Off Limits (11 page)

I suppose it might be because the veg is so fresh, straight from the dirt up here in farm country. But I'm inclined to believe that the magic ingredient to this particular meal is something else.

Some
one
else.

"This is . . . holy shit." Chloe finally opens her eyes, and smiles into her plate. "Did you ever consider becoming a chef instead?"

I grin. "Too hectic for me. I prefer the 9am to midnight work schedule over the 5am to midnight one."

She lifts an eyebrow, still smiling. "Does workaholism run in the office or something?"

I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know about that. Emergency hookups aside, I don’t always set aside enough time for work.”

Her cheeks flush, and she ducks her head a little, acknowledging the blow. “I’m sorry I got so heated,” she tells her plate. Then those hazel eyes flash up to mine again, and reading the sincerity in them, I can’t help but shake my head.

“It’s fine, Chloe. You’re serious about your job. I respect that. I am too.”

Her lips purse into a little moue. God it’s fucking sexy. “I dunno. Sometimes I think maybe I take it
too
seriously. What you said, about there being some things more important in life than work?” We both gaze at each other, the silence stretching between us for a second, as I wait for what she’s about to say. But eventually, she only shakes her head and takes a stab at another bite of pasta. “You might be onto something.”

“Only maybe?” I take another bite myself.

She grins on one side of her mouth, lopsided, sexy as fuck. “Only maybe.” She winks, and I swear I feel the effect of that single eyelash movement all the way down to my dick. But then she sighs and casts an eye over the scenery again, her mood shifting. "Y'know, I don't even know how long it's been since I went on a vacation. Came somewhere like this. I mean, I know this isn't a vacation." Her cheeks flush again. God, she blushes so easily.

I fucking love it.

"But it feels like a little escape. From the city, from the office."

"But alas, not from your worst coworker," I add with a wry twist of my lips.

Her eyes flash to mine, and in the dying sunlight, the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes seem to light up. “You’re not the
worst
one.”

“News to me,” I reply with a lift of my eyebrows.

“There’s Pervy Pete in accounting,” she says, and I snort.

“So I rank one above him. Good to know.”

“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes seem to dance in the dimming light.

“Where do I rank then?”

“You mean Mr. Cockiness Incarnate cares what I think?” she counters, smirking a little as she scoops up another bite from her plate.

“I didn’t say that,” I repeat, and she can’t help laughing again. I love making her do that. Making her laugh. Or making her blush. Both at once, preferably. But part of me wants more than that. I want to get to know her. Find out what makes her tick. Because for once, when faced with a sexy as hell woman, I can’t seem to figure her out.

“Where would you go?” I ask, of course right as she takes a huge bite of pasta. “On vacation, I mean,” I add as she attempts to chew faster. “Me, I’d love to visit Italy. Sicily, actually. My dad’s from there originally.”

She swallows, and washes the pasta down with another sip of wine. “Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for Italian.”

“I take after Mom’s side. Very Polish, apparently.”

“I’d have guessed Russian.” She gestures at her face. “The cheekbones. And the nose—you’ve got a kind of big nose, you know?”

“Gee, thanks.” I laugh.

“No, it looks good on you!” she protests, before stopping dead, her cheeks reddening. “I mean. It suits your face, is all. Very proportionate.”

“You’re quite proportionate yourself, Chloe,” I reply, leaning across the table toward her. She does the blushing thing again, and I can see, now that I’m a little closer, that her breath hitches in her chest. Her lips part, faintly, and then I realize I’m staring at her lips, and I force myself to meet her eyes again, except she’s looking at my mouth instead.

“Are you done?” she asks suddenly, reaching between us to grab my empty plate. “I’ll take these inside.”

Before I can say anything, she springs out of her seat, plates in hand. As she sashays into the house, I stare after her, unable to tear my gaze from her ass, the way her long legs unfold, and her hips sway enticingly with every step she takes. I want to run my hands over her, trace every inch of her unbelievable body, memorize her the way I’d study a case file. Until I memorize her body, backwards and forwards. Until I can feel her on my fingertips without even touching her.

I close my eyes for a minute, squeeze them tight.
Pull it together, man
. We went down this road once already today. She freaked the fuck out. I need to keep my baser urges under control, especially now.

I pour us both a second glass of wine, and I make sure it’s a healthy, generous pour.

It’s fine. Ignoring our attraction worked for most of the day. It will work for another day and a half. Then we’ll be out of this place, back to the city, back to the daily grind of work, and we can both forget this trip ever happened.

S
hit
. On top of everything else, does Max freaking Davis have to be so goddamn easy to talk to? I forgot myself back there at dinner. Let myself treat him like I would any other extremely attractive man who started to open up to me about his life, the overworked feelings, the daydreaming about vacations he’d like to take, escapes he’d like to go on. His family history. . .

But Max isn’t just some hot guy who I feel more and more close to the more I talk to him. Max is the asshole I freaking
hated
at the office up until we were shoved together to work on this stupid project in the first place. Max is the office manwhore, and I need to not let myself fall in line to become his next one-night stand.

Besides, in all my years working for this company, I have never once broken the no-fraternizing clause in our contracts. I don’t intend to start now. Not with so much on the line—this case, the publicity that will come along with it. A chance at being considered next for partner.

I need to keep my head in the game, now more than ever. That means not thinking about the way Max’s green eyes lit up when they caught mine at the dinner table, or the way his cheeks dimple when he laughs, or how carefree and contagious that laughter sounds.

And then, of course, there’s his body. His very muscular, very lean, very sexy body.

His huge cock
, my animal brain adds.
And the fact that he might have been thinking about you in that bathroom, when he was jacking off earlier.

Probably not. It was probably just the stupid Suzie Steel videos with all the gym-buff babes he’s into that got him all hot and bothered. Or so I keep telling myself.

Part of me already knows I’m lying. But it’s not like a guy like Max would be looking for anything more than a quick fuck, so why do I care?

Why the hell are you even thinking about something more?
asks animal brain.
Can’t we settle for just fucking him?

But the truth is, I don’t really want to settle for that. Not anymore. I mean, not like I’m looking for something ultra-serious, but I also don’t want to just hook up, either. So Max is absolutely the wrong guy to be daydreaming about.

For a million reasons.

And yet.

As I walk back through the house, having loaded all of our cookware into the dishwasher, and having no other excuse to leave him out on the balcony alone anymore, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Fantasizing about me and him and that balcony furniture. The table looked pretty sturdy . . . or there’s our beds upstairs, both of which are plenty large enough to roll around in. . .

Gah
. Clearly seeing him in the bathroom earlier triggered the same need in me. Can women get blue balls? I think I’m feeling the pinch right now, if so.

I step out onto the balcony and force an easy smile in his direction. Oh good. He’s refilled the wine glasses, too. With very large pours.

Smart man.

I scoop mine up before I even finish taking a seat. “Here’s to hoping you take that trip someday,” I say. We both drink, and somehow our eyes won’t unlock from one another’s. His bore into me, so penetrating I can almost feel his gaze, as if he were touching me.

Fuck, I wish he were touching me
.

“You never answered my question earlier,” he says, as we set our glasses down. “Where would you go?”

I smile, just a little bit, still watching him. Watching those piercing green eyes. “I don’t know. There’s a ton of places I want to see. I never know how to decide. So then I end up going to none of them.” I grimace.

“Well, list a few places you want to visit, then.” His smile is easy, compelling. It makes me want to tell him the answer to anything he asks me.

Your pants,
I think. Out loud, I reply, “All the European highlights. You know. Paris, London, Rome, Berlin. I studied abroad in Madrid in college, but I never really traveled around. I regret that.”

“Too busy with coursework?” He lifts an eyebrow, sarcastic.

“Guess some people never change,” I say as I nod. “Once a workaholic, always a workaholic.”

“Okay, so European highlight tour. Where else would you go?”

“Thailand.”

“That’s interesting. Why there?”

“I saw a travel video about it one time. With my mom. She always wanted to go, used to talk about taking me with her, before. . .” I bite my lip.

His hand slides across the table to catch mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t need to ask what happened. I’m sure that’s obvious from my facial expression right now.

I shake my head. “It’s fine. It’s been years.” Seven, in fact, since my mom passed away.

Wow. Time flies when you aren’t paying attention.

I swallow hard, to control the little lump that rises in my throat every time I think too long about her. “Anyway. I guess I want to visit for her. To make up for not getting there with her.”

“Sounds like that should really be the top of your list,” he says, his voice lower now, concerned.

He’s still holding my hand. I don’t want him to let go.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Book a trip.” He tugs on one of my fingers. My pinkie. He unfolds it, and wraps his pinkie around mine, his skin warm as the sun on mine. “Come on. Pinkie swear. As soon as this case is finished, you’ll book a flight to Thailand. Agreed?”

In spite of myself, I grin back at him. It’s impossible to look at Max’s smile and not grin yourself. I clench my pinkie finger around his. “Agreed. One flight to Thailand, coming right up. Soon as we finish this job.”

“Good. Now that’s settled.” He winks.

“But,” I add, clenching my pinkie again before he can pull away. “You need to make a promise too.”

He catches my eye. Gazes into my own, straight past my eyes and into my heart. “Anything,” he says, and I swear he must be able to hear my heart pounding in my chest.

My throat contracts, but I force it open again to reply. “Go to Italy. If I’m going to Thailand, you need to take your trip too.”

He laughs, softly. “Deal.”

“And bring your mom,” I add, lifting my other hand to wag my finger at him.

He catches that hand in his too, so both of our hands are wrapped around one another’s, and he’s so casually strong that I feel safe just like this, just having his hands on mine and knowing he’s here, beside me, for whatever I need.

Anything,
he said. He’d do anything I asked.

“I can do that,” he’s saying, but I hardly even hear the words. I can’t tear my eyes from his mouth.

Suddenly, his hands are lifting mine, drawing my arms up in the air, lifting me from the chair, because we’re both standing up, and he’s stepping around the table, there’s nothing between us anymore but air, and not even a lot of that.

Then he lets go of my hands, and I gasp for a second, only a second, though, because he only let go to pull me into his arms. I wrap mine around his neck, and it’s twilight now, dark enough that I can only see his eyes, his face, not the forest or the fields around us.

For a breath, we hang there like the lights twinkling around us, frozen, our lips inches apart, his head bent down to mine, our chests pressed against each other, rising and falling with every breath we take. Then I can’t stand it anymore, and I push myself up on tiptoe to press my lips to his.

That’s all it takes to crack him. Max tightens his strong arms around me, crushes me to his chest, lifting me half an inch from the deck as he kisses me back, hard. The day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks scratches my palm as I run my hand over his chiseled cheekbone, then bury both of my hands in his hair. I lift one leg around his waist, as he spins us both around to press my back against the side of the house. I’m pinned between him and the wall, the hard press of his cock digging into my stomach, as huge as he looked earlier, and every inch as eager.

His hands are all over me—my hips, my ass, my neck, my hair. He clenches one fist in my hair and pulls me deeper into the kiss, our lips parting as we devour each other, tongues entwined, both our hips rocking. His cock pulses against my stomach, and I twist around to press my clit against that bulge, gasping at the sensations that rush over me. He smells salty and savory and sexy as fuck all at once.

He sucks my lip into his mouth, grazes his teeth along my lower lip as his other hand slides up my waist to grip my breast through my shirt. He runs his thumb over my nipple, so hard it’s visible through my bra, and I groan into his kiss, a shiver of want running through my entire body. His hands trace along my back, down my sides, settling at the small of my back to pull me harder against him.

I want him to take me, right here, right now, in the open against the side of the house. My hands are already moving down his muscular back, along his sides, reaching for the hem of his jeans, when I realize what I’m doing.

Who I’m thinking about doing.

I drop my leg from his waist and pull away from our kiss, even as a moan of frustration escapes me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low and deep. The dark has settled more firmly around us—I can hardly see the table or the wine glasses now. I can’t make out the expression on his face, either, or what’s in his eyes as they fix on mine.

“I . . . I’m sorry, I just. . .”

He eases me to the ground, releases his grip on me, though he doesn’t step away from me, or take his hands from my sides. Not yet. “Don’t apologize,” he says, but I’m already forcing myself to turn away, pull out of his arms, even though it’s the last thing I want to do.

“I can’t do this. I—.” I flee into the house before I have time to second-guess myself. Inside, I pick up my pace, until I’m practically running up the stairs. I don’t stop until I’m locked in my room, the bathroom door locked too.

I fling myself face-first onto the bed, stuffing one of the pillows over my mouth as I scream into it with frustration.

All I can taste is him. All I can smell is him, on my skin, on my clothes. All I can see, when I close my eyes, are his eyes above me, his stark profile as he leans in to kiss me, hard. All I can feel is the hard press of his cock at my stomach, his hips arching into mine, wanting the same thing I do.

With the pillow still pressed against my mouth, I drop my hand to my jeans. Slide my fingers beneath them, pushing beneath my panties and lower until I reach my opening.

I’m soaking wet, just from the thought of him. Fuck.

I let myself fall into the fantasy. Pretend I hadn’t run away from him. Pretend he kept kissing me, devouring me, his mouth on my neck, my chest, my breasts, sucking and letting his teeth graze against my nipple the way he bit at my lip.

Pretend he kept me pressed against that wall, pinned against it, helpless, and I had both legs wrapped around him as he pulled my jeans and his down. Imagine that hard, long, thick cock of his toying with my clit, him pressing the tip against me hard until I gasped, and then running his length along my slit, soaking himself in my slick heat.

I trace my finger across my lips the way I wish he’d run his cock, back and forth, slow, until my finger is soaked. Then I press slowly into myself, imagining it’s him instead, imagining how that thick head of his would stretch my walls, make me feel so full I’d have to gasp for breath.

I imagine him thrusting hard into me, the wall digging into my back as he fucks me, our hips crashing together every time he pulls out and thrusts back in. I let a stifled moan escape into the pillow as my fingers thrust deep, and my thumb presses my clit, pressing until it throws me over the edge. I bite my lip and suppress the urge to cry out, keeping as quiet as I can as the orgasm rocks through my body, making my pussy clench and spasm.

For a moment afterwards I just lie there, face still buried in the pillow, panting, Relief pouring from me, but it’s still not enough. It doesn’t even come close to comparing to the real thing.

I want to fuck Max Davis. And no amount of getting myself off is going to change that fact.

Shit.