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Movement catches my eye.
Chris is standing up, ripping page after page from his notebook and flinging it away. Of course, it’s paper, so it doesn’t go far, but then he picks up his mug and flings it out into the darkness. Apparently, that’s more satisfying, so he grabs the closest thing with some weight—his chair—and flings it too.
I sprint for the door and get outside in time to hear the second chair crash into the bushes.
“Chris!” I shout, and he startles.
He’s breathing hard, wide-eyed, angry at himself, the world, something.
“What are you doing?” I strive to keep my voice calm.
“Fucking shit up.” He gestures out to the lawn and turns to glare at me. “Fucking everything up.”
“You’re not—”
“You.” Chris takes a step toward me and then another. I swallow at the look on his face, the heat in his gaze. I’ve drawn his anger away, pulled his emotions outward instead of inward, but as he stalks toward me, that anger cracks and fizzles into desire.
“Me?” The word is breathy, and the band of my sports bra is too tight around me. I can’t get enough air. Chris draws near until we’re toe-to-toe.
“Yes, you,” he says, and it’s low and careful. “With your sports bras and your wholesomeness and your cheerful attitude.”
He’s looking down, those cheekbones angled at me, and those lips, the lips that I touched when my curiosity got the better of me, are right at my eye level. I take a deep breath, my breasts brushing against Chris’s chest.
“Do you hate those things?” I whisper.
“No,” he rumbles. “I fucking love them.”
His hand snakes up to cup the back of my neck and pull me toward him, crushing my mouth against his. This kiss is demanding and hot, all tongue and teeth and anger and frustration, and instead of tempering him, forcing him to slow down so we can both realize what a colossal mistake this is, I bite his lip.
Chris groans, pressing me back into the door. That vibration echoes through him and into me as he presses his body against mine. His cock is hard on my belly. His other hand comes to my neck, and his two thumbs press into the soft underside of my chin and tilt my face up.
His tongue is in my mouth, the barbell a strange invasion. It clacks against my teeth and shocks me out of my lusty haze.
What am I doing?
All the things that lust blocked out roar in: the faint hint of cigarettes, the metallic taste, the fact that this kiss is not born of emotions I invite into my life. Anger and frustration only lead to bad decisions.
My hands grip Chris’s forearms between us. The skin shifts underneath my palm as Chris grows more restless.
I have to stop him now.
I push hard, but Chris gives at the slightest pressure, and I thank god the door is holding me up; otherwise, I would have stumbled.
We stand there panting at each other.
Chris swallows. His gaze flutters all over me, over my kiss-swollen mouth, my heaving breasts, my hand on the doorknob.
“Shit.” He runs a hand over his head. “Sara, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. I swallow and hold out a hand, trying to calm my thoughts. “It’s fine.” That sounded calmer and more collected. “I’m going to get back to work, okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, I twist the knob and escape, power walking to my desk and putting my headphones on. I go through the motions, opening up a file in my editing software and hitting play, but my eyes unfocus right away.
My body is screaming at me to go back out there and kiss Chris again. The desire that shot through me was like being woken up from a deep sleep by fireworks, a desire that had laid dormant all this time.
But I don’t go back out there. Kissing Chris would be a mistake. That one kiss shouldn’t have even happened.
