass of wine would relax you,” he murmured, and I felt his fingertips brush against the back of my shoulder blade. “But maybe you need something else.”
“Stop,” I whispered, trying to focus my attention on the words on his screen. I’d looked over the shared document on the server earlier, before my shower, so I knew what was already noted, but all my brain could focus on was the deep, gravelly sound of his voice when he whispered that close to my ear. “Just pay attention to the document, not me.”
“It’s hard to concentrate with the potent scent of your shampoo. It smells almost as sweet as the taste of something else on my lips.”
“ Adrian. “ My voice was exasperated as I leaned forward, trying to calm my racing heart.
“Fine, I’ll stop,” he coaxed, his palm settling between my shoulder blades, and causing my arms to break out in goosebumps. Still not helping. “Sit up. Please.”
Clenching my eyes closed, I counted to ten in my head, willing my body to relax. It wasn’t his fault my thoughts kept drifting to the way I’d fundamentally changed things between us. As much as I wanted to displace the blame, I was the one who’d come onto him. I was the one who’d touched him first. I was the one who started this slow descent into madness after our brief tryst.
I was also the one who’d reconstructed the boundaries after everything that happened, somehow expecting them to keep my feelings from changing.
“I know you’ve seen all these, but I wanted to make sure you were good with the changes I’d suggested after this went through Sam and Kristine. She had some solid suggestions on word usage and the impact of the way Evan had phrased some things. Are you alright with this going back to him next week?”
“You mean her comments about the use of phallic nouns?” He smirked, but didn’t respond. Kristine had suggested Evan start coming up with other words than dick in one of the sex scenes. Scanning the side margin to double-check that Adrian hadn’t added any additional notes since I’d studied them earlier. “What do you think about the changes they’ve made to the rough draft so far? I know you’ve gone through and made your own notes, but most of them were technical in nature.”
“It’s better. I’m still not convinced it needs this much detail, but the scenes in question do flow better.”
I knew most of his authors glossed over spicy material, so writing explicitly was likely new to him, but he wasn’t exactly a prude.
“You can call them sex scenes, Ad. It won’t diminish your author to have a little spice in his novel. I think in this case it helps draw the reader into the relationship between the two characters. Adds some suspense and conflict,” I noted. “And Kallie’s job is sexual in nature, so including detailed interactions is keeping in line with her backstory. She uses her sexuality to exert control on the rest of her life. ”
Adrian tensed beside me. “Evan’s achieved suspense and conflict just fine without a romantic subplot before.”
“And with a little help, he’s done it just fine here.” Just because there was an angry couch fucking didn’t diminish the suspense of the book. It added a little more excitement.
“I guess.” Adrian nodded, glancing over at me, his posture still tense. I could tell this was pulling him out of his comfort zone.
“Quit being so dismissive,” I teased, pushing my shoulder into his side. “You realize sex is part of the human experience. People fuck. Seeing it on the page shouldn’t be shameful or dirty.”
“Well,” he smiled, a little bit of his bravado returning. “I agree with the shameful part, but being a little dirty is the fun part of sex.”
And there was the teasing again. Even if hearing it made my heart skip a beat.
“Was that an admission that maybe I’m right?” I gasped, dramatically placing my hand in the center of my chest. His eyes narrowed in on the action, the neckline of my sweater dipping dangerously low.
“Don’t look so smug. Chase helped him get this into shape, but I told you the bones were good.” His voice still held an edge of vulnerability, but I knew he was trying to defend his author. I’d never doubted the quality of Evan’s work, and I knew I was sensitive when people criticized my authors.
“It was just the actual boning that was terrible.” A slightly obnoxious laugh escaped before I clamped my bottom lip between my teeth, sensing Adrian wasn’t quite as amused with my comeback.
“Why is everyone in the romance genre so sex obsessed?” He had a point, but like I’d told him. Sex was a part of real life too. Sure, sometimes fictional characters had a bit more of it in frequency and intensity, but despite my own personal dry spell, people fucked .
“Maybe because sexuality is something you shouldn’t be ashamed of. Every level of spice is relevant in romance, but there’s a huge market for spicy reads. That’s why Chase has built up such a following. If you haven’t noticed, there are plenty of women out there who aren’t ashamed to own that they like reading about sex.”
“You mean Evan’s novel isn’t a really spicy read?” he asked, a little wrinkle forming between his dark eyebrows.
“Hardly.” I was trying to tone down my amusement, but he really was clueless when it came down to what was popular right now. He’d been off in his mystery bubble, not realizing that while his authors were successful, mine were as well. He may have thought the revenue from his projects kept my department afloat, but in most fiscal quarters, it was the other way around. “It’s maybe midlevel spicy, but you clearly didn’t read the books you sent Evan.”
“Why would I read a romance novel?” he frowned. I knew I’d given the marketing department specific books to send up to him, but I hadn’t realized he’d not looked at any of them before forwarding them on to Evan.
“You might learn a thing or two.”
We were treading back into dangerous waters by continuing down this path, but I was enjoying putting him in his place too much and him being the uncomfortable one for once.
“I think I’m competent in the sex department. I don’t need to be taking notes from some desperate single woman’s erotic fantasies,” he snipped, reaching forward to place his open laptop on the coffee table. When he sat back, he shifted away from me, his hands tense on his thighs.
“Excuse me?” Was he really going to continue to believe this bullshit? To be honest, I was almost certain some of my popular authors had sex lives that rivaled their characters. While I was sure some of it was imagination, there were some writers who were extremely committed to research. I knew Chase was one of them. She’d studied the local kink scene for months before her last book, and while I knew she didn’t have a sexual relationship with her Dom resource, I knew she’d observed some scenes she’d written firsthand.
“Chase is a talented author, and she’s built a following, but I don’t want to read some self-insert fantasies.” He couldn’t even look at me, his shoulders tense as I reached forward and placed my tablet on the table, bringing my leg up onto the couch cushion between us so I could look directly at him.
“Wow. Tell me how you really feel about my work.”
“It’s not about you personally, it’s just…” he heaved a sigh, his posture tense but also a little defeated. I was sensing he realized he’d misspoken, but I wasn’t letting this go that easily.
“Nope. Stop talking. Whatever shady bullshit that is about to come flying out of your mouth can just stay in there.”
“I’m not trying to be offensive, but people write what they know, right? It’d make sense that the romance authors are writing out experiences or fantasies and using their characters to bring it to life.”
“Evan is a detective now?” I asked, willing him to look at me. He had to stop this hypercritical mindset. Both our genres could coexist without it being a constant competition. Because let’s face it, if it came down to a dick measuring contest, the romance genre would win every fucking time.
“Um, no, but—“
“Well, applying the same logic, that’d mean he’s using his novel to write out his fantasy to be a police detective.”
“It’s different for—“ he started, but I wasn’t doing this with him.
“Fuck that, it’s not different,” I argued, my voice rising as my anger started to boil. “Why don’t you pull the stick out of your ass and realize that a romance author can write fictional characters and not be projecting their own fantasies into it?”
“But…”
“Nope,” I interrupted again, watching as his jaw clenched. “Close your mouth. Isn’t it exhausting to be this much of a jackass? Do you even process the words before they come flying out of that big mouth of yours?”
“You seemed to like this big mouth before,” he spat back, finally turning to face me.
“Yeah,” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “When it’s full of something and you can’t talk.”
“You can gag me next time,” he shot back, his chest heaving as his intense eyes scanned my face.
“There won’t be a next time.” My hands shook as I scooted back slightly, needing to be further away from him. “What happened in Maine was…”
“Fucking hot.” His voice was harsh as he shifted forward, my eyes widening as he leaned in closer. “And you liked it. All of it. Denying it only makes it look like you’re trying to hide something. Even I’m able to tell when a woman isn’t faking it, Is. And you did not fake it all over my face.”
“And it was a major lapse in judgment. You can enjoy something and still realize it was a mistake.” Placing my hand on his chest, I pushed slightly, but he only shifted closer in response.
“So, if I leaned forward and kissed you right now, it wouldn’t turn you on?”
My heart was beating frantically as I shifted back again, the arm of the couch digging into my back. “That’s not going to happen, so it’s irrelevant.”
“But now you’re thinking about it,” he accused. “Wondering what my lips would feel like pressed against yours. We’ve never kissed before. Not once through the whole thing. Are you really telling me you haven’t thought about it? That you weren’t thinking about it when we were yelling at each other in that stairwell?”
“That doesn’t matter,” I denied weakly. How had he turned the tables on me yet again?
“Doesn’t it?” he questioned, his voice dropping an octave as he reached forward to lean over me, his palms braced on the back of the couch and the arm behind me, boxing me in so I couldn’t escape. “You know there’s chemistry here. Why are you so insistent on denying it? If sex isn’t shameful, why aren’t we acting on this mutual attraction?”
“Because you’re an asshole,” I hissed, pressing my hand against his stomach, intending to push him away, but pausing as I felt his muscles flex through his shirt.
“That’s all you’ve got? Me being an asshole didn’t seem to stop you from practically ripping my pants off before.” He leaned in closer, rising above me, but his eyes were focused entirely on my lips. He was right. We hadn’t kissed before, but now I was thinking about it.
“Well, you weren’t being an asshole then,” I retorted, my voice sounding weak even to my ears.
“I’m going to ask you something that’s been driving me nuts,” he murmured, his eyes capturing my gaze and holding it. “Why then? What changed and made you decide to attack me?”
“I hardly attacked you,” I whispered. “You’re the one who shoved my hand down the front of your boxers.”
“Quit deflecting.”
“I’m not…” I panted, my head swimming as his lips hovered inches from my face. “Fine. It was your speech. I sat there listening to you and realized that maybe there was this other side to you. That maybe you weren’t a total dickhead, and I was intrigued. And you know what you look like. And it’s been a long time for me—“
“Intrigued enough to rip off my pants?” he interrupted.
“They were pulled around your ankles. There wasn’t any ripping.”
“Semantics. So, you liked what I said?” His posture relaxed, but he didn’t back up, the warmth from his body being so close making my head swim.
“Yeah, made me wish you’d stop being such a gigantic asshat ninety percent of the time.” Although that number was steadily dropping when we were alone .
“To be fair, it’s probably only seventy percent.”
“Not from what I’ve witnessed,” I argued, my fingers twitching against him, wondering what his skin felt like beneath the cotton of his shirt. I’d never seen him shirtless this close. And now I was desperately trying to recall it.
“And you’ve spent all this extra time with me outside of work?” he asked, still hovering.
“I’m doing it now, aren’t I?”
“But we’re working. Not the same,” he argued.
“Are you telling me you aren’t Dickhead outside the office?“ I asked, my voice breathy on his nickname. Sometimes I hated myself. Why was he affecting me like this?
“Are you telling me you aren’t boss bitch Barbie outside the office?”
“What?” I froze, my mouth dropping open slightly as my hand faltered, catching on the edge of his belt. “That’s what you think of me?”
“Well, you’re probably hotter than Barbie, but yeah. That’s my impression of you at work. Cold, bossy, and a little bit plastic,” he taunted, narrowing his eyes.
“My impression of you is that I’d like to leave the impression of my handprint across your face every time I’m forced to interact with you,” I growled, pulling my hand back, but he captured it in his and pressed it against his belt buckle.
“Go ahead,” he taunted, turning his cheek slightly and raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not going to slap you.” My fingers struggled against his, my eyes widening when I felt his body responding to the movement a few inches lower.
“But you want to. So do it. I dare you. If you really think I’m as terrible as you’ve built me up to be in your head, then slap me. I. Dare. You,” he hissed, his nose brushing mine as he leaned in.
I pulled my other hand from in between our bodies, but Adrian knew I didn’t have the nerve to hit him. He sat back on his knees, capturing it in his other hand, twisting it, and pinning it behind my back while he loomed over me on the couch. “You know the saying there’s a thin line between love and hate?”
“Are you quoting song lyrics from the seventies to me right now?” I hissed as I struggled against his tight hold on both of my hands.
“I don’t think you hate me as much as you say you do. Your nipples wouldn’t be that hard if you hated me,” he growled, glancing down at where my sweater had gaped open.
“Quit looking down my shirt.”
“Quit inviting me over when you’re not wearing a bra if you don’t want me to look.”
“Are you really trying to blame what I’m wearing on your pervy behavior?” The pure audacity of this man was staggering.
“Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you right now,” he whispered, leaning in closer, his grip on the hand behind my back loosening.
“Is that what you think I want?”
“I think if you wanted to twist off my nuts for touching you, you’d squeeze a hell of a lot harder,” he teased, guiding my hand lower, the hard outline of his cock pulsing against my palm.
Adrian stared at my lips, his chest heaving as he waited for my reaction, for a signal that this wasn’t one-sided and that I felt this insane, reckless attraction as much as he seemed to. My fingers flexed against his zipper and his hold on my wrist behind my back relaxed as he let out a low groan, the sound utterly desperate.
Fuck.
Acting purely on instinct alone, I wiggled my wrist free and reached out before he could react, my fingers gripping the hair at the back of his head firmly and pulling him forward.
As his lips touched mine, all rational thought flew out the window and I opened for him, matching the frantic desperation of his tongue with my own. My lungs burned while our lips and tongues and teeth collided, the world dimmed by the pounding of my pulse.
Adrian’s palm slipped beneath the back of my hair, gripping the strands tightly while he tilted my head backward, his mouth slanting over mine in the same possessive manner he’d held my hips to the bed with not so long ago when we were in Maine.
It seemed the time for talking—although it more closely resembled arguing when Adrian was involved—was over.