like being gifted a three-course dinner without the main course.
And those lips…
She turns to look at me now as she pushes the door open and holds it for me. They curve a little and her lashes lower as I step forward. I want to taste them…to feel them part beneath my pressure…to swallow her moan with the one I know I’d give.
Because I’ve only tasted them once, and the memory is burned into my soul.
She says nothing as we cross the harsh white vestibule. It’s all glass, high ceilings and bright lights, but she lifts its starkness just by being there and I can’t look away.
A warning sparks in my gut—a warning I want to ignore.
So much time has passed since I loved her. The sweet, feisty, fun-loving girl that she was. So many women have come and gone since, none of whom have inspired a need for more or warranted a trust I feel incapable of giving. I date. I have fun. I move on. They’re not relationships as such. Merely acquaintances who satisfy the basic urge for companionship, sex.
I want it to be the same with her. Safe.
But it’s not.
I had so much to lose back then and it served me well, kept me protected.
But now there are no barriers against what’s burning between us, and I should be running the other way.
But I’m not.
We reach the lift and she presses the button to call it. I half expect her to turn, tell me she’s changed her mind, but she doesn’t and the warning starts to trickle through my spine: Are you sure you can keep a lid on this?
She sneaks a look at me from beneath her lashes, her thoughts hidden as she nibbles over her lip—that deliciously full lip that I want to trace with my tongue—and a tide of longing drowns out the panic.
The lift opens and we walk in. It’s vacant and small. I expected it to be vast, to give me room to stave off the heat her nearness is driving. I’ve wanted her for so long. Fantasised about it even when I knew I shouldn’t. And now I’m going to have her I want it to last—not to erupt like my teenage self would have done.
But it’s impossible to put down the semi-permanent erection I’ve been sporting since sitting between her legs. Hell, even before then. From the moment she gave me that look across the room, daring me to follow her. It was there with her intent, her desire.
I fist my hands inside my pockets, fix my gaze to the lift doors and count to ten…twenty… The ground shifts to a gentle stop. The top floor. The penthouse. Only the best for the Beaumonts.
As the doors slide open there’s more white, more glass, more coldness. It’s similar to my place, further into the city, but it reeks of her family—not her. Not the girl I knew. But as for the woman… What do I truly know?
We should have gone to mine.
‘You don’t like it?’
I realise she’s caught me frowning, my hands still deep in my pockets and my shoulders tense. I force myself to relax and give her a smile. ‘It’s not what I expected.’
She shrugs off her coat and opens a concealed closet, hanging it up. ‘It’s my parents’ place, and it’s exactly how they like it.’
‘Not you.’
It’s a simple statement, and I guess I could be wrong but I want to know I’m right. I see a flash of colour run along her cheekbones, her lips twitching.
Not only am I right, I’ve pleased her—and, Christ, does it feel good.
‘No, not really.’ She closes the closet and starts to head off towards an open living space. ‘I have a place I’m renovating in Notting Hill. This is a stopgap.’
My smile grows with my confidence as I follow her. I still know her. ‘What colour?’
She eyes me over her shoulder as she enters the kitchen and reaches for a glass. ‘Colour?’
‘The house…’
She gives a soft laugh. ‘What makes you think I’ve gone for a colour?’ she asks, dispensing water from the sleek black fridge door. ‘I could have gone for au naturel stone.’
She leans back against the countertop and takes a sip from the glass, her eyes holding mine.
‘Again…not you.’
She smiles approvingly. ‘Pink.’
‘Pink?’
My brow rises—she has to be teasing. I search her gaze and it dances with humour. I would have had her saying blue—yellow, even—but pink…
‘Now you look like my mother when I told her the same.’
I laugh as I imagine the scene and see humour reflected in her gaze. She looks beautiful, amused, so at ease suddenly, and it warms me through. It feels like old times. When the banter was so quick to spark between us.
I smile. ‘I bet she was all for yellow—am I right?’
‘Yellow, or even blue, anything but pink.’
She shakes her head softly and there’s a silent exchange, an acceptance that we still work.
I can feel it.
And then it’s gone.
She stiffens as the mood shifts and I grapple to get it back. ‘Whatever floats your boat, I say.’
She takes a breath, visibly composing herself as she turns away to place her glass on the side.
‘You do,’ she says, her eyes coming back to me, her voice low, her eyes intent. ‘Right now.’
The swift change from light-hearted to sexual unsettles me. My eyes narrow. Is she forcing us back to sex? Taking away our connection? The personal talk?
You should be happy.
She gives her head a small flick as her eyes stare into mine. ‘Or have you changed your mind?’
Fuck that.
I’m moving before I know it.
Fuck personal. Fuck talk.
She’s in my arms, her hands beneath my jacket shoving it down my shoulders. I throw it to one side, pulling her back against me and seeking out her mouth, instinct driving me, making me forget not to kiss her. She turns away, arching her neck and offering up the creamy expanse of skin instead.
The gesture cuts deep and I scrape my teeth against her—a nip of punishment and acceptance in one—and the whimper it draws triggers a groan of my own. Christ. The series of things I want to do to her, with her, is rampaging through my brain, and my arousal strains painfully
