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To be fired? Yeah, I think a drink will soften the blow.
I nod.
As Cash walks to the bar in the corner of his office, I take a moment to look around. Every other time I’ve been in this space I’ve been teetering on the edge of a breakdown so I’ve never really explored it properly. The ceilings are ridiculously high, and the windows span the entire length. Where there isn’t window there is brick, and it gives the room character and feels oddly like it was built just for Cash. He fits in here in a way that he doesn’t fit in many other spaces.
“Come here,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “I want to show you something.”
I release my death grip on the pastry bag and walk to the window where Cash is pointing out into the distance. Unprepared for him to turn, or for him to be holding a glass of whiskey in his hand when he does it, I bump into his arm, and his entire drink splatters on his white shirt. My eyes grow wide in embarrassment, and I immediately start patting at his shirt as if my hands could make the brown stains disappear. “Oh, God, Cash, I’m so sorry.”
Cash’s hands hover above my own as if in hesitation and then he places them on mine, stopping my incessant patting. “It’s okay; I have more shirts.”
“But your date,” I reply, looking up and meeting his eyes.
Without taking his eyes off mine, he begins to unbutton his shirt. First, it’s the top one. I try to look away, but my eyes remain trained on the hint of skin that peeks through. Then the next one comes undone, and I feel the breath halt in my throat. Lost in the way his thumb pushes the button forward, the way his fingers press into his shirt, the same way they pressed inside me that night. Our one night.
Will that be all we ever have?
“Breathe, Angel,” Cash’s smooth voice washes over me.
Suddenly, I’m squeezing my thighs together as I feel the dampness building between my legs.
“Grace,” he says, his voice scratching at my skin.
“Huh?” I whimper, my eyes finally reaching up to look at him again.
“What are you thinking about?”
I shake my head, refusing to voice my innermost thoughts. My desires. My need to feel those fingers inside me again. To feel his lips pressed against mine. His mouth…
“Fuck, Grace, you’re biting your lip.”
“Hm,” I hum a response.
Cash is suddenly pressing his body up against mine, caging me against the window. His smooth olive skin, the muscles in his chest, all of him, presses against me. He’s so close that I can feel every intake of breath, every beat of his heart, and the sharp bulge below his jeans lets me know his desires mirror my own.
His hand circles my throat, and he forces my eyes to meet his. Whiskey-brown eyes search mine as his breath mingles with my own.
“Did you go home with Hanson last night?”
The shake of my head is constricted by his hand around my neck, by his fingers digging into the flesh of my throat. Not hurting me. Possessing me.
He shifts his hips against me, and I moan.
“We shouldn’t,” I warn.
Irritation flashes in his eyes, and I see the war dying inside us both.
“Couldn’t stop if I tried, Grace, and I’m so fucking tired of trying,” he says seconds before his thumb pulls my lip down harshly and his mouth then kisses away the sting.
My body does nothing but sag in relief, in defeat, in acceptance, and I kiss him back. Unable to move from the weight of him against me, I shift my pelvis against him, seeking more.
More Cash, more hardness, more everything.
His thumb caresses my chin, and he stops kissing me, holding me hostage with his fingers, his body, and the piercing stare he offers. “What if things were different? If you weren’t my matchmaker and…”
“And what, Cash?” I practically pant, dying to kiss him again.
Cash speaks as if he’s completely unaffected. He’s completely in control, whereas I am ready to melt into the floor in a puddle of need. “If I wasn’t me and you weren’t you…If we were those two people who met on the plane…no husband—”
