I SHOULD GO. I know I should go but hell, her easy dismissal of me raises every damned hackle I have. Despite the fact she told me she’d want me to go away again, the reality of that is unpalatable. I shouldn’t be here in the first place—a voice has been screaming inside my mind from the minute she started hitting on me in the bar, but I ignored it and I came here, and now that I’ve slept with this long-lost Hart I feel like the damage is already done. But the way she’s trying to flick me away like a bug, because I’ve given her what she wanted, irks me.
It really, really irks me.
And it’s petty and childish but I don’t like that and I intend to show her just how much.
‘Oh?’ She crosses her arms over her chest. Huge mistake—it just reminds me of how freaking perfect her breasts are. ‘Do you think you have any say in that?’
I grind my teeth together. Yeah, this is bullshit. ‘I’m not done yet.’
Before she can get another smart question out, I kneel in front of her, spreading her legs with my palms, my mouth pressing to her beautiful, wet sex. I feel her tremble in response, her exhalation of surprise, and I feel her surrender too, when her fingers start to drive through my hair. Good.
I flick her with my tongue, knowing where she likes it, knowing what drives her crazy, then I suck her sensitive flesh into my mouth, running my tongue over her seam until her breath is rushed and her hands are moving faster. Then I slow down, pulling back a gear, letting my tongue taste her inner thighs, drawing invisible circles there.
‘Please,’ she moans, so I bring my mouth back like the good little sex slave she apparently thinks I am. I drive her back to the brink of explosion. I can taste it, I can feel how close she is to coming, but then I slow down again, moving my mouth upwards this time, to her flat stomach, tracing a circle around her navel so she makes a noise of frustration and pushes at my head a little, trying to guide me down. I dip my head lower to hide my smile.
So much for wanting me to go.
‘What’s the magic word?’ I murmur against her flesh, dragging my mouth sideways to her hips.
‘Please.’ She loads the word with resentment. I bite her hip and she makes a sound of surprise followed by a long, soft moan. ‘Please.’ No resentment this time. Just blind need.
‘Since you asked so nicely.’ I bring my mouth back to her sex and this time, when she’s on the brink of an orgasm, I don’t move my mouth to her thigh or her stomach, I don’t slow down. I pull back completely and stand up, taking my pants from her hands.
Her eyes show complete shock. I ignore it and I have to stifle a need to laugh.
‘This way, you said?’ I gesture down the corridor.
Her expression shows fire and flame. She’s pissed. Okay, she probably has a right to be but so do I!
‘Yes.’ She recovers quickly, too proud to show me how she’s feeling.
She glares at me and I grin, mimicking her words. ‘Thanks. That was great.’
I move away before I give into temptation and finish what I started, driving her over the edge once more using just my mouth. I discard the condom and dress quickly, splashing water on my face and staring at myself for a hard second in the mirror of her bathroom.
Jesus Christ. Guilt stares back at me. I don’t even want to think about what I’ve just done.
You’re like family. You’re the only person we can trust with this, Barrett.
I sweep my eyes shut and see the three Hart brothers, men I’ve known since we were boys together, and feel like I’ve done something completely and utterly wrong.
What the hell just happened? I saw Avery Maxwell and it’s like everything stopped making sense. I acted on instinct alone and, hell, I like to hook up with women—but not like this. I date them. I flirt. I genuinely enjoy getting to know them, and after a few weeks it runs its course and I move on, or they do. But, with each and every woman, I’m open to the possibility that there might be something more there, something worth investigating.
Avery was—so utterly resistant to that. She wanted to be screwed, and as I button up my shirt I come to the realisation that if I hadn’t come back here then any other guy in the bar would have done. She was determined to get laid tonight.
The thought fills me with a strange sense of impatience. She obviously does this a lot and it might be kind of old-fashioned of me but I feel a blade of fear for her—what if I were a complete sociopath? She invited me into her home knowing nothing about me. And her home is—I cast an eye about the bathroom and mentally draw back the details I observed. It’s a townhouse in Noe Valley, beautiful and expansive. She’s clearly financially well set up. Which could make her a target for any kind of bastard looking to use her then take whatever he could.
An irrational anger fills me at the risks she’s taking. I have no business to feel that way—it’s her life and she should live it how she wants but hell, she’s also the half-sister of my friends and...and what? I’ve just come back here and had sex with her. Fantastic sex. Mind-blowingly addictive, I don’t think I could ever get enough sex with this woman sex. But that doesn’t give me any right to go all Big Brother on her.
Big Brother!
Crap. This is—way more complicated than it should be. What the hell have I done?
I stare back at myself from the mirror, accusation in my eyes—eyes that tell me I’m a dumbass for going to the bar instead of choosing a safe way to find out what I could about her. I could have made an appointment in a professional capacity, masqueraded as an investor or a potential client. But it wouldn’t have changed a thing.
We would have ended up fucking on her desk instead of her dinner table, but the outcome would have still been the same. There was something about Avery and me that just demanded answering.
I’ve been with enough women to know when there’s a different kind of spark. Not just desire or attraction but like a lightning bolt of ‘must have’ need, and we both felt that. Okay, maybe it was more just about getting laid for Avery. Maybe any other guy in the bar would have done, or maybe not.
I honestly think that our fucking would have been inevitable. So what, jackass? Does that absolve you of all guilt? I don’t think so. For crying out loud. I’m here to find out what I can about this woman, to suss out if she knows anything about her impossibly wealthy family, not to get my rocks off.
I push my hands through my hair distractedly. Is there any way I can still achieve what I set out to do? Or has sleeping with her made it impossible?
And can I actually do that, anyway? Isn’t it a massive betrayal to dig into her personal life after what we’ve just done?
It’s not like it meant anything. She basically dismissed me while I was still inside her. If I was careful not to let it happen again? A wry grimace shifts on my face, because I think that could be almost impossible. If we’re in the same room together I’m going to want her.
Besides which, Avery is clearly of the ‘wham, bam, thanks for that’ persuasion. She’s probably not even going to want to see me again. Which means what? I stick around now, find out what I can and get out? Leave it to another one of their lawyers to explain all this to her?
I groan, shaking my head, because I’ve well and truly fucked up here, muddying the waters of what was already a delicate situation. ‘Thanks a lot, asshole,’ I say to my dick. ‘Last time I let you call the shots.’
If only.
Okay. I’m not comfortable with what I’ve done. Clearly I’ve let down my friends and I’ve done something that borders on duplicitous with Avery, given what I know about who she is, and I’m pretty sure she has no clue about that. But I don’t have a magical winding back time device. I did this—we did it. It was consensual, hot sex between two adults. But it was also a mistake, and it shouldn’t have happened. Now that it has, though, I have to work out a way to achieve what I came here to do without letting Avery feel used and hurt. Hurt? I almost laugh out loud. That woman has ice in her veins. I doubt hurt is something she’s capable of experiencing. Still, I don’t want to be an asshole to her. I have to tread carefully.
Managing difficult situations is a strength of mine and I have no intention of letting this one get the better of me. One way or another, I’ll figure out how to fix this. And it all starts with talking to the Harts. Because sending me here to spy on her was wrong. They were blindsided by the revelation that their dad had a daughter none of them knew anything about, but that doesn’t make it right to keep that from Avery. She deserves to know the truth. That certainty hits me like an anvil between the eyes—I wish I’d seen it sooner but, now that I have, there’s only one way to handle this.
‘A Mr Barrett Byron-Moore is here to see you, Avery.’
I jerk so hard in response I bang my knee into the underside of the desk. ‘What?’ I reach for my coffee on autopilot, taking a long drink and, unbidden, memories of that night careen into me. It might have been four days ago but I can remember every look, every touch, every breath and sensation as though it were happening right now.
I remember his mouth against me, his tongue so damned skilled, I remember the pleasure building, then the frustration as he diverted to another part of my body, then the sheer, dizzying relief when he returned to my sex, bringing me right back to the brink of a huge orgasm.
Then stood up and calmly told me he’d get dressed.
Okay, maybe I deserved it. I’d been abrupt—even more so than usual—but that’s what I do. Besides, men don’t usually complain. I think it’s kind of a relief to be told they can go. No hugging required. No What’s your number? We should do this again. Blah-blah-blah...bullshit-bullshit-bullshit necessary. I’m a big girl, I can read the tea leaves just fine.
‘He’s here in Reception. Shall I send him in?’
Crap. Should she? I shake my head, but of course my assistant can’t see that. ‘Um...’ Um? What am I, nine? ‘Give me a moment.’ I hang up the receiver as I stand, straightening my shirt. I tend to wear the same thing every day—a white blouse and faded denim jeans. Hey, if it’s good enough for Zuckerberg and Jobs, then it’s good enough for me. I hate the expectation that because I’m a woman I should dress a certain way or be obsessive about fashion. The thing is, I love nice clothes but, here at work, I don’t want to think about what I’m wearing and I don’t want to be seen as a clotheshorse. So I wear what I wore when I was a one-woman band, pulling Moatsy together, doing the coding, getting that first raft of investors. Every day I choose a different necklace though. Today, it’s a chunky green beaded choker and I lift my fingers, toying with it so it jangles, an unusual indecision arresting me.
This is so completely not like me.
But, then again, this has never happened before. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy again after he’s left my place. Damn it! This is why I don’t tell them who I am, nor what I do. I don’t like to be tracked down. Leave no glass slippers, remember?
I grimace, shaking my head, wishing I felt purely annoyed instead of this burgeoning excitement snaking through my belly. Excitement? Why? What exactly do I want?
I quash the adrenaline and compress anything but annoyance from my expression. Because I didn’t invite him here, I didn’t give him the impression he’d be welcome and I have no idea why he’s come but I clearly need to get rid of him again. And quickly.
I pull the door inwards and my nerves skitter at the sight of him. Gone is the suit. Today he’s wearing a polo shirt and shorts, so I see more of his flesh than I was expecting. Even his feet—in flip-flops—are weirdly, unexpectedly erotic.
I grip hold of my annoyance. ‘Come in.’ The words are curt, as if to imply the exact opposite—go away.
But his grin is slow and relaxed, pricking me with renewed desire. Like I haven’t been thinking about how freaking great he was in bed since he left my place the other night.
‘Thanks.’ His accent! How had I forgotten it? He grabs two Starbucks cups and, as he passes, holds one out to me. I contemplate not taking it, but where coffee’s concerned I rarely say no.
Besides, it would be churlish and I’m not that. My anger is, despite my best intentions, receding, leaving me simply curious. Why is he here? What does he want?
‘No preamble, huh?’ he prompts, and I realise I’ve said the questions aloud. So I lift my shoulders, gesturing towards the sofa set in the corner of the room.
‘I just can’t imagine what brings you to my office in the middle of a work day.’
‘I didn’t have your number.’ Like that explains everything.
‘So?’
‘How else would I contact you?’
‘Why would you want to contact me?’
He sits down in one of the armchairs, his legs spread wide, his arms relaxed. He drinks his coffee, his eyes holding mine in a way that makes my body throb.
‘I enjoyed the other night.’
‘Oh?’
‘Right up until you kicked me out.’
His honesty is fascinating. ‘I told you what I wanted. What did you expect? Dinner afterwards?’
He laughs, shaking his head. ‘How about lunch now?’
It floors me. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s noon and I presume you eat, right?’
I gesture towards my desk. ‘I’m working.’
His eyes narrow and beneath the surface of his charm I sense a hint of impatience. Annoyance, even. ‘Take a break.’
My spine straightens. Hell, no. I was happy for him to take the lead during sex—I loved it, actually—but this is my office—my domain—and here I call the shots. ‘I beg your pardon?’
I feel like he wants to roll his eyes. ‘Half an hour. Is that going to kill you?’
In fact, I’m not that busy, but that’s not the problem. ‘You’re missing the point.’ I move across the room, sliding into the armchair opposite his. ‘In case I wasn’t clear enough the other night, I got what I wanted. Sex. I picked you up in a bar hoping you’d be a great lover, and you really were, but that’s it. I never wanted to see you again. I’d apologise for leading you on in some way except I know that I didn’t. So?’
His brows lift incrementally higher and then he laughs, a rumbling sound that unsettles me because I’m not used to being laughed at. ‘Another time, I’d love to know just what the hell messed you up so badly, Avery.’
Hurt—unexpected and fierce—lances me. I know I’m messed up but no one ever calls me on that. No one really knows me well enough to see it—to see beyond the veneer of self-made tech success story that I project to the world.
‘I think you should go.’ Oh, great. My voice sounds quivery, all wounded and weak. That makes me angry enough to want to scratch something.
‘Not yet.’
Why does a burst of relief flare in my belly, like I don’t actually want him to leave? Because he’s hot and the other night was the best sex I’ve ever had. Yeah, he was great, and I’ve been fantasising about him ever since, but that doesn’t give him the right to come to my office, to sit there, refusing to leave.
‘Look, Barrett, I know I didn’t mislead you. Sex with you was great, but I don’t do repeat performances.’
At that, something sparks in his eyes. Curiosity. It’s unmistakable, like a beacon in the centre of his gaze, but there’s something else too. Pity? Damn it, I want him to go. What is it about this guy that makes me feel like a vulnerable teenager all over again?
I’m twenty-nine and four days old and I’ve known too many men, too many shits of men, to let him or anyone get under my skin. Didn’t I learn anything from my mother?
It hardens my resolve, and that’s a very good thing.
‘So if you’re here because you want to date me, or even if you want to fuck me again, then you need to know that’s not my jam.’
‘Not your jam?’ He leans forward a little, his eyes so speculative I feel their warmth across my skin. ‘And what is your ‘jam’?’
It’s a question to which I have no answer. Outside of work, there’s nothing particularly interesting about me that I can tell him. ‘What are you doing here?’ I fix him with my best get to the point stare, which almost always works.
A line forms between his brows. ‘I...wanted to see you again. To talk to you.’
‘I don’t do that.’
A quirk of his lips. ‘You seem to be talking just fine to me. So tell me, is it only men you’ve slept with that you insist on ignoring?’
‘Did I hurt your feelings, Earl?’ I respond with the kind of voice you might use to a wounded four-year-old.
‘No.’ His retort is razor-sharp and, although it’s the answer I was hoping for, something lashes me. Disappointment? What the hell is happening to me? I want him to go away again, and I want him to stop looking at me as though he’s trying to peer into all the recesses of my soul, and I also want, more than words can express, to fuck him right now.
I close my eyes for a second, trying to quell that desire. Because I meant what I said—I don’t do repeat performances. Second times lead to expectations and mess, and I don’t want any part of that.
When I open my eyes he’s standing up and that cements it. I really don’t want him to go. Panic kicks inside me. What the hell?
‘Have lunch with me.’ He holds a hand out, expecting me to take it, and I stare at that hand with a lurch of frustration. What would it be like to be the kind of woman who could put hers in it, smile up at him and nod? To act as though lunch with this guy is just a simple, casual commitment?
‘I said no.’ I stand up then, bringing us toe to toe, and as soon as I’ve done it I realise my body is ignoring my ‘no second times’ rule. I press a hand to his chest, feeling his strength and warmth pass through my skin, certainty locking into place.
Once more won’t hurt.
He stays still, watching me in that way he has, not moving away but not responding either, leaving it completely up to me.
‘I don’t want lunch.’
Finally, his voice husky, he murmurs, ‘What do you want?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
His chest is moving faster, anticipation speeding up his breath. ‘Avery, I came here because we need to talk.’
A small smile shifts over my face. ‘I’m not interested in talking to you.’