Catch a Mate (15 page)

She jerked away, not touching him in any way. “No!”

Brent scrubbed a hand over his face. “I love you, Georgia,” he said, panting. “I've always loved you.”

She shook her head and backed up three steps. Her breathing was as choppy, erratic, and shallow as his. Her body ached for another kiss, a caress. Something, anything from him. Only him. “No. You love perfection.”

A muscle ticked beneath his right eye. “Love perfection? When I'd never measure up?” he scoffed. “I love the freckles underneath that makeup. I love the high-pitched sound of your voice when you're happy. I love—”

“No,” she insisted, afraid to believe. “No.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Show me your worst, then, sweetheart. Let me prove that I don't want you for your pretty face. At least give me a chance.”

At his words, a wonderful, horrible idea drifted through her mind. Her eyes widened as she contemplated the only thing she could do to prove her appearance meant nothing to him. Maybe it was the wine…maybe it was desperation…either way, she blinked up at Brent.

“Okay. I'll show you my worst tomorrow,” she said, and shut the door in his face.

 

W
HAT WAS
she planning to do?

Brent remained at her door for a long while, grinning like an idiot. What she planned didn't matter, he supposed. Right now, all he cared about was what had just happened.

He'd almost made love to her right there in the doorway. Outside, under her porch light, for anyone to see. She probably had no idea how close he'd come to jerking off her gown and tumbling her onto the cold cement. But he'd kept his hands in her hair, ever the gentleman, not wanting to scare her away. Not when he was finally making progress.

And what sweet progress it was!

He'd known her forever, it seemed, but tonight had been a first. In the past, she'd always rebuffed him, always pushed him away. This time, however, she had let him kiss her, let him taste and touch her like a lover. And she'd responded!

Brent had waited for this moment for more years than he could remember and it had surpassed his every dream, every fantasy. What he'd told her was the truth. When they were younger, he'd craved her. He'd wanted. They were only a few years apart in age, but back then she had seemed infinitely younger. Still, she'd been the cutest little thing he'd ever seen. Her glasses had constantly slid off her nose and her smile…those silver braces had been adorable.

Her hair hadn't changed, was still the same silky red mass he'd always wanted to plow his fingers through. She was no longer the shy pixie who tugged at his heart, but he found that didn't lessen his attraction. He liked the memory of who she'd been and the knowledge of who she was: assertive, strong, undeniably sexy. Except…

Brent traced a finger over his lips. There at the end, right before Georgia had closed the door, there'd been an unholy gleam in her eyes. Yes, that was the best word to describe it.
Unholy.
What was she up to?

At first, she'd been unsteady on her feet and so vulnerable and sad that his heart had squeezed painfully. Perversely, he hoped there was trouble in paradise. Hoped she was beginning to realize that idiot Wyatt, whom he'd never met but hated on principle, was wrong for her. He didn't feel guilty for that thought. Georgia was his; she belonged to him. No one else. After that kiss, he was through being nice and playing things safe. Through being afraid of scaring her away. Through trying to win her slowly but surely.

Brent was going on full attack.

“Bring it on,” he whispered to her door. “Show me your worst.” He could hardly wait.

 

G
EORGIA WOBBLED
to her bathroom and stared at her reflection, a pair of scissors in her hand. She's already drunk another glass of wine and her head was spinning more than before.
Let me prove I don't want you for your pretty face,
he'd said.

If she did this, he'd leave her alone; she knew he would. But…
I'm so tired of pretending to be perfect,
she thought again. Better to have him repulsed by her than to endure another moment of worry. Was her hair in place? Her makeup on smoothly? Her body free of lines and cellulite? Ugh! She felt like a rubber band, stretched so tightly she could snap at any moment.

“Just do it,” she growled. “He wants to see your worst, so show him your worst.”

Before she could talk herself out of it, Georgia began cutting. And cutting. And cutting.

J
ILLIAN'S WHOLE BODY ACHED
. Her head pounded with the force of a war drum. Her arms throbbed. Her neck throbbed. Her legs throbbed. She felt as if she had gone a few (thousand) rounds with a heavyweight boxer.

Was she sick? Dying?

Lord, what had happened last night? It'd been Saturday, a workday for everyone at CAM, and she'd gone to a club, had a few drinks—hey, what was thumping under her chest? And why was she so hot? It was like a heating blanket had been wrapped around her and turned on high.

Go back to sleep,
her mind beseeched.
Dream and fantasize.
“Can't,” she mumbled, smacking her dry lips together. She had to go to work and…wait, she didn't work today. Last night—Saturday. Today—Sunday. Her day off. She did have a lunch date with her mom, though.

Groaning, Jillian cracked open her eyelids, gradually allowing light to seep into her consciousness. The sun was bright, too bright, and orange-gold spots clouded her vision. After a few seconds, she was able to make out lots and lots of bronzed, bruised and bitten skin—and it wasn't hers. This skin had been poured over lean, hard muscle.

“What the—” A sharp pain tore through her head and she expelled another groan. Even her stomach hurt, twisting and churning with nausea. Her mouth was cottony. How much had she drunk last night?

She stared down at the man she'd obviously slept with, a tantalizing image flashing through her head. An image of her new boss, naked, pounding into her. Sweet Christ. Horror slithered through her. She'd slept with Marcus, and those images were actually memories. And they were delicious. Her horror intensified.

How was she supposed to handle this?

“Wake up,” she said, her voice shaky.

He moaned and said, “Quiet. Head hurts.”

Husky voice, slightly accented. Last night that voice had told her sexy things. What would it tell her now? She gulped. Marcus was draped across her couch on his stomach, his head turned to the side, his back lined with scratches. Both of his arms were thrown over his head. He had messy hair, lush pink lips and light beard stubble. His lashes were long and spiky, black.

His hot, male scent—a fragrance made only for sin—drenched her, already fused with her skin, her cells. Oh, there was going to be trouble now. She'd never look at him the same way again. Now, every time she was in his presence, she'd think of his penis pumping inside her. Freaking great!

She jolted to her feet, away from him. Big mistake. Her stomach rolled and she wobbled. She raced to the bathroom, but never actually threw up. Just gagged. Shaking, she brushed her teeth and studied her reflection.

“Dear God,” she rasped out. She was naked (except for the boots), and there were bruises and bite marks all over her skin, just like there'd been on M—
him.
Could she die of embarrassment? Please!

“I'll never drink again,” she muttered. Apparently when she did, she jumped good-looking men and let them do all kinds of naughty things to her. Bite her—sure. Spank her—where's the paddle? How could she have slept with her boss and sworn enemy? How?

Her hair was a mass of black tangles. Her lips were swollen and her mascara was smeared down her cheeks. With an unsteady hand, she grabbed her bathrobe from its hook and tied the white material around herself. She washed her face, but the cold water did nothing to cool her overheated skin.

Never had she experienced as many intense orgasms as she had last night. And Marcus had been the one to give them to her. “You don't even like him,” she reminded herself.

Jillian frowned as she pulled off the boots. Last night, Marcus had been charming, solicitous. Irresistible. She'd actually had fun with him. For the first time in years, she'd relaxed with a man. Talked to a man who wasn't a target.

What's a woman's biggest mistake on a first date? I want to make sure I do it.

Putting out.

The conversation played through her mind. He'd had a wicked twinkle in his eyes when he said it, a seductive devil come to lure her, tempt her.

You'll leave immediately afterward?

Without cuddling.

They'd both come; they'd both gotten off. He should have left. Instead, he'd lured her into his arms and she'd let him. Even wrapped her arms around him, content, and drifted into a sated sleep. And a part of her was
glad
for it.

Had he woken up by now? What was he thinking? Tentative, she strode into the living room. He was already up and pulling on his briefs and jeans. She caught a flash of his ass, then he was zipping. Acting nonchalant, she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her middle. Her cheeks heated when she spied the torn heap of her panties and bra.

What if he was wallowing in regret? What if he hated himself for being with her? The very things she
should
be feeling. “We probably shouldn't talk about this,” she said as breezily as possible.

He flicked her a quick glance over his shoulder. His brown eyes were hard, almost black, and his expression was stern. There was a red circle under his left eye. “That's what you really want?”

No. “Yes.” Conversing about what they'd done would be too embarrassing, would make things too…raw.

Frowning, silent, he bent down and retrieved his shirt. His muscles jumped beneath his skin, yet he still managed to move with fluid grace.

“Am I fired?” she asked, still trying to sound casual. “I did break another rule.”

For a long while, he didn't speak. Just silently buttoned up his shirt—minus a few buttons. “You don't want to quit?” he asked softly.

He sounded half hopeful and half…scared? “No.”

“No, you're not fired. I broke the rule, too, and I'm not going to fire myself.”

Her eyes narrowed. She heard something in his tone, an unspoken
I think sleeping together was punishment enough.
“After this,” she found herself saying, “I'm sure I'll have to have therapy to combat post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Don't try to tell me you didn't have a good time,” he gritted out. “I know for a fact that you did. I've got the marks to prove it.”

Yes, she'd enjoyed every moment in his arms. She'd even begged him for more.
Harder. Don't stop.
Stubbornly, she refused to reply.

“Obviously, our lapse in judgment was because of the alcohol,” he said.

“Yes.” Relief pounded through her—at least, that's the only emotion she would admit to. Having him think she harbored feelings for him…even more embarrassing than sleeping with him. If he had liked her, well, that would have been a different story. Maybe.

He plopped onto the couch and anchored his elbows on his knees. He dropped his head into his upraised palms. “You do know I didn't wear a condom, right?”

She closed her eyes. Shit!

“Tell me you're on the pill.”

“I am on the pill, but what about the other thing?” How much more stupid could she have been? She always insisted her partner wear a condom. Always! She hadn't even given it a second thought last night.

“I'm clean.” He faced her, one brow arched. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

He expelled a labored breath. She took a moment to breathe, as well, but she failed to calm herself. No condom. No freaking condom. If she hadn't gotten wrapped up in proving she could drink him under the table, they wouldn't be in this situation. She would
not
have given into the temptation of him—she hoped.

“Jillian,” he said, then paused. His face had softened, yet he appeared tortured.

“Look,” she said. “We're both on edge right now. We both want to forget what happened. No reason to snap at each other now, right?”

“I can't believe we were so stupid.” Shaking his head, he leaned forward, grabbed his shoes and tugged them on. He stood. “I'll—” He shrugged. “I was going to say I'll call you, but I think we'd both prefer it if I didn't. I'll see you at the office.” With that, he strode to the front door, opened it and stepped outside. The door banged closed behind him.

Finally. Alone with her thoughts. “I'll never be the same again,” she muttered, letting her head fall forward. Her chin pressed into her sternum. Life at work was going to be strained, heavy with tension. She'd tasted forbidden fruit. And once tasted…

“Where's my car?” Suddenly Marcus was back inside her living room. Frowning, he threw his arms in the air. “It's not in your driveway. Neither is your car.”

Jillian started to panic—until she recalled the cab ride where she'd sat in his lap and kissed him. She rubbed her temples. “I'll call a cab. We can go back to the bar and get them.”

His frown deepened. “I'll call the cab.”

“I'll…” What? Kiss you again if you ask nicely? That's what she foolishly wanted to do. He'd reappeared and the urge had quickened inside her. Yep, forbidden fruit. “I'll go get cleaned up.” She sailed into the bathroom and quickly showered, her gaze lingering on the love-play marks Marcus had given her.

Why, why, why had he been the one to bring out her most primal instincts?

Why couldn't another man, at some other point in her life, have pleasured her as expertly? Why had she given in to temptation?

She recalled her rationale: they'd be horrible together and she would stop wanting him. Wrong. Now she wanted him all the more. Wanted to spend more time exploring his body, tasting him, enjoying him. Wanted to give him more time to explore, taste, and enjoy her.

He made it very clear he wants nothing else to do with you.

Clean, she dressed in jeans and an I'm With Stupid tee that pointed to the right. She'd have to make sure she stood on Marcus's left.

There wasn't time to dry her hair—heat made it frizz anyway—so she pulled the curls into a wet knot on top of her head. She was about to apply makeup when Marcus called, “Cab's here.”

She grabbed her purse and keys and trudged into the living room. Beige pillows were strewn across the floor and she hopped over them. Her bra and panties, her dress, were still crumpled pools of black fabric and lace. Her cheeks heated.

Marcus stood at the front door, holding it open. She didn't meet his gaze. When she stepped onto the porch, she did a quick perimeter check to make sure none of her neighbors were out. Especially Georgia, who lived a few houses down.

Mrs. Franklin, the quintessential silver-haired old woman who lived on her right, was sitting on her porch rocker. Jillian's cheeks heated for, what, the third—fourth—time this morning? Mrs. Franklin would call Jillian's granny and Jillian's granny would call her mom. And the family lunch was just a few hours away.

Shit!
she thought again.

Mrs. Franklin was staring at her, as if she'd been waiting all morning for someone to come out. “Your car's not in your driveway, Jillian,” her weathered voice cackled. “I thought you were out partying all night.”

“Hello, Mrs. Franklin,” Jillian replied. She wanted to shove Marcus back inside her house. “I'm not a party girl, you know that. I just left my car…at a friend's house.”

Marcus wasn't content to wait behind her and circled around. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Franklin.”

The old woman's wrinkled lips curled into a sly smile. “Who's your man friend, Jillian?”

“No one. I've really got to run.” She raced to the yellow cab.

Marcus didn't hold open her door. No, he waved at Mrs. Franklin, flashed her a wicked smile, then slid into the back seat. Jillian climbed in beside him and slammed the door closed.

“You could have ignored her,” she grumbled.

Marcus told the cabbie where to go and the car eased into motion. “Now, that would have been rude of me, wouldn't it? And, as you've pointed out numerous times, you don't like it when I'm rude.”

“That's never stopped you before.”

“One more insult from you and I'll visit your neighbor later and show her what you did to my back.”

The cabdriver chortled.

Jillian shot him a death-ray glare before turning back to Marcus. His expression was as hard as a rock. And yet, if she didn't know better, she'd suspect he was…hurt. Surely not. “Do you want me to kill you?” she said. “Is that what this is about?”

“It's about getting a little respect from you,” he said darkly.

“Respect?”

“That's right.”

“Please. Enlighten me. Why should I respect you?”

“I'm—” he paused, obviously having to think it over “—your boss.”

“You didn't act like it last night,” she mumbled.

His jaw clenched. “I thought we were never going to bring that up again. I thought we were going to pretend it didn't happen.”

“That's right. Consider it forgotten. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers and gave him her back, only to glare out the window. Sunlight glowed brightly, illuminating the wood-frame houses. Green trees soon came into view and whipped past, followed by tall redbrick buildings circled by lovely blue sky.

You are such a bitch sometimes,
she chastised herself. There was no reason to snap at him.
He
is
your boss. Despite everything that's happened, he does deserve respect.
Or maybe
because
of everything that had happened. Not once had he gloated. Not once had he smirked or made her feel cheap. He'd simply agreed with her, stating they'd made a mistake, one they couldn't make again.

“I'm sorry,” she found herself saying. “You're…right. I do owe you respect. Just because I made a mistake last night, doesn't—”

“We.”

“What?”

“
We
made a mistake last night,” he said, his tone dark.