Forbidden To Want

He stares, frozen and watchful, but it’s a look that makes me aware I’m braless beneath this ridiculous wisp of silk.

‘Are you?’ His index finger and thumb return to that lip. My nipples peak as if craving the same attention. My pulse thrums stronger, roaring in my ears.

Rule one of embracing fear—never admit weakness.

‘No.’

He leans closer, as if about to confide a secret while challenge dances in his eyes. I relax every muscle in my body, holding myself perfectly still.

‘Despite my rudeness?’ His smile is brittle, eyes glittering. This game of wills plays tug-of-war with my body—my heart rate spikes every time we make eye contact and the hard kernel of defiance I’m slave to infects my backbone, banishing any leeway I might have scraped together.

I hold the breath in my throat and shake my head. I was right about him—he too enjoys being proved correct, his uncompromising, forthright manner a front. Self-preservation.

I shrug. ‘Perhaps it’s a front.’

‘Perhaps I simply want things the way I want them, Mia.’ The conversation has morphed. We’re no longer talking about working together. And what do I care how he wants things, as long as he doesn’t try to control me?

There’s something beyond enticing about this man. My body twitches, fighting the urge to lean into him. To see those navy eyes close up. To taste the mouth he habitually toys with.

True to form, he releases another bombshell. ‘Did Reid tell you I lost my wife, Laura?’

His brutal statement squeezes my stomach and I suck in a short gasp. A torrent of questions forms in wake of the shock. How? When? Were they married long? Did they have children? It certainly explains his thorny barriers. But I have no interest in breaking those down.

And the perverse in me likes that he tries to jolt me with this intimate, intensely personal detail, likes that he uses what must be his darkest pain to test my mettle. Perhaps a last-ditch attempt to run me off or freak me out.

But it does the opposite, increasing his attractiveness tenfold. Because it seems I was wrong about him.

He is safe.

Unattainable. And clearly only interested in casual hook-ups. The likelihood we’ll turn the chemistry filling the car into something brief and physical increases.

‘No. But thanks for sharing—it helps to put things into perspective.’ The sooner we move past the physical, the sooner we can move on from it. The sooner I can get back to being me. ‘Look, I’m not intimidated by you. I just want to do my job.’

‘No, I see that. You’re...different, aren’t you? Is it a New Zealand thing?’

I fight my first reaction, rationalising that he probably didn’t mean it the way my defensive self-esteem interprets. ‘You’re forthright and...unconventional. It’s not an insult, so you can stop glaring at me.’ His index finger traces his bottom lip while he contemplates the conundrum sitting in his expensive car.

‘Because I can dish as much as I can take?’ I lift my chin. I won’t let him see how close to home his observation has struck. I’m a square peg. I reconciled this long ago. But here, in London, so near and yet so far from my biological roots...

I shiver, tingles of unease racing down my bare back. This is why relationships and I aren’t meant to be. I’m better alone, free to be myself without expectation or judgment... The tiny part of me clamouring for the validation of belonging stutters like a broken film reel, spliced out of sync.

I let him have the honesty he seems to value. ‘You’re rude, unprofessional and obnoxious. That is an insult.’ But even as the words leave my mouth I want his lips on mine, want more than verbal sparring with him, knowing that’s all it ever will be—brief, physical, no emotional entanglements. And, while locking horns with Kit makes my blood pound, I’m certain the sex would be an even better distraction.

He laughs, a genuine head-thrown-back bellow that vibrates into my bones. It’s short. Not long enough for me to fully appreciate the way pleasure transforms his handsome features, but enough to skyrocket my body temperature when he looks at me with a new layer of heat. ‘What shall we do with each other, then, Mia Abbott, as you seem determined to stick around, despite my obvious shortcomings?’

A hundred filthy replies pop into my head. I let him have the forthright and unconventional one he probably expects least. ‘Why don’t we get this...the sex...over and done with and move on to the job?’

Touché, Mr Straight-Talking...

I must imagine the flicker of excitement I see in his eyes, the one that turns my pulse into a roar of drumbeats, because it’s gone in a fraction of a second and his stare hardens, any trace of humour gone. ‘You don’t imagine I’m relationship material, do you?’

His arrogance shouldn’t astound me quite so much. If not for his extreme hotness, his obvious emotional unavailability and the desire to see him as undone as our chemistry renders me, I’d cut my losses and leave him to his floundering business and his boring night out at the theatre.

‘You don’t imagine I’ll fall for your tepid charm offensive, do you? I’ve never had a relationship and I’m not looking for one now.’ I shrug. ‘I’m practical. And as blunt as you. You’re single, I’m single. Neither one of us is interested in anything beyond sex. Let’s get it out of the way and then I can do my job and move on and you can go back to...’ I wave my finger in his general direction ‘...whatever this is.’

He’s silent for so long, I’m aware of every muted noise outside the car. The angry blare of a horn, the squeal of breaks, the electronic beep of a pedestrian crossing. Kit’s stare scours me like I’m under a giant microscope, and he’s cataloguing my nooks and crannies and the freakish antennae sprouting from my head.

But then his tongue swipes his bottom lip and I almost feel it between my legs. From the look in his eyes alone I’m achy and damp.

‘I bet you didn’t negotiate this into your contract with Reid and Drake.’ A small lip-curl hints at what must be a devastating full-blown smile I’ll probably never see. ‘Wednesday,’ he adds with a bitter twist to his mouth, his serious, intense stare pinning me to the leather upholstery.

‘What?’

‘If you’re still interested, I’ll fuck you Wednesday,’ he says. Like it’s a meeting he’s slotted into his busy schedule, before the gym and after a conference call.

Today is Monday.

My body can’t decide on an emotion, shunting between excitement, outrage and rampant curiosity. ‘Why Wednesday?’ A control thing? Just because he can pick and choose? Well, fuck that.

A defiant trickle of fire winds its way between the exposed bumps of my vertebrae—I’ll tell him Wednesday doesn’t work for me, but could I pencil him in for Friday? But my body betrays me, clamouring for the dark, all-consuming sex I’m guessing he delivers; desperate to have done with the distracting deluge of arousal every time I’m in his presence; determined to show him whatever he can dish, I can take.

‘Because that’s the way I want it.’ He leans closer, his navy stare tracing my parted lips and leaving the ghost of a kiss there. ‘You should know, I’ll be in control. I’ll call the shots. If that’s not your thing...’ Another cocky shrug that fans my body temperature off the scale. He thinks he has tomboy Mia all figured out.

‘You should know that’s dangerous talk in this day and age. Women are in charge of their own sexuality, Mr Faulkner.’ I’m aware I’m the one who brought up sex, and, despite his commanding promise and my rebuttal, my internal muscles clench at the idea of Kit controlling my pleasure. No one’s ever bossed me around in the bedroom before, and if I’d been asked prior to meeting the sinfully sexy Kit I’d have sworn on the life of my brother’s soon-to-be adopted child I’d tell him he could stick his sexual dominance up his tight, toned English backside.

But his offer comes laced with the hint of danger that whooshes the blood through my head in a rush. And I’m confident I can take him. I wonder how many times he’s used the I’ll call the shots line. I wonder if anyone ever turns the charmer down. I wonder if he used it on the late Mrs Faulkner, a woman whose legacy appears far-reaching, as if Kit literally drags it behind him like Marley’s chains.

That we’re negotiating sex like a cold, unemotional transaction isn’t romantic. But I don’t need romance. He’s started a chain reaction inside me, luring me towards the recklessness I crave.

Testing where his head is at, I say, ‘Or perhaps you’re trying to tame the wild girl, eh?’

Perhaps now would be a good time to tell him of my rebellious teens, my reputation as a wildcard...

Kit smiles but it’s feline. ‘You and your command of your sexuality brought this up, Ms Abbott. Just because I like things a certain way doesn’t mean I don’t respect your choices and your right to say no. I’m fully into mutual consent while we explore our mutual pleasure.’ His eyes dip to my mouth. ‘You can take it or leave it, Mia.’ His lips caress the phrase mutual pleasure like they’re already on my skin, my nipples, my clit.

I press my thighs together, stymieing the burn. My head screams one thing while my hormones stage an intervention.

But he’s also given me a bargaining chip. With a rush of exhaled air, I make my decision. I will take it, because Kit Faulkner turns me on more than anyone I’ve ever met. But more so, because I’m up to the challenge. Any challenge. Especially one where the boundaries are so clearly demarcated and the taste of victory already lingers on my tongue.

Kit wears the casual-sex-only vibe like some men wear overpowering cologne. He’s safe. I can concede to a few of his sexual demands without risk, but I have a stipulation of my own.

I shrug, while my blood pounds through my belly. ‘It’s all good—whatever your kink. But I have a condition too.’ My breathing accelerates, a chemical cocktail flooding my bloodstream.

He leans in, waiting, his lips parted and his midnight eyes dancing between mine.

I swallow, ensuring my voice will be clear and controlled when it emerges because the parts of me affected by the hormonal maelstrom inside jerk and jitter like chattering teeth. ‘You can call the shots sexually, but I want full creative direction over my work—no negotiations. No wasting my time or trying to influence the process, and no interfering.’

I wait, breath held in my throat while I stare him down.