“I’ll need ten, actually. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” She grins, sailing past me into the living room, appearing not the least bit concerned she might be interrupting anything. “And yes, I’d love a drink. Thanks.” She leans closer to take a delicate sniff of my glass. “Scotch would be fine.”
I try not to look at her as I pour her scotch. Her mad, unruly hair is out and dancing around those bare shoulders. Fuck. Those collarbones. Don’t look. Don’t look. Her dress is the colour of crushed raspberries and brings out the flush in her cheeks and the bright blue of her eyes. I won’t look at how it clings to every curve. Or stops halfway down those smooth thighs. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Ever since that day in the executive washroom, I have been struggling with my unwelcome and inappropriate physical response to The Interloper. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s been building since she rubbed her magnificent arse against me in the lift. I’m self-aware enough to realise this is what has, to a large extent, fuelled my animosity towards her. Having her here, alone, in my space, feels dangerous. And arousing. Did I mention dangerous?
My cock is already throbbing in my jeans, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks for the t-shirt covering that sin.
“Right.” I hand her a scotch as she drops her small purse on the couch. “Give me the folder, give me the spiel and give me some peace by getting gone.” I hold my hand out for the folder, which she ignores.
“Oh, it’s no trouble bringing this over on a Friday night. I’m going to a party, and this is practically on my way. Don’t give it another thought. Nice place you have here. Very minimalist. Very … you.” She glances around, taking in the sleek, monochrome décor.
By now, I know how she gets the upper hand in all our encounters. She ignores anything I say and has the conversation she wants to have, albeit one sided. It’s incredibly disconcerting and often has the effect of making me feel embarrassed by my own rudeness, which is an unknown phenomenon for me because I generally don’t do embarrassed. Which, of course, pisses me off even more. My feelings are becoming a vicious game of chase your tail.
“Why don’t we sit here at this table, and I’ll talk you through it?” Lulu pulls out a chair and settles at my dining table, lining the folder up with the chair next to her and patting the seat with a shameless grin.
“Ten minutes,” I grit out as I try to subtly shift the chair a little further away from her.
“Right. Well, you might be wondering why I didn’t do this as a PowerPoint presentation. That’s because it’s simply not possible to get the colours true enough and the texture of the fabrics clear. So, I like to have a touchy-feely document.” She glides her hand over the front page, touching and feeling. Shifting her chair closer, she opens the folder.
For the next ten minutes, she talks, articulating her vision for the office, turning pages in the document, which are tagged with colour patches, fabric swatches, carpet squares and even timber samples. I hardly hear a word she says, mesmerised as I am by her long fingers stroking over velvets, linens and leather, and by her infuriating, intoxicating perfume wafting towards me as she waves her arms, explaining whatever the hell she’s telling me. It’s not that I don’t want to listen. But my hormones seem to hijack my thoughts whenever she’s within sniffing distance.
“Well?” she finally says, looking at me expectantly. This is where I need to tell her it all looks great so I can get her out of my apartment. If she’s not gone in the next couple of minutes, there’s no telling what I might do. A tendril of sunshine hair drifts across my face as she turns to face me, and I concentrate hard on Miss Best and her hairy face wart so I can get up out of my chair without embarrassment.
“Yep. All looks good. Leave it with me. I’ll have my comments to Harry by Monday.” I head towards the door to let her out.
“Are you serious? That’s it?” She jumps out of her chair, hands on hips, brows drawn together and those luscious lips pursed. “This presentation is a work of art—if I do say so myself—and all you can say is ‘I’ll get back to you’?”
I turn and glare at her, hands on my hips, mirroring her stance.
“Yes, that’s it. You did the job we paid you to do. Bravo. As I said, I will review it, make notes and have my comments to Harry on Monday. Thank youso muchfor taking the time to bring it over and walk me through it in mypersonaltime.” My voice drips with sarcasm. But at least it’s not dripping lust, which most of the rest of me is doing.
“Argh.” She stamps her foot. Yes, actually stamps her foot. Like a toddler having a tantrum. Which only draws my attention to her feet, below a set of spectacular calves and ankles. “You know what? You’re an arsehole. Unbelievable. Impossible. I’ve never met anyone as rude and difficult as you. I’m trying to do a job here, and all you do is block me at every turn. Is it me you don’t like or are you always like this?”
She’s right. I don’t like her. But I want her in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. That’s not true. I want her in a way I haven’t ever felt. Which scares me. And makes me like her even less. Suddenly she’s so close we’re almost touching, hands on hips, eyes glittering, cheeks flushed.
“I honestly don’t get it. I worked my butt off to give you a design I know resonates with the history of the firm. What more do you want from me?”
And that’s when I lose control. The hands that were only moments ago planted firmly on my hips are tangling in her wild hair, pulling her face towards me. It takes everything I have to pull back, to meet her gaze, to control my hands and my mouth. I can’t breathe, much less think. Then Lulu grabs my shirt, and I’m lost. It’s not gentle. My lips crush against hers, tongue demanding entry. Her lips open, and she uses my shirt to yank me closer, slamming the length of her body against mine. It’s incendiary. All teeth and tongues and grasping hands.
Tearing my mouth away from hers, I feel like I’ve left a layer of flesh behind, exposing me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“That’s what I want. Happy now?”
“Not yet,” Lulu gasps, chest heaving, and I can hear the lust in her voice, leaving me in no doubt about what she wants. The blue of her irises has been swallowed up by her pupils, and she makes no move to pull away.
“You drive me fucking insane. If I don’t fuck you, I’m going to lose my mind.” And my lips are on hers again, one hand still tangled in her hair as the other slides down her back to her perfect ass, pressing her tight against me again so she can feel how hard I am. I should stop. I know I should stop. But not even Miss Best and her wart could turn this around now.
She’s an assault on the senses. The wildflower scent that once seemed so innocent has morphed into something hot and provocative and fuels my madness. I taste whisky and blood as our mouths tear at each other. I’m desperate to see her, touch her, taste her. All of her.
Chapter Eight
Lulu
Itastebloodandwhisky and man, and I’ve never been so unhinged in my life. Nick’s wicked lips leave mine, but his grip on me doesn’t loosen. His mouth moves down my neck and across my collarbone. He kisses with his teeth as much as his lips and tongue. Like he’s devouring me. And it’s spectacular. Who’d have thought a man like Nick has so much passion locked up inside him?
Somehow, I find myself pressed up against the back of the sofa. Nick’s knee is between my thighs. I can’t help but arch my back, pressing harder against his erection, grinding. His fingers slide under the top of my dress, skimming my shoulders before pushing my dress down. I’m not wearing a bra, and my breasts spill out. They’re not big, but not small either, and my nipples are as hard as his cock. He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth is on my breast. He sucks hard at the soft flesh before covering my nipple, biting gently, then sucking, flicking the tip with his tongue. I’m so turned on my whole body is shaking. My skin is hot and tight and I feel my arousal soaking through my knickers.
With a yank, I pull his t-shirt over his head and drop it, sucking and biting the smooth, warm flesh of his shoulder, my nails digging into the hard muscles of his back. He topples me onto the sofa’s cushions, his knees landing on either side of my hips as he follows.
