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“Deadly jealous,” she admits quietly, her straight expression not wavering.
I’m surprised she’s being so open, but I don’t let her see it. I just look at her, hoping she sees the seriousness in my eyes. “I don’t want you,” I say clearly.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then I guess it’s too bad for me that I really want you, huh?”
“You don’t know what the fuck you want, Lainey.” Do I know what I want? Really, do I? Yes. I want to fuck her again. That’s it. Just fuck.
“I do know, Ty. It just took me a little longer than you to accept it. Don’t condemn me for being scared.”
I try to hide my surprise at her frankness. There it is again. She’s scared. But I don’t center on that statement, because what would I say? “You know what you want?” I ask, and she nods. “Then fucking show me, Lainey.”
“Show you?”
“Yes, show—”
She pushes her mouth to mine, sliding her hands around my back and hauling me in. Our torsos crush together, as well as our lips, but my arms remain limp by my side, scared to hold her.
Her kiss is slow, persistent, and cautious. Her teeth nibble at the corners, tempting me to let her in. Jesus, her lips are so soft, and her scent so intoxicating.
Even if I could, I shouldn’t.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
Easier said than done, especially when you’ve experienced it before. And didn’t I tell her to show me? I moan and give in to my body’s demand, opening my mouth to her and letting her in. She hums, satisfied, and my arms come to life, dropping my makeshift ice pack and wrapping her in my hold. Our tongues lap, they roll, they entwine like they’ve finally found each other. My whole being goes lax, Lainey going soft in my arms, as we share the most delicate, evocative kiss. It’s alien to me. But it’s deeply gratifying, and that in itself is a mystery. I’m not going to get anything from her here in the kitchen. My cock is raging hard, but I ignore it and focus on this kiss. This kiss. Fuck me, this kiss.
But together, like we’ve both suddenly realized where we are, we start to slow the sensual dance of our tongues until our lips are simply touching, and Lainey pulls away, her eyes on my mouth. She skates a palm down my chest until it rests over my heart and holds it there for a few seconds, smiling a little. She can feel the hammering. Then she takes my hand and guides it to her own chest, laying it gently on her breastbone. The pounding sinks into my hand, and she looks up at me. I nod, understanding, and she nods, too.
Then she backs away, looking over her shoulder when the sound of people chatting becomes louder. Bending, she collects my ice pack and places it in my limp hand before taking a bottle of water from the side and walking out of the kitchen, just as Callie and Mac wander in.
Both of them look at me propped up on the worktop, both of their mouths snapping shut. They feel awkward, probably having witnessed the showdown between their bosses. I don’t feel awkward. I feel bewitched. Completely thunderstruck.
Pushing myself from the counter with some effort, I head back to my office, trying not to look as fucking dazed as I am.
As expected, Gina’s desk is empty as I pass, but I don’t spend too much time agonizing over the fact that she’s undoubtedly still tending to Sal’s bloody nose and soothing his bruised ego.
I land at my desk, flex my aching fist a little, and start a new email, tapping in Lainey’s name. But when I get to the body of my message, I stall. My fingers pull away from the keys, and I sit back in my chair. What am I going to say? Will she even answer? Or ignore me like she did the last time I emailed her? My palms come up and land on my cheeks, dragging down my bristle. No, I have to email her. I hunch over my desk and start tapping. And pull back once more, reclining in my chair, deliberating again. Damn. I don’t know what to say, and I’m petrified I’ll be ignored, even if I do find any words. My foot starts tapping on the carpet, my mind racing. I saw Lainey’s face last night when I shoved Jenna in my car. She looked devastated. Jealous. She was jealous, and now I’m wondering where that leaves us? She wants me. She can’t possibly try to deny it again, and she just proved it as requested in the kitchen. Or demanded. Whatever.
My head begins to ache.
And then her name pops up in the corner of my screen, and my heart surges like a girl’s. I dive forward, clicking the shiny, enticing icon. I might be getting ahead of myself. She might be emailing me to tell me it shouldn’t have happened. Again.
