her hand hovered over her breastbone, drawing attention to her rigid nipples. Fuck, he wanted her.
‘I’m guessing you have some great jazz playlists at your place?’ Her voice turned husky, possibly from nerves or desire, as she squared her shoulders, bold and daring and delectable. ‘As good as anything these guys can produce?’
Yeah, she wanted this as badly as he did. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was using him as an emotional crutch again, a guy to help her lose herself in a few hours of sex to obliterate whatever was really bothering her.
Why do you care?
The kicker was, he did care. Even after all this time, because of how he’d felt about her all through uni, he cared. She didn’t know it, but he’d never take advantage of her.
No matter how brazen her actions, no matter how seductive her words, he had to wonder: did she want this for the right reasons? Did she really want a night of raunchy sex then to face him tomorrow without a qualm when they had to work together?
The fact he couldn’t get a proper read on her annoyed the shit out of him. Back then she’d been vulnerable and she’d needed him and he’d been there for her.
Tonight, her newfound confidence confused him. He’d made the first move, she’d responded with that kiss, and despite her daring he couldn’t help but think it had more to do with obliterating the earlier sadness he’d glimpsed than any burning desire to fuck him.
When he didn’t respond she leaned across and slanted a slow, all too brief kiss across his lips. Then she took his face between her hands, stared him dead in the eyes, and said, ‘I want you. I’ve never forgotten that incredible night and I want a repeat.’
She said all the right things, and with his cock aching to be inside her he needed to ditch the chivalry and take what she was offering.
She added, ‘Please,’ and Brock was a goner.
Because behind the boldness in her gaze as she eyeballed him with daring, behind the confident posture as she tilted her chin up in defiance, he heard something.
The slightest tremor in her voice, a hint of vulnerability that got to him, as if she expected him to turn away from her despite their sizzling attraction.
It kicked him in the fucking heart.
He couldn’t say no.
GROWING UP, JAYDA had had a secret passion for interior design. She’d loved visiting Melbourne’s swankiest homes with her parents where she’d be goggle-eyed at plush carpets, exotic velvet settees, ancient artefacts and artwork that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the world’s top galleries.
She’d developed a hankering for real estate over the years and had invested wisely thanks to her trust fund, owning two properties on the outskirts of the city currently rented to tenants, and her own luxurious town house in trendy Fitzroy. She’d bought the three-bedroom place off the plan so had carte blanche to decorate it, a project she’d loved. She’d chosen every inch, from the black marble bench tops to the glossy grey cupboards, from the polished oak floorboards to the eggshell paint scheme throughout.
She’d spent an inordinate amount of time poring over online furnishing catalogues and social media accounts of the world’s top interior designers, and had gone for simplistic sophistication over look-but-don’t-touch glitz. Her place screamed understated elegance.
It had nothing on Brock’s apartment.
‘Wow,’ she said, as she stepped into the foyer of his penthouse on the fiftieth floor of a towering complex in upscale Collins Street. This place was beyond wow. Way beyond. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows curved in a sweeping one hundred and eighty degrees, offering a stunning view of Melbourne by night. A balcony ran the same curvature, with sun loungers placed at strategic intervals. Fawn marble tiles covered the floor, with space-age metallic lighting fixtures hanging from the ceiling. Sleek chocolate-brown suede sofas were angled to face a modernistic painting with slashes of primary colours, which would turn into a TV at the flick of a button. She had a much smaller version at her place.
Overall, the penthouse exuded a subtle wealth and while her own town house had gobbled up mega bucks to channel the style and glamour she’d wanted, she knew she’d done well in enlisting his services to help get her business off the ground. To afford a place like this he must be extremely good at his job, beyond the stellar reviews she’d read online.
‘This place is gorgeous,’ she said, spinning a slow three-sixty to take it all in.
‘I like it.’ He shrugged, as if the massive apartment that covered an entire floor meant little, and gave her a gentle nudge forward. ‘Come in. Make yourself comfortable.’
Jayda slipped off her heels at the door, afraid she’d make indentation marks in his pristine marble tiled floor. Stupid, that after all these years she harboured the teensiest resentment against her body and its losing battle with carbs. Her weight fluctuated but not by much. She’d suffered the indignity of various labels from her early teens: ‘curvy’ had been one of the nice ones, ‘fatty’ at the other extreme.
Brock adored her curves apparently, as he’d repeatedly told her when he’d undressed her on that one night six years ago. She hadn’t really believed him but hadn’t cared; she’d been shattered and desperately seeking comfort at the time. Then he’d proceeded to show her in exquisite, sensual detail exactly how much he liked her curves. She’d revealed her innermost doubts regarding her body image that night—and the way Deon had battered her self-esteem along with taking her virginity—and Brock had given her exactly what she’d wanted.
The mind-blowing sex had been unforgettable and the moment she’d laid eyes on him tonight, she’d wanted him. She’d changed a lot since that night, had learned to live in the moment. Be spontaneous. Lighten up. A sizzling one-night stand replicating the sensational sex from years ago would be exactly what she needed.
All nice in theory until she shot him a sideways glance and caught him studying her with an intensity that made her skin pebble. What was he thinking? Did he remember that night in as much detail as she did? Did he regret it? Did he want to back out now?
She hadn’t exactly given him much choice in the matter tonight. She’d poured all her nervous energy into putting on a brave face and when it had looked as if he’d continue asking the hard questions about her folks, she’d come on to him.
He hadn’t called her out on the distraction technique and she’d been grateful. But once he’d articulated that he wanted her, and pressed her hand to his cock, she’d forgotten about distractions and working together and every goddamn thing.
In that moment, she’d known that all she wanted from tonight was him. But now that she’d set foot in his domain, a far cry from his old shabby flat, deep-seated doubts bubbled up from within.
Would he still find her attractive?
Would he find her lacking somehow?
Would she be enough?
Stupid, irrational fears considering how far she’d come since the last time they’d had sex, but there was
