CHAPTER TWO
Shane
I swallow hard, fighting to get my head back in the game, but my thoughts have gone foggy in the face of the epic man pretty.
It’s more than the shaggy, brownish-black hair, the chiseled features, the impossibly broad shoulders, or the forearms worthy of a two-page spread in Forearm Porn Monthly. Falcone has the kind of intense personal energy that reaches across time and space, wraps around me like a giant sexy fist, and robs me of my ability to breathe. Pictures and the game footage I’ve watched online haven’t done him justice. Not even close.
One look at the man and I want to climb him like a tree, wrap my legs around his waist, and do my best impression of a baby orangutan.
Infant orangutans cling to their mother’s fur for the first five months of life, but the longer I stare at the man, the more I think five months might not be enough. All the repressed sexual frustration from my year of celibacy is hitting with the force of a tsunami, leaving me dizzy, off balance, and in danger of oozing off the bench into a puddle of lust juice on the ground.
The need to lick every inch of my client like a giant hunksicle is actually making my knees tremble, which is so not me.
I haven’t been on a date in over a year, but that’s not because there haven’t been offers. I have my share of undesirable qualities, but I’m friendly, good-natured, fun, and far from painful to look at. I’ve been told I have the face of angel and, for men who appreciate curves, a body to match.
A number of those same men quickly change their tune once they learn I’ve also got zero tolerance for bullshit and no filter between my brain and my mouth, but scoring a date or finding a guy to keep my sheets warm has never been a problem. Like most women with any interest in peen, if I wanted to be getting laid on the regular, I would be.
But since moving to the city, I haven’t been interested in anything more serious than a few flirty exchanges with the guy who delivers my groceries. The last time I was with someone, it was with Wesley. When he left, he took my sex drive with him.
I guess deep down I knew I would eventually feel attracted to another man, but I never expected it to be this man. And I never expected the lust wave to hit this hard, leaving me slack-jawed and trying not to drool as the object of my fascination props his hands low on his hips and asks—
“Is there any point in sticking around? Or have you already made up your mind that I’m not worth your time?”
I shake my head, but for once in my life words don’t come.
Crap and double crap! I have to pull myself together. Right now! Before I make an even worse first impression.
Thankfully, Addie buys me some time as she springs to her feet and holds out a hand in Falcone’s direction. “Hi! I’m Adeline, Shane’s friend. It’s so great to meet you! I’m such a fan of your game. I’ve been watching since you came out of the AHL when Leone was injured.”
Falcone takes her hand—making me intensely envious of my friend’s fingers—and mumbles something humble-sounding that throws me almost as much as my reaction to him.
I expected more of an ego. A hell of a lot more.
My research might have overlooked the details on Dancing Larry, but I dug deep enough to know that Falcone is a superstar. Recruited into the NHL after only a couple of months in the minors, he’s been one of the faces of the league since his first turn on the ice at Madison Square Garden. He’s as big a celebrity as a hockey player can be and has the friends, and enemies, to go along with that.
The friends, especially his coaches, I suspect of ignoring the media pressure to have Falcone tested for steroid use—a substance that would explain why a famously cool customer is suddenly choking girlfriends in his spare time. The enemies I suspect of manipulating the press from behind the scenes, pushing to ruin Jake’s reputation and maybe even his career.
Until now, my gut said Falcone needed help making his ex-girlfriend problem go away because he has something to hide. Now, I’m not so sure. Looking at him, I don’t get a bad-guy vibe, though it would be hard to latch on to any vibe aside from the “pounce that man and get naked” one pulsing through my bloodstream.
But like anyone who has lived through trauma, I have experience pretending to be fine when I’m anything but. By the time Falcone and Addie are finished talking hockey, I’ve tossed my coffee cup into the bin beside the potted mums, talked my trembling knees back into line, and come to stand next to Addie, facing down my dragon.
“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” I say, in my most conciliatory tone. “I hope you’ll stay and talk things through. I’d love to hear your side of the story in person, and I’ll be happy to help you if I think I can. I just need to make my own decision about whether it’s a good idea for us to work together. Bash is a friend, but I don’t know him well enough to trust him implicitly.”
“I don’t trust anyone implicitly.” Jake reaches into his back pocket, pulling out several sheets of folded paper. “Including you. I’m going to need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement before we get started.”
I frown, but reach for the contract anyway, my arm apparently willing to do Falcone’s bidding with no questions asked. “But I already have a non-disclosure form on file at the office. I signed it when I filled out the rest of the new hire paperwork. It should have been in your packet.”
“It was. But that agreement was drawn up by your lawyers,” he says, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes my skin start to prickle all over. “This one was drawn up by mine. My privacy is important to me, and I need to know that it’s going to be protected.”
“All right.” I nod, ignoring the malfunctioning of my central nervous system. “Give me a few minutes to look it over. If everything is on the up and up, I’ll sign and we can get started right away.” I force a smile. “And for what it’s worth, I’m a private person, too. And I take my promises seriously. I would never share anything told to me in confidence, with or without a legal document to enforce good behavior.”
“Well…good. Thank you.” His dark eyes soften, hinting that there might be a kindred spirit in there beneath his broody exterior. “I appreciate that, and I…” He clears his throat as he stretches his head stiffly to one side. “For what it’s worth, I hope you decide I’m worth your time. Bash was right, you’re perfect for the job.”
He meets my gaze, and breathing becomes harder than it was a moment before. “The pictures in your file are pretty, but they don’t do you justice. You’re just…incredible.”
Incredible. The word emerges from his full lips with a reverence that makes me feel like a million-dollar painting, or the view from Mount Kilimanjaro, and my ovaries explode with twin pops of surrender. I also suspect that my panties may be catching fire.
Something urgent and dangerous is definitely going on below my faux leather belt, but I can’t bring myself to look away from Falcone’s eyes long enough to assess the situation. I’m drowning in those eyes, sucked into a black hole of desire from whence there will be no return. My nipples tighten, my mouth goes dry, and the only way to keep myself from saying something inappropriate is to pull my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down hard enough to send pain flashing through my jaw.
Crap on a whole grain cracker, if simply making eye contact with this man gets me this worked up, I shudder to think what state I’ll be in if we make it to the kissing-practice portion of orientation.
Kissing practice.
Shit. If Jake’s story checks out and we decide to move forward, I could be kissing this man before the afternoon is through.
Kissing Jake Falcone—my tongue tangling with his and his taste in my mouth and those strong arms wrapped around me so tight it won’t even matter if my knees turn to lumpy oatmeal…
The thought shouldn’t be so completely sanity-shattering. The man is my client. Kissing him will be a part of my job. Even if locking lips with him is as intense as I’m guessing it will be, it won’t mean anything, and it won’t lead anywhere but down the hard, bumpy road to Sexual Frustration-ville.
Bash made it clear from the beginning that an interventionist’s physical relationship with his or her client never goes further than a kiss.
Except when it does…
Look at Cat and Aidan, they certainly moved on from kissing to rolling around naked at the Orgasm Party pretty quickly.
But Aidan and Cat were old friends, I remind myself. They weren’t strangers, and Cat was the one in trouble, not the one rumored to have nearly strangled a woman. The thought is sobering, and should be more than enough to put a damper on my inappropriate panty fire.
But that’s the thing about fire. It’s wild and unpredictable and it doesn’t give a shit about right and wrong.
It just wants to burn…