Tag sat, elbow on his kitchen table, chin in hand. He watched Rachel’s tongue flick out to touch the side of her mouth as she drew a line on the paper in front of her and thought again how he’d like to take her mouth captive.
She’d been mapping out bar designs with him for a few hours, and he was impressed with her ideas as well as her ability to concentrate on the project in front of her without once wavering.
His concentration had been shot since she arrived. She wasn’t wearing a sexy, sleek dress, but the stretch pants and long sweater paired with a knee-high pair of boots made her look cozy and cute. Her lips were free of gloss, her hair down in soft blond waves. She looked warm and touchable, and, as he knew after cradling her against him, achingly soft.
He’d been reeling from Lucas’s suggestion that she was dodging. Not the best confidence booster, but then Tag had never needed his confidence boosted before, had he? New territory all around. If the woman across from him was unmapped territory, he wanted nothing more than to explore her from head to toe.
Problem was, he didn’t know whether to hack past her boundaries with a machete or lie in wait like a photographer waiting for the perfect shot of a timid deer.
“You should come to Hawaii with me,” he blurted. Okay, machete it is.
Her pencil stilled on the paper and her lips softened, her mouth parting.
“Crane Hotel on Oahu,” he elaborated. “That’s the pool bar you’re drawing. It’d help if you were on site advising. Talking to the staff. I’m better hands-on.”
Her top teeth came down over her lip. He kept going. Kept hacking.
“Snow’s killing me,” he said. “I could use some sand and ocean and sunsets. Couldn’t you?”
Moreover, he could use some alone time with her where she didn’t run to work or back to Oliver’s apartment. He didn’t think she knew why she was running, and he was still perplexed why he was chasing. What he did know was that she’d burrowed under his skin, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop wondering what they’d be like together.
Together together.
He would concede that part of the allure of Rachel was the challenge, but mostly it was her. Her quick comebacks and hesitation. The way she stared at him with her eyes but feigned disinterest with her mouth. She was a mystery he wanted to solve, and the key to uncovering her was getting out of their my-penthouse-or-yours routine.
She flipped the pencil to the eraser end and tapped the pink nub on the paper. “I have a job.”
“Take a vacation.”
“I don’t have vacation. I’ve only worked there a few months.”
“Take an unpaid vacation.” No wasn’t an option. He needed to get out of here. She needed to get out of here. Them getting out of here together was an even better idea.
“I—”
“I need your help,” he said sincerely. He tapped the drawing with the tip of his finger. “A fresh pair of eyes on the bar would be a huge service. Consider yourself a consultant for Crane Hotels. Any food, drinks, and accommodations are on me.”
When he expected another no, she surprised him with “I have my own money.”
He blinked, surprised. And relieved. That was definitely not a no. He refused to let her pay for anything. If he were to hire another consultant, he’d book a room, provide a per diem for food and drinks. No way would Rachel shell out her own money for those things.
“It’s settled, then.” He sensed if he pushed her on the money thing, she’d balk.
She licked her lips and shook her head, her blond waves moving like silk over her shoulders. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
Boy, did he have a few suggestions. Every last one involving her and nothing between them but a thin layer of sweat.
“Meaning?” he asked instead of saying what he was thinking. Machete, yes, but no need to use a bulldozer.
“Meaning…” She abandoned the pencil and turned toward him, leg folded beneath her on the kitchen chair. She let out an exasperated sound and put her hands over her face, then raked her fingers through her hair.
“You’re nervous. Around me.” Every inch of her body language said so.
She nodded hesitantly, like she was ashamed to admit it.
“But you don’t want to be,” he fished.
She shook her head in confirmation. Oh, damn. He wanted to rub his hands together at how excited he was to take on this challenge.
“Why are you nervous? Are you a virgin?”
“No.” Her eyes popped wide.
“Take it easy.” He lifted a hand. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Do I act like a virgin?” she asked, a cute little worry line bisecting her brow.
Kind of. He knew better than to share that thought.
“You act like you don’t like me,” he said instead.
“Oh.” She didn’t refute that, which he didn’t like. How did she continually knock him off balance?
“Do you?” he asked. “Like me?” Fantastic. Now he sounded and felt like an eighth grader. Maybe he should jot the question on the paper in front of him with Yes or No checkboxes.
If Lucas could see him now, he’d laugh himself into an early grave.
“Yes. I like you.” Her cheeks tinged pink, making him think the tame statement was a bold one for her. Then she got bolder. “I wished I would have kissed you back the other night, but you surprised me.”
He pulled a deep breath into his lungs. Now that was some good fucking news.
“You mean it?” He had to know.
“I mean it. I’ve been kicking myself for screwing things up every minute since.”
Really.
“Then why didn’t you kiss me the second I opened my door?” His mouth twitched with the urge to smile, but he didn’t want her to think he was laughing at her. Far from it. She’d absolutely floored him.
“Because…you’re…” Her smile widened. “Too tall?”
“Too tall to kiss?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m blowing this, aren’t I?”
Not even a little.
“Come on.” He offered a palm.
She looked at it for a few seconds before slipping her smaller hand in his.
Trust. He liked that. He stood and tugged her until she was on her feet; then he led her into the living room. She followed. Slowly, but she followed.
He sat on the couch and she sat next to him. Sort of. There was a lot of space between them.
“Closer, Dimples. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and she lifted off the cushion and scooted closer, until her hip was touching his.
“I’m not afraid of you, you know.”
“Prove it.” He let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Now’s your chance to make up for the kiss you didn’t return.”
“But I had garlic chicken tonight.” She put her fingers to her lips.
“We both had garlic chicken,” he said with a laugh. “Do you always worry about everything?”
“Pretty much.” She looked nervous again. Unsure.
The woman was a puzzle with a secret, which made her an unsafe pastime. And a fun one. If she’d let her guard down enough to have some fun with him.
“Been a long week.” He pushed her hair off her shoulder, brushing his fingers along the delicate line of her neck when he did.
Her eyes closed and a subtle shiver shook her.
“It’s only half done. Put me out of my misery,” he murmured. “Let me taste your mouth again.”
Blue eyes sought his, and again he waited to be turned down. Then she obliged, leaning in and touching her mouth to his. Tag gripped her shoulder, all of him going up in flames. Like the electricity snapping the air between them had made contact with a metal rod. He kept his other hand fisted at his side. He’d only tasted her once before and since had damn near gone out of his mind with need. This timid, adorably cute, confusing creature…
Her tongue tentatively swept his lip, leaving a warm, wet trail. He opened for her, allowing her to lead. She stroked his tongue with hers and he responded by kissing her back, all of him leaning closer. Her hand came up and touched his chest, but not to push him away, to feel him. She glided her fingers over his thin sweater, sending a trail of gooseflesh climbing his arms, then down, lower, lower, until she lifted the edge of the material and found the T-shirt he wore underneath. Tentative fingers raked worn cotton as a whimper came from their joined mouths—from her.
She finished off the kiss and his lips chased her, not quite ready to let her go. She put her fingers to her mouth. “Sorry.”
“Why?” His brain was shaken, his pulse through the roof, his pants uncomfortably tight. What the hell was she sorry about?
“I didn’t mean to”—a small puff of air that might be a laugh—“go right for your body again.”
Again. Like the night she explored his naked abs. The same night he’d showered and taken himself in hand, her touch on his mind while he stroked out his sexual frustration.
“You don’t need to go slow with me, sweetheart.” His voice was gravel-laden, his body aflame. “I’m matching your pace, not the other way around.”
“What’s your pace?” She lifted her sweet face, and in her expression he saw she wanted the truth. So he gave it to her.
“My pace? Honey, you’d be in my bed naked, screaming my name because you couldn’t take another second of pleasure.”
“Oh.” She looked worried, then looked away. Which he didn’t comprehend. He lifted his hand to her cheek and stroked baby soft skin with his thumb.
“What’s yours?” He wanted to know everything about her—why she forced herself to stop when she was clearly enjoying what was happening. What was holding her back?
“My pace?” Her delicate throat moved when she swallowed. “I’m a few…encounters away from there.”
“Okay.” He dipped his chin. He was fine with a few more encounters.
“But I want to…do what you said. I want to…” She laughed full out. “I can’t say it.” She started to stand, ready to run again. He caught her wrist and pulled her back down. This time she sat even closer to him. He could see the pulse fluttering against her neck.
“You want to do what I said.” He threaded her hair through his fingers. “You want to enjoy this.”
She nodded, barely, and he mentally punched the air in triumph. That nod was like finding a hidden trail on the map that was Rachel Foster.
“You’re not sure if you can,” he guessed.
She closed her eyes. He didn’t like the way she couldn’t admit it. Had someone done a number on her, or was she woefully inexperienced? No, no way was she that inexperienced. She’d kissed him, and the woman could kiss. His heart was just now ticking down to a normal rate.
“I’m not sure of anything,” she whispered.
Well. He tightened his grip on her neck, massaging his fingertips against her scalp. If this wasn’t a challenge he was made for, he didn’t know what was.
“You’re in good hands, Dimples.” He brushed his nose against hers. “You’ll enjoy yourself. I’ll see to it. Only satisfied women leave my bed.”
“I’m not worried about my satisfaction.” She pulled back some to focus her eyes on his, and in them reflected real concern. “I’m worried about yours.”
He nearly laughed because the idea was fucking ridiculous, but her worry was so tangible, he swallowed his reaction. The root of her fear was whether or not he would enjoy himself? There was a crass but simple way to alleviate her concern.
He grasped her hand, put it over his aching cock, and asked against her lips, “Do I feel dissatisfied to you?”
When he thought she might leap away from him, she surprised him, gripping him harder. He grunted, a sharp exhale leaving his lungs.
“No,” she said on a harsh whisper, then kissed him. Kissed the life right out of him. He groaned into her mouth, accepting her tongue again and again, his hips shifting toward her insistent, stroking hand. He was going to come in his pants if she didn’t stop touching him.
Their kisses grew deeper, his tongue sparring with hers at a feverish, desperate pace. Her hands wandered away from his fly to his T-shirt. She lifted it, palming his hot, naked skin. He was all for it. He lay back on the arm of the couch when she pushed him, allowing her to drape half on top of him while her chilly hands rubbed up and down his torso.
When she pulled her lips from his, he was panting, his hard-on pressing against her giving body. He hooked his thumbs on her jaw before she scrambled away from him again.
“What’s this pace?” She was out of breath, lips swollen pink from his beard raking her softer skin. Gorgeous. Ridiculously gorgeous and plastered to him with way too many clothes on.
“You’re still setting it,” he answered, sweeping his thumb over her bottom lip. “You don’t have to take me to bed tonight.”
She nodded and his cock gave an argumentative twitch. Tag gritted his teeth. No, it wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, but it was what she needed to hear.
“Maybe we could make out some more?” Her request came out like a question. Even though it would be the most torturous make-out session ever, he answered instantly.
“Yes.”
She crawled off his lap, sat next to him, and arranged her hair. He watched the thick waves tumble, remembering what they felt like between his fingers a moment ago.
She reached for the band holding his hair back. “May I?”
“Always.” He was so amused by this woman. She wasn’t timid, more afraid of his reaction. A spark of an epiphany pushed forward but fizzled the second she started pulling at the band. She let his hair down slowly, then put her hands in it and pulled the long strands over his shoulders.
“Tarzan.” She smiled. “You’re more like Thor. Those shoulders.” She raised her eyebrows. “Bree called you a Viking billionaire.”
“That’s a new one.” A low laugh echoed in his chest, releasing some of the tension between them. She was easy to be around when she was being her fun, flirty self. When she let down her guard and stopped trying to keep him at arm’s length. More proof they were good together. That she wanted this.
If she needed to be made comfortable enough to enjoy herself, he was in like fucking Flynn.
He leaned forward and she closed her eyes, lips waiting. He bypassed her mouth and put his mouth to her ear, nipping her lobe with his teeth, then swirling his tongue. She moaned. Oh, yeah. She liked this just fine.
One hand holding her head to the side, he tilted her neck and explored there, dotting her jawline and her throat with hot kisses before dragging his tongue back to her ear.
He was rewarded with drooping eyelids and blown-out pupils. He officially did not get it. This girl was a sexual firecracker waiting for a flame, yet afraid of igniting.
“What are you thinking right now?” he asked.
“You make me want to take my clothes off,” she whispered.
His turn to be shocked right down to his gutter-dwelling thoughts.
“Dangerous.” Her eyes glanced off his mouth.
“Fun,” he corrected when he could find his voice.
“Fun.” She smiled, and he was rewarded with the dimples he’d nicknamed her after. She leaned in for a kiss that felt really final. Turned out it was. In a flash, she climbed off the couch, leaving him wanting and hard as steel. “I’m going to go, but thank you for dinner.”
Maneuvering the erection pressed against his fly into a manageable location, he stood and limped forward as she gathered her purse. Because he couldn’t resist her scent, he leaned in for a cheek kiss. Then because he couldn’t resist watching her squirm, he nipped her ear and kissed behind it.
“Can I see you again?” she asked, her voice a satisfied sigh.
“You’d better.” He’d been asked a similar question by women in the past. His answer was always the same: a varying version of a gentle blow-off. Of course, he’d usually sealed the deal by now, but instead of being disappointed at not getting Rachel naked and underneath him, he was irrationally excited about having another shot at pushing her boundaries. Or watching her take something she wanted from him.
Was that what she needed? A chance to assert herself?
“Good night.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile, one that pushed those shallow divots into her cheeks, then left. He stood at the threshold as she popped the door open on the stairwell and headed down to Oliver’s apartment.
Half of him wanted to follow, drop her off with another longer, wetter, deeper good night kiss, and the other half of him (the half above his waist) decided to let her simmer. Because if he followed her downstairs, he would have her in bed in five minutes flat.
Tempting, but he was looking forward to next time.
He shut his door and locked it, his thoughts torrential and his frustration at a peak. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a woman more than she’d wanted him. Wait. Yes, he could. Jennifer Byron. He’d been sixteen when he asked her to a movie and was terrified she’d say no. She did, and then dated a shorter, less interesting guy named Tom.
Since those dark days of high school, Tag hadn’t felt this particular type of lightning rod attraction. For Rachel, there was no substitute. Every encounter drew him in, made him want to know more.
No matter how he felt, he decided he wasn’t going to jerk off and lose the fire for her. He adjusted himself through his jeans, wincing at the discomfort. No matter how much it killed him, he vowed not to come until she was at the controls.
This was a thirst only she could slake.
* * *
Against Oliver’s front door, Rachel blew out a breath of pure torment. Every part of her wanted to strip Tag’s clothes off and savor every last naked inch of him. From the feel of his hardness in her palm tonight, there were a lot of inches to savor.
He’d wooed her and coaxed her and she’d given herself silent permission to take what she wanted. He let her control the pace, and though she’d voiced that she wanted to slow down, a switch had flipped the moment he kissed her earlobe.
She’d practically attacked him.
She shivered, pinching her eyes closed and trying not to relive the moment. Impossible. She lifted her head off the door and bonked the back of her skull lightly on the wood. “Pull it together, Foster,” she told herself, earning a curious whine from her canine companion.
Instead she’d sleep next to a big, slobbery dog. What a consolation prize. She turned and looked at the doorknob for a good five seconds, then backed away as if it had caught fire.
Tag made her bold, which in turn made her almost…afraid? Her heart rate ratcheted up at the thought of him. She was sexually excited, yes, without a doubt, but also…nervous. When she’d first moved to Chicago, she’d been fearless. Bold. When she dated Shaun, she’d been the same way. She went after what she wanted unapologetically.
Somewhere between moving in with him and losing what they had together, that boldness had fizzled. Shaun had rattled her, and as a result she’d lost the ability to trust her own sexual prowess.
Now she was out of practice, but then she’d been at her prime. Yet according to Shaun, she’d done everything wrong. A fact she could hide from a normal guy, but Tag?
She winced. There was no way to fake it with that sex god. Tag knew what he was doing. She tugged on her earlobe, remembering his warm, wet kisses.
Really knew what he was doing. And she was simply too overwhelmed to try.
She’d stripped out of her sweater and yoga pants and was pulling a pair of flannel pajamas from the dresser drawer when another idea struck. The idea of soaking in a long, hot bath and relieving some of the sexual tension ricocheting in her bloodstream.
Without having to involve Tag further.
It’d been a long while since she’d touched herself, since she’d needed to. With Shaun, sex was on the back burner, and then off the stove, and at the end, not even in the kitchen. She’d focused on work and, after she quit, focused on finding a new job and moving out.
She hadn’t indulged in anything more fun than wine nights with Bree, and even those had been rare considering one or both of them were usually clocked on and slinging drinks at Andromeda.
Maybe tonight she’d give herself the gift of imagining Tag. She may not be brave enough to strip herself bare and be with him, but alone in the quiet of the giant spa tub in her borrowed penthouse, Rachel could have her cake and eat it too.
Genius.
Bubbles brimming at the edge of the tub, she put one foot in and then the other. She’d shut the door to keep the dog out, lit a vanilla candle she’d found in the back of a cabinet in the kitchen, and turned the lights off. The only glow was the warm, yellow flame matching the one burning inside her.
Closing her eyes, she sank deep in the water, slid her fingers over her body and down between her legs. She started a slow caress designed to take her where she needed, and…
Completely lost her concentration.
Her eyes snapped open and she listened for the sound of Adonis padding outside the door, but no sound came. Only the crack of the windowsills when the wind blew outside.
She closed her eyes and tried again, a hand on her breast, fingers stroking between her legs, but once again gave up after a few futile and wholly unsatisfying seconds.
She pushed herself up and braced the sides of the tub, feeling like a failure. Her body didn’t want her hands. Her body wanted Tag.
There was no substitute for him. No matter how achy and needy she felt. She grabbed a bar of soap and finished bathing in a utilitarian manner.
After toweling off, she dressed head to toe in flannel pajamas—white with tiny pink hearts—and buried herself under a mountain of blankets.
Outside the snow fell, and eventually Rachel’s eyes slid closed. She thought of Tag and the things they could have done together if she wasn’t completely intimidated by him. Her insecurities were far deeper than just her performance in bed; this had to do with a dormant part of her—the fearless, take-charge part of her.
Even as she pinpointed the issue, she couldn’t escape the clinging uncertainty that the real thing might end up as unsatisfying as both attempts to find her release in the bathtub. The idea of the sexiest man she’d ever kissed looking at her the way Shaun used to—like he was disappointed and left disappointed—made her want to crawl in a hole and die.