She’s waving a white flag of surrender as far as I’m concerned, and everything fades away as it really hits me that Addison is getting turned on by the idea of being with two men. She’s not disgusted or offended, hasn’t hauled off and slapped me or told me to go fuck myself. No. In fact, as I dip my head to kiss one side of her neck and Austin does the same to the other side, her hands come up to slide into our hair and hold us in place.
The three of us are moving as one in a sea of writhing bodies, our pelvises fused together and circling with the beat of the music that’s become the soundtrack for our mutual pleasure. Colored lasers swing over the crowd and somewhere a fog machine emits streams of smoke along the floor that unfurl and wrap around us like haze from a dream. And that’s exactly what this feels like, a dream. A wet dream.
A sudden, overwhelming need to taste her has me turning her face toward mine, and a heartbeat later I slant my mouth over hers. Addie instantly opens up to me, and I lick inside, colliding with her tongue again and again. She tastes of chocolate liqueur and cherries, and I want to devour every goddamn inch of her. There’s a sharp sting at my scalp where her hand has clenched in my hair, and I briefly wonder if she’s doing the same thing to Austin.
My left hand slips under the side of her shirt, my fingertips skating over the soft skin as they move on a clear path up to her breast. Her back arches, pressing into my touch, as I suck on her lower lip and give it a sharp nip.
Just then, the DJ yells into the mic as he segues into faster house music. “Are you all having a good time tonight? Make some noiiiiiiise!”
Cheers erupt around us, startling Addison. She pulls away from the kiss and stares at me with wide, questioning eyes. Austin and I both know the moment is gone. He separates himself from us, drawing her attention to him. He smiles, kisses her on the back of her hand, and gives her an affectionate wink before disappearing into the throng of dancers.
I drag both hands down my face and try to compose myself. I nearly fucked my employee on a public dance floor. Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with me? When she glances back up, I see uncertainty clouding those aqua-blue eyes as she waits for me to say something, to make this right between us.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. How about I take you back to the table and get you another drink?”
Her lips thin into a straight line. “How about not.” And then she pivots and disappears, too.
Fuck. Luckily, I’m taller than most people, and I can easily follow her as she makes a zigzag path to get to the periphery of the club. Once I catch up to her, I grab her arm and spin her to me. “Addison, I’m— Goddamn it, I’m sorry, okay?”
She tilts her head and places her hands on her hips, which she cocks out to one side. “What are you sorry for, exactly, Roman?”
“For taking things too far back there. I should have kept my hands—” She raises an eyebrow, and I amend my statement. “My everything to myself.”
“Seriously? You think I’m upset because you got a little physical with me?”
That’s when it hits me. It’s not about what I was doing to her. After all, even if we shouldn’t be doing anything because of our professional relationship, it’s not like we haven’t already been as intimate as two people can be. No, this is about what I invited and encouraged Austin to do to her with me. I took advantage of the moment in all its heady glory and used the music, the dancing, and even the alcohol flowing in her veins to distract her from focusing on something she would normally be uncomfortable with.
I’m pissed as hell at myself for losing control, not to mention my goddamn mind, and I feel sick at the thought of coercing her—or any woman, for that matter—into doing something she doesn’t want to do. I might have an uncommon fetish, but I’ve only ever indulged it with very willing partners, which is not how I’d classify Addison.
She deserves an apology. A proper one. One that spells out all the ways I fucked up. But I can’t bring myself to give it to her. I don’t know if it’s because of my stubborn pride or if I just hate the idea of apologizing for the hottest minutes of my life, when I had the woman I’ve wanted more than any other between me and my best friend, lost to the pleasure of the moment that I was giving her. I can’t be sorry. Not for that, at least.
“Addison, I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I took advantage of you, but it won’t happen again, I swear it.” Her face falls, morphing from irritation to what appears to be disappointment, but I must be reading that wrong. She’s probably just tired. “Come on,” I say. “I haven’t been drinking. Let me take you home.”
She doesn’t argue with me but lets me lead her out of the club. The ride to her place is just as awkward and silent as the ride to the club, but for entirely different reasons. I’ve never been so off-balance with a woman before, and it’s driving me insane. I insist on walking her to her door, the whole time trying to figure out what the hell I can say to her to fix this so it’s not all fucked up come Monday morning.
This is exactly why I need to keep the line drawn between us. She’s a damn good employee; she’s smart and driven and has great instincts. I don’t want to lose her. Correction: I don’t want the firm to lose her. She’s a valuable asset, and Coop will kill me if I let my dick chase her away.
But I don’t have to worry because once we reach her apartment, Addison faces me before I can say anything. “Look, let’s forget about tonight. I’ll make a conscious effort to work less from home and get a life, and then you won’t feel obligated to drag me to clubs to prevent my inevitable burnout.”
Obligated? The last thing I’d felt when I raced over here to fetch her was fucking obligated. That may have been the excuse I’d used to convince myself I didn’t have ulterior motives for bringing Addie out tonight, but the truth was far more sordid and self-serving than some misplaced sense of responsibility. “Addie, you aren’t—”
She holds her hand up to silence me. “You don’t need to explain anything, and I certainly don’t want any more apologies. I’d rather just put it behind us and go back to the professional relationship we have in the office. I promise not to act awkward on Monday if you don’t. Deal?”
Jesus, I’m like a cat with nine lives when it comes to this woman. No matter how many times shit should go south between us, she somehow makes it all okay. She’s offering me a get-out-of-jail-free card, a chance to go back to the way things were before I crossed a dozen do-not-cross-these lines with her. I should be heel-clicking happy right now, but all I feel is a sick uneasiness in my stomach, and I don’t know why.
I nod once. “Deal.”
She gives me a smile that doesn’t get anywhere near those sea-green eyes, tells me she’ll see me bright and early Monday morning, then lets herself into her apartment. I wait until I hear her locks engage before heading back down the hall, and decide that as soon as I get home, I’m trading the glasses of water I’ve been drinking all night for a bottle of Glenfiddich.
Chapter Thirteen
Addison
You know those times when situations are awkward because you both agreed that it wouldn’t, in fact, be awkward? Yeah. That.
After the disastrous end to my club excursion with Roman—wherein the man I want more than my next breath ravished me, insulted me, and then disappointed me when he had no idea why I was insulted in the first place—I spent the rest of my weekend pulling on my big girl panties and getting over it all so that I could come into work today, and Friday night would be as if it never happened. I suspect Roman did something similar, but being a guy, he probably only needed a good ten to fifteen minutes before he was over it.
Unfortunately, anything we did over the weekend to put that night out of our minds has done diddlysquat for us as Monday rolls around. All day, the tension between us has been so palpable I’m convinced the conference room where we’ve been working together has a different barometric pressure than the rest of the office. Maggie gave us a raised brow when she brought in our lunch, John gave Roman a knowing smi
rk of some kind when he thought I wasn’t looking, and shortly after that, Roman snapped at Martin for asking a clarification question.
And that’s only how he acted with our colleagues. With me, it was a whole other bucket of worms. He hasn’t made more than ten seconds’ worth of eye contact, total, and when our fingers brushed as we transferred a document, he muttered an apology as he yanked his hand back like I’d burned him.
But probably what bothers me the most is what he’s been calling me. If I had to break it into percentages, I’d say that 90 percent of the time, he calls me Addison, which makes sense since it’s what I go by in my professional circles and 90 percent of our time together is in that capacity. My friends and family, however, all call me Addie. I can probably count on both hands—so no more than 2 percent—how many times Roman has used my nickname, and I’ve caught on to the fact that he only uses it when he’s feeling very familiar or friendly with me. Otherwise he prefers to use my full name as it gives him that bossy, alpha dynamic he’s so fond of. And the other 8 percent is for when he really wants to kick the boss dynamic up a notch. Those are the times he calls me Ms. Paige.
I won’t lie. It’s fucking hot and turns me on something fierce. I don’t know if he realizes he does it, but his voice drops an octave when he says it, he drills into me with those icy-hot light blue eyes, and it makes me want to die on the spot. I have fantasies where he ties me up and punishes me for not filing something correctly with the courts and— Well, you get the picture. The point is I like it when he calls me Ms. Paige. Even when he’s saying it to tease me on the rare occasions he opens up and lets me tease him back.
But not today.
Today there is no Addison, much less Addie, and the Ms. Paiges aren’t uttered with any kind of heat or teasing behind them. They’re clipped and cold.
Ms. Paige, please hand me that file.
And what do you make of his testimony, Ms. Paige?
If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, Ms. Paige, I have to take this phone call.
That’s why, when we’re finally packing things up at seven thirty and he apologizes for brushing shoulders with me, I snap like my great-grandmother deprived of her afternoon Jell-O. “Would you knock that shit off already?”
Rearing back like I slapped him, he stares at me—finally, some steady eye contact!—and says, “Beg your pardon?”
“No, don’t. Don’t beg my pardon. Stop apologizing and averting your gaze and acting all weird around me.” I stand up from the conference table, the agitated energy buzzing inside me too hard for me to sit still any longer. “There’s acting professional, and then there’s acting like I’m a stranger with leprosy. I have to say, Roman, I’m not fond of the latter, which is exactly how you’ve been treating me all damn day.”
Blowing out a breath of exasperation, he runs a hand over his face. The rasp from his five o’clock stubble draws my attention to how stunningly beautiful he is right now, even as he appears exhausted. Whether it’s the long Monday or this tension that’s drained him, I’m not sure, but it’s wholly unfair that he can look this sexy after twelve hours in the office.
“I’m sorry, Addison,” he says, his eyes on some fixed point on the table. “I’m just not sure how to handle things. I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”
“You mean you’ve never had to face a woman you’ve messed around with, or you’ve never messed around with a colleague?”
Swearing under his breath, Roman pushes to his feet and paces away from me until he reaches the wall. Apparently satisfied with the distance he’s put between us, he spins to face me again. “I had no business coming on to you like that the other night. You’re my employee, for fuck’s sake.”
“Jesus Christ, give it a rest,” I say, tossing my pen onto the table. “I get that you’re my boss and that from the minute I step into our office until the minute I leave, that professional relationship has to stay intact. But we’re both mature, consenting adults, Roman, and it’s not like we have to worry about breaking fraternization clauses at work because you own the fucking firm. If you have no interest in a repeat performance with me, then just say so. I’m a big girl; I promise I won’t wilt from the rejection. But stop hiding behind the boss-employee excuse. It’s weak, and frankly, it’s beneath you.”
“Beneath me,” he repeats. His frustration is palpable, and I can see the small muscles in his jaw jump as he takes his time formulating his next argument. I know that’s what he’s doing. Roman is a lawyer through and through. He’ll argue every angle he can think of before ever backing down. “Fine. For argument’s sake, let’s forget for a minute that you work for me. That still doesn’t absolve me of my actions on Friday.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say, with just enough smartass injected into my tone to make my point clear. “If I remember correctly, the issue is that you took advantage of me. Is that it?”
“Exactly.” His tight expression and the hands clenching at his sides tell me I’m scraping a raw nerve, but I don’t give a shit. He’s been scraping mine all damn day.
I jab my fists on my hips. “What the hell makes you think that you took advantage of me? Did you ever stop to think that maybe I was the one doing the manipulating?” His brows draw together over the bridge of his nose, so I take that as a ‘no’ and continue. “For as professional as we’ve been, I’d have to be dead not to notice the sexual tension thrumming between us at any given hour, Roman. You think I didn’t know I was poking the beast when I fed Austin that cherry, or when I danced with him and Liam?”
Storm clouds gather in his eyes, and he finally loosens his slate-gray necktie and unfastens the top button of his crisp, white shirt, exposing the tan skin at the hollow of his throat. He starts to take slow, deliberate steps back to me. “Are you saying that you purposely tried to make me jealous?”
When he’s only a foot away from me, he stops. Twelve inches isn’t enough space to set me at ease, so I cross my arms under my chest, hoping to keep my tough girl appearance while also protecting my metaphorical vulnerable underbelly. “Are you saying you didn’t purposely use Misty to try to make me jealous?”
“Oh, I was using Misty all right, but it wasn’t to make you jealous. It was to distract me. To keep me from dragging you into a darkened corner of the club and fucking you until neither of us could stand. But it worked for shit because Misty isn’t even a second-rate version of you, and apparently my dick knows the difference.”
His response throws me; the conversation has taken a hard left onto a hidden dirt road not marked on the map I was happily following. According to him, he hadn’t been playing head games. He’d been trying to control his desire for me. To swap out the woman he wanted—me—with a woman who, by his own admission, didn’t even come close to comparing.
I have no earthly idea how to respond to this, so I do what I do best in these situations. I pick out something that’s so totally not the point, and I focus on that. “A darkened corner, huh? Sure you didn’t want to just do it on the stage next to the DJ so everyone had a good vantage point?”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t have cared if the entire club watched us. Any discretion I secured would have been for your sake alone.” He takes a single step backward and slides his hands into his pockets slowly, like he’s holstering dangerous weapons. Remembering what it was like to be ravaged by them, I can’t help feel it’s an accurate analogy. “And that, above all else, is the reason there’s no point in pursuing whatever this is between us.”
Now he really has lost me. I tilt my head to the side and ask, “What reason would that be? Because as far as I’m concerned, all you need are the three Cs: chemistry, consent, and plenty of condoms. We have the first two in spades, and if we run out of the third, we can grab another box at the corner drug store.”
“Funny.”
“Fact.”
“Maybe for normal people.”
I arch a dubious brow. “And you,” I say, “you’re not normal?”
He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the front of his strong neck, then shakes his head once, as though reluctant to commit to the admission.
And that’s when I realize it.
Roman Reeves is unsure of himself. Or maybe not himself—I have a hard time believing Roman is anything but secure in who he is—but he seems to be unsure how I will view him.
Well, damn. Just when I’d gotten comfortable on the bumpy dirt road, he’s gone and yanked me into a weed-tangled field with no path whatsoever. I don’t know how to navigate this, or if it’s even possible, so I toss out the map, take a step toward my reluctant driver, and decide to go wherever he leads me.
“I’ve never been a big fan of normal.” I step fully into him and run my hands up the front of his shirt. “Show me what it means to be not normal, Roman.”
He catches my wrists, but doesn’t pull me away from him. “It’s more than you’re bargaining for, Addie, believe me.”
“You know, you have a terrible habit of making decisions for me, and it’s really starting to piss me off. Why don’t you stop being so damn vague, man up, and tell me what it is you think I’ll have such a strong aversion to, so I can prove you wrong.”
He spins us in a quarter turn to place the table behind me, then releases my wrists to cage me in with his hands on either side of my hips. Leaning into me, he speaks directly in my ear, his voice deep and deliberate. “I like control, Addison. I like controlling my lover’s pleasure. Her every desire is fulfilled by me or at my command.”
Shivers race over me as I imagine Roman fulfilling my every desire. “Your command. You want to watch me touch myself?”
“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze, his lips now a breath away from mine. “I want to watch another man touch you.”