Page 43 of Release Me
‘Shall I open this?’ I place one bottle on the island and brandish the other in the air.
‘Unless you’ve got a better idea.’ He shrugs, sliding into one of the tall, leather stools across from me. ‘How do you Yanks celebrate Christmas?’
‘The same way you Irish do—we get lit.’ I beam at him. Just being around him fills a void in my heart that I’d never openly admit exists.
He takes off his suit jacket, tosses it on the seat beside him and rolls up his shirt sleeves. My focus falls to his forearms. I never understood forearm porn until this very second. Thick veins pump beneath the surface of his tanned skin like a road map. Oh. My. God. Thank goodness there’s an eight-foot island between us. The urge to throw myself at him is all-consuming.
His eyebrows wing up as he catches my less than subtle stare. ‘You okay?’ He rolls his lips, and I’d bet my life he’s biting back a smile.
‘Uh-huh.’ I tear my eyes away, busying myself trying to open the bottle.
‘You want me to help you with that?’ He’s on his feet and round the island before I even open my mouth to answer him. Not a good idea, buddy, not a good idea.
He doesn’t get the memo, clearly, because before I know it, his chest is pressed to my back, his arms reach around my torso to grab mine, stilling them from their feeble attempt to open the bottle. ‘I’ll do it,’ he murmurs into my ear, sending shivers over every inch of my body. My nipples are like bulletsbeneath this sweatshirt. My hands fall to the island. I rest my fingertips on the cool counter, watching as they turn white, wondering what he’d do if I curled myself forward, pressed my chest to the marble and backed my needy pussy onto the bulge that’s pressing into my back. I stand rigid, barely daring to breathe. When he finally pops the top, I almost jump out of my skin.
‘Easy, Bekka, I’ve got you.’ He drops the cork to the island, and rubs what I think is supposed to be a reassuring hand over my bicep, but there’s nothing reassuring about it.
In fact, what’s the opposite of reassuring?
Alarming? Disturbing? Unsettling? Erotic?
Yep—every single one of them is how his touch makes me feel because I crave it more than I’ve ever craved anything in my life, and that’s fucking terrifying given the situation.
His hand slides up to my shoulder. Thank fuck for the sweater. His skin on my skin would probably set me feral. Fingers gently press into my collarbone, silently nudging me to twist to face him. I do, because I can’t not. His body commands mine, whether he knows or not.
Suddenly we’re hip to hip, chest to chest. I tilt my head up to meet his burning stare. Seconds pass. Maybe even a minute. All the things we can’t say, can’t do, hang heavily in the air between us.
I’m so acutely aware of the thickening bulge in his suit, pressing against my stomach. My body begs my backside to hop up on this island and spread my legs for him, but I can’t, I won’t. I took a vow. If I break it as well, then what are we left with?
Then again, like Ivy said, we don’t exactly have a lot to start with.
No, Bekka, No.
I shove him to the side before I do something reckless like shove myself at him. ‘I’ll get some glasses.’
He takes a step back and buries his hands deep inside his suit pockets. ‘You should know, champagne makes me drunk,’ he warns.
I pad barefoot across the kitchen, then reach on my tiptoes to grab two crystal flutes from one of the high shelves. ‘Isn’t that kind of the point?’ I crane my neck around to look at him, only trusting myself again now there’s a bit of distance between our bodies.
Big mistake.
His eyes are on my ass, and the expression on his face is positively primal. They snap to mine after a long beat. I caught him, and he knows it. But he doesn’t look one bit apologetic, and neither am I. It feels so good to be wanted. To feel desired. I didn’t realise how lonely I was until he arrived.
I gravitate towards him and pass the glasses to him. I’ve got a feeling my hands, like every other limb I own, are shaking way too hard to pour straight right now.
This man, he’s everything I want, and everything I can never have. Even if I wasn’t married to his best friend, Rian Beckett is a notorious player. I’ve watched him leave so many parties with so many women over the years. He’d break my heart in two as quick as look at me.
Wouldn't he?
As he pours the champagne, his big espresso eyes study me like he can read my every thought. ‘Your husband’s a dick. Just so we’re clear. He’s not the same man I grew up with. Or if he is, I’m only seeing his true colours now. And I don’t fucking like them one bit.’ He hands me a glass, and I raise it to my lips, feeling like I’m going to need it.
‘It is what it is,’ I shrug with more nonchalance than I feel.
Those razor sharp pupils skim over my body from my head to my pink painted toes. Thank God I put fake tan on. ‘If you were mine, I’d worship you every second of every fucking day for the rest of my life.’
I take two large sips and do my best to regulate my erratic heart. I have no idea what I’m meant to say to that, so I keep my mouth firmly shut and say nothing.
He steps forward, closing the distance between us again. ‘Cat got your tongue, Bekka?’
