Breathless Read online

  Without a hint of modesty, he re-tucks his shirt back into his pants as though he’s accustomed to women clawing at his clothing. “I’m not. The gala starts at seven. Max, Devin, and I, we’re not doing anything too formal. No limos or anything like that. We’ll pick you up at—”

  “No.”

  Blue eyes land on my face. “No?”

  I press a hand to my thundering heart. “No, I . . . ”

  No, what? How do I say that after a kiss like that I can’t go anywhere with him. That was . . . okay, I’m not the most spiritual of creatures, but that kiss—our kiss—was earth shattering. Terrifying. I don’t chase men, not because I think I’m too good for it but because I can’t. I just can’t do it, not after everything that I’ve been through.

  I can’t do relationships. I can barely handle one-night stands.

  Is it wrong that I like to window shop? To ogle a nice ass or a fine pair of abs? Anything more than that and I clam right up. That I let my kiss with Jake get as far as it did is a telltale sign that he could strip every one of my defenses down.

  And that’s just not going to happen.

  So this date with him? No way. He’ll put his hands on me and promise me a good time with his magical penis and I’ll have my clothes off in seconds and then where will I be?

  Realizing that I’m seconds away from a meltdown, I say, “No original terms. I’m not going to the gala. Find someone else to do your bidding.”

  His mouth falls open, just before he rubs his jaw. “What happened, Claire?”

  I may need the money, but I need my sanity even more. Being around Jake Matthews tests every bit of my willpower. “Nothing happened.” I turn away, heading to the fridge so I can maybe find some ice to pour over my head. “You’re right. Going with Carl isn’t a solid plan. But neither is going with you. So, like I said, it’s probably best for you to find someone else.”

  I settle on a water bottle.

  I feel his heat just before I feel his hands on my hips, and the urge to lean back against his chest is overpowering.

  “Come with me to the gala,” he murmurs, his breath rustling my ponytail. “You’ll have a good time.”

  Probably. But do I want to risk the chance of him exposing all of my secrets? Definitely not. “I’m sorry.”

  His fingers tighten before he lets go and steps back. “I think you’ll change your mind.”

  I shake my head. “I’m sure that I won’t.”

  Blue eyes darkening, he rasps, “We’ll see about that.”

  Before he gives me another chance to respond, he turns on his heel. I hear him call out to his partners that they’re leaving. The front door slams shut. And then I sag against the counter.

  My fingers press to my lips.

  What the hell have I done?

  6

  Jake

  “Dude, what the hell is that?”

  Cringing, I lift my gaze from the edible arrangement sitting on my desk to Devin, who’s standing in the doorway of my office.

  “It’s an edible arrangement,” I mutter, capping my pen as I stuff the folded card between two chocolate covered strawberries.

  Devin waltzes in and plucks the card from the bouquet of fruit. “Got a hot date?” he asks, stepping to the side to avoid the swipe of my hand. He flips the card open. “Dear Claire—” His gaze lands on my face, wide-eyed. “Dude.”

  Screw it. I make another grab for the card, but once again he jumps out of the way. “Give that to me.”

  “You’re sending the chicken girl fruit?”

  “It’s not—” I rake my fingers through my hair, pulling at the ends. “It’s not like that.”

  Devin waves the card in the air triumphantly. “You’re wooing her.”

  “No one says that anymore. And, even if they did, I’m not wooing anyone.”

  Flipping the card open with his thumb, Devin proceeds to read what I’ve written in a jovial tone that has my knuckles itching to meet his face. “Dear Claire, when you eat these fruit flowers, just know that they don’t taste nearly as sweet as your kiss. Yours, J. Matthews.”

  Silence seeps into the room.

  I hang my head and take a deep breath. “Can we just pretend you didn’t read that?”

  “Matthews.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Jake.”

  I close my eyes. “Devin, unless you want me to hire only gay men to work as our receptionists from now on, you’ll shut up.”

  Apparently, my threat means nothing because Devin laughs, long and loud, and then says, “This is the cheesiest shit I’ve ever read. You get laid with these sort of moves?”

  Not really.

  But that’s because I’ve never “wooed” anyone before. I don’t woo. I fuck slow or I fuck hard, but “wooing” has never had a place in any of my previous relationships. I’m out of my element here, dangling on the precipice.

  And, full disclosure, I don’t even know why I’m bothering. Claire made it clear that she’s not interested, and yet here I am with a goddamn fruit arrangement sitting on my desk, wondering if I want to deliver them to her myself or have our receptionist take care of it.

  Doing the latter would mean that I don’t get the chance to see her, and that seems . . . unacceptable.

  “I need help.”

  Devin nods agreeably, traitorous bastard that he is. “Hell yeah you do.” He points at my messy handwriting. “No offense, but this is painful.”

  “You don’t need to keep mentioning that.”

  “I’m surprised your dick gets put to use at all.”

  “I think we’re good here,” I mutter.

  Shoving some of my paperwork out of the way, Devin plants his ass down on my desk uninvited. “You need to make her feel wanted.”

  “Trust me,” I grind out, thinking of the way I had her luscious body pinned to mine on the kitchen counter two days ago, “she knows full well how much I want her.”

  “This reads like a high school poem,” Devin continues. “Think less about the lips on her face and more about the ones between her thighs.”

  “That is . . . ” I scrub a hand over my mouth because, hell, I have no words to that. None. Not a single one.

  “Brilliant? Seductive?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I was thinking something along the lines of ridiculous.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it, man. Women like it when they feel desired. You have to let them know you’re thinking about them in more ways than one.”

  Taking dating advice from Devin is pretty much the equivalent of learning to walk from a tortoise. Can it be done? Sure. But do you really want to spend the next hundred years walking ten feet across the room? No, no you don’t. Which is the reason why I finally snatch the card from his grasp, and tuck it back into the arrangement.

  I’m going for the romantic approach. The gentlemanly one. The approach that will hopefully land me in her bed, but doesn’t up the chances of her kneeing me in the balls so that I sing soprano for the rest of my days.

  “Thanks for the advice, Dev, but I’m going to do this one my way.”

  Grabbing my office phone from its receiver, I hit the number one and wait for Kate, our receptionist, to pick up. She does so on the second ring, chirping “Hi there Mr. Matthews!” so loudly that I physically pull the phone away from my ear.

  How or why Devin decided to have sex with Kate Gritton is beyond me. Pretty or not, she has the exact tenor of a banshee.

  “Kate,” I say, voice low as a reminder that she doesn’t need to scream in my ear, “I’ve got an errand for you to make. You got time in your workload?”

  Something clatters over the line, and I hear the distinct words, “Damn, shoot, darn,” before Kate exclaims, “Sure! Of course, Mr. Matthews! Anything for you!”

  Devin overhears the last bit and his mouth flattens with displeasure. I lift my brow, daring him to say something. “That’s great, Kate. Thank you. Devin is going to bring an edible arrangement out to you. Please
ensure that it’s sent out right away. Address will be attached.”

  I hang up just as she launches into another of her “anything for you” runs. She does the same for Max—in fact, the only person she doesn’t fall all over her feet for is the guy currently giving me lessons on how to win over Claire Holloway.

  The irony is almost painful.

  I push the fruit in his direction. “You mind?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Do you ever get tired of delegating?”

  Always, but that topic isn’t up for discussion. “You ever get tired of the receptionist pretending you don’t exist? Your session with her must not have been a standout.”

  With a hard glance, Devin plucks the arrangement off the table and tromps over to the door. Just before he lets it slam closed behind him, he gifts me with a flash of his middle finger. My laughter dies in my throat the minute I’m alone again.

  I’m not one for flowers and gifts and magical unicorns . . . but Claire makes me want to try a little harder, to dig under her skin. I want her in my bed, day and night, and I plan to start that on the night of the gala.

  The edible arrangement is just the first step to something more.

  7

  Claire

  I’m in the middle of rehearsing my lines for an upcoming audition when the doorbell rings. My roommates, as always, are out for the afternoon, so I leave my script on the back of the sofa and head for the front door.

  I barely get the door open before a massive object is shoved into my arms. A massive object made up of . . . fruit?

  I catch a whiff of pineapple just as the delivery guy heads back down the steps.

  “Hey!” I call out, trying to shift the arrangement onto my hip. “Who are these from?”

  “Read the card, lady!”

  He doesn’t turn back around.

  Great.

  I edge the door shut with a nudge of my elbow.

  Who in the world would send me an edible arrangement? Because that’s absolutely what this is—there’s no mistaking the bloom of various fruits. Slivers of pineapples, cherries on pikes, chocolate-covered strawberries are all tucked into the array like flower buds.

  I plunk it down on the coffee table as I curl up on the couch. I’ve never been on the receiving end of flowers before (or fruit, for that matter), and I’d be lying if I said there’s not pleasure bursting in me right now.

  My gaze catches on a white card peeking out. “Who sent you?” I murmur, tucking one leg under my butt as I lean forward to slip the card from its black plastic holder. “Moment of truth time.”

  I press it flat against my thigh, mouth moving as I silently read the words scrawled in messy handwriting.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Heart pumping erratically, I skim the words again:

  When you bite into a cherry, just know that I’m imagining the same. Your legs over my shoulders. My mouth tasting your sweet heat. Your fingers tugging at my hair. I want you, Claire. But you already know that, don’t you?

  The card is unsigned, not that it needs a signature for me to recognize the man responsible for turning me on with nothing but his words.

  Jake.

  I’m only half-ashamed to admit that his words alone have me squirming on my couch. Now that he’s painted the scene for me, I can’t force it into a black void. I let myself visualize everything—me sitting on the kitchen counter again, panties dangling from one foot as he spreads my legs wide with his big hands. His eyes, always alert and focused, narrowed on the very center of me. His fingers, nomads that they are, wandering up the inside of my thighs before landing on my clit and making me beg.

  “Oh, my God.” I whisper the words to no one, fighting the need to dip my fingers into my pants and finish exactly what Jake started two days ago.

  Instead, I grab my phone from the couch’s armrest and find his number in my contacts list. With trembling fingers, I tap the little telephone button and wait for him to answer. I know he will. After what he just sent me, I’d be surprised if Jake isn’t already waiting outside my front door, just biding time until I tell him to get inside.

  Enter the house, I mean, not enter me—obviously.

  “Hello, Claire.”

  The deep rumble of his voice is like a one-fingered caress down my spine. I exhale on a shaky breath. “Damn you, Jake.”

  He chuckles warmly, just as I knew he would. “I see you received my gift. Did you try any of the fruit yet?”

  I spot the cherries, and my knees clamp together. “You’re a dirty man, Matthews.”

  There’s a small pause, followed by the sound of a door clicking shut. More rustling. And then, “That was never in question, Claire.”

  Is this what he does for all of his women? Send them edible arrangements like the ones you see on TV, and then proceed to drive them crazy with lust? If so, he’s an even bigger jerk than I thought.

  I had resigned myself to the fact that sex between us is a bad idea. It still is, I think. My fingers trace over my belly before I yank them away and focus on the now. On Jake, the one man who has the ability to make me wet with nothing but the lingering fantasy of him worshipping my body.

  “Claire?”

  I jolt at the sound of his questioning tone. Focus, focus.

  “You can’t just send a girl a note like that.”

  “A note like what?”

  He’s going to make me work for it. I should hate him for it, but I don’t—instead I wonder if it’s all part of his game to wear me down and make me beg. “You know,” I mutter nervously. “You can’t just go around saying things like that to a woman.”

  There’s another pause. “Am I better off pretending that I don’t want you?”

  No. Yes. Hell, I don’t know. It takes every bit of courage to spit out my next words. “You wrote that you wanted to go down on me. Isn’t that a little—”

  “I did what?” His raspy voice barely changes in pitch, but I can hear the surprise even over the receiver.

  I swallow. “You heard me.”

  “Read the card out loud.”

  At his demanding tone, I bristle. “Absolutely not.”

  “Read it, Claire.”

  And totally embarrass myself in the process? No, thank you. “I’m good.”

  “Claire.”

  “Fine! Fine.” I scrub my sweaty palm against my pants leg. I can do this, right? It’ll be like when I’m playing a role. Like I’m someone else reading off this card and the man who makes me wet with a single glance isn’t the one listening on the other end of the receiver.

  I can do this.

  Inhaling sharply, I start, “When you bite into a cherry, just know that I’m imagining the same. Your legs over my shoulders. My mouth—” I break off as the nerves take over. It’s ten times worse reading it out loud. Ten times more seductive, even though I wish that weren’t the case. Ten times riskier.

  “Don’t stop now,” Jake says in a rumbling timbre. “Finish reading it for me.”

  “But you know what it says.”

  “Humor me.”

  I let out a small moan of distress. “Tasting—”

  He cuts me off again. “From the beginning of the sentence.”

  Jake Matthews is going to be the death of me. I slump back against the couch, my feet coming to rest on the coffee table. Here we go. “My mouth tasting your sweet heat. Your fingers tugging at my hair. I want you, Claire. But you already know that, don’t you?’”

  I can hear his heavy breathing over the line, the hitch in his breath that he can’t quiet. Good, that’s good. Because I feel the same way. Needy. Empty. In so many different ways. I want him between my legs about as much as I want to use him as a buffer against the world.

  I’m breathless waiting for him to say something, to say anything at all.

  “Is that what you want?” he asks softly. “For me to get down on my knees in front of you?”

  As much as I want to say no, that’s not the word that slips of
f my tongue. “Yes.”

  His husky groan is music to my ears.

  I picture him clenching the phone, his blue eyes bright with desire, his hand balanced on his thigh, as though debating the need to lay his palm flat against his hard-on.

  His next words puncture the haze of desire. “The gala this Thursday. You go with me and the rest of the night belongs to you and me.”

  I sit up, my feet falling to the floor. “Why do you want me to go to this thing so badly?”

  He doesn’t answer the way I expect him to. “I don’t know, Claire. All I know is that I do, and I’m prepared to keep wooing you until you agree to go.”

  I can’t help it—I laugh. “Wooing, Jake? Who says that?”

  He grumbles something beneath his breath, but doesn’t offer it up for me to hear. “Will you go?” he says, referring to the gala.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not if you want me to spend the rest of the night between your legs.”

  “You’re a dirty man, Matthews,” I repeat, only this time I’m warm with the thought of him there, between my legs, making me rake his back with my nails.

  “Is that a yes?”

  I close my eyes, wondering if I’ve just made a deal with the devil. “It’s a yes.”

  “Good.” There’s more rustling, and this time I’m halfway convinced that he’s just undid his zipper. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. “Claire?”

  My heart gives an extra thump. “Yes?”

  “Have a cherry for me.”

  Without giving me the chance to reply, he disconnects the call.

  I stare down at the card again, soaking in the words. Soaking in the possibility of them becoming a reality. I just have to remember to keep it only about sex, that’s all. No late night chats. No early morning cuddling where secrets are revealed and pasts merge with the present.

  Just sex.

  I nab a cherry from the arrangement and sink my teeth into it. Juice bubbles and drips to the otherwise pristine white card.

  Pretty appropriate if you ask me. I have a feeling things are about to get messy.