JC Harroway - Forbidden To Taste

There it is—her steel, her independence. Fucking attractive qualities I’ve always secretly admired.

‘I know you don’t need it.’ She’s the strongest woman I know. Facing her losses with the bravery of a whole squadron of men.

Her eyes dart away, perhaps finding the carpet, this particular shade of charcoal, fascinating. But she’s right not to trust me. Right not to need me. She’s unaware, but I’m a snake in the grass. I’d never have played my hand—in my mind, she’ll always be Sam’s—but thoughts can betray as much as actions. Did my thoughts make me as complicit as Sam, who had everything I dared to crave, but failed to honour its value?

I aim for nonchalance with my shrug, ignoring the colicky twist of my gut that remonstrates. ‘I just wanted to ease your burden. Help the only way I could.’ The money helped me to keep my word without losing my mind.

I should have stayed in touch. Should have worked harder to fight my attraction from day one so I could uphold my promise to my friend with more than financial assistance. She would have needed more than money these past three years—solace, company, practical help. Sam’s army pension probably covers her mortgage, but not much else. And now with London prices... And besides, I swore. Made a vow to look out for his woman and her sister. If Sam were here, he’d tell me straight up—I’m a shitty friend. But then, at the end, he was a shitty husband...

‘Why are you so stubborn? A promise is a promise.’ Every married soldier has his brothers at his back and I had Sam’s back.

Every time except that last time. The only time that counted...

‘I prefer determined. That’s why my plan was supposed to entice you—I don’t want your money. So, do I get my shot?’ The set of her jaw tells me she isn’t going to back down and, if there are three years’ worth of cheques in that envelope, nothing I say tonight will change her mind and convince her to accept what I can easily afford.

I close my eyes, wishing I could close my mind to the dilemma as easily. Of course, the only thing my brain latches on to is the delicate scent of the woman next to me on the couch. The warmth of her body seeping across the pathetic slice of space between us.

I drag in air. It would be so easy to reach out. To touch her. To have all my fantasies confirmed in the flesh.

I snap my eyes open and sit a little straighter, sucking on my discipline.

I groan aloud at my lack of options, rub my hand over my face, the length of the day and its unexpected turn finally draining the last of my energy.

But she’s done waiting for my answer. ‘It’s okay. I understand.’ Kenzie stands and places her glass on the table. ‘Don’t worry. Just forget I came.’

Forget? Not fucking likely. I’ll probably relive every second throughout a long, sleepless night. I stand, too, my thoughts tripping over themselves to break free as coherent sentences.

‘It was great to see you.’ I wince. Is that the best I can do?

‘Thanks for the wine,’ she says, grabbing her stiff, wet denim jacket, the defeat in her eyes buffeting my resolve.

She’s reached out to me after all this time. It’s my fault she needs a job.

‘Wait.’ I can offer her a chance. I’ll just have to double my morning gym routine so I’m completely exhausted if and when I do run into her in the corridor. Yeah, no amount of burpees or pull-ups will counter the urges she inspires.

She’s halfway to the door when I catch up. This time when I touch her elbow, there’s no fabric barrier to block the potent lust that thrums through my blood. My hand slides down the smooth length of her bare forearm until my fingers encircle her delicate wrist.

My pulse rate doubles. I was right—her skin is as soft as my imaginings. She looks up from my hand, her face so familiar, but foreign at this proximity. My fingers twitch involuntarily. With one small tug she’d be in my arms...pressed against my aching chest...her mouth on mine...

I swallow the watermelon in my throat. I have no right to touch her. No right to make her any promises, the ground I’m on so shaky I may as well be standing on a fault line.

But she’s not asking for promises, just a chance.

I’ll just have to steer clear.

‘I want to help...with a trial in the kitchens,’ I say. It’s the least I can do. All I can do. Everything else in my head is strictly prohibited.

‘Really?’ Her smile rearranges the organs in my chest, each jostling for space in the too-small, confined space.

I nod. Control fraying. If she’s going to look at me like that...

‘Drake... I... Thanks.’ Her voice is husky, tentative, my name decadent on her beautiful lips.

Blood whooshes through my skull. She’s too tempting, my intentions too grubby. And I’m still touching her. Why hasn’t she snatched her hand away?

‘It’s nothing.’ So much less than she deserves.

‘It’s something to me.’ The gratitude in her eyes fades, replaced with something else. Something that makes my breath catch. Something I must imagine. She’d never look at me that way. Never trust me enough. Not if she knew everything.

I should move. Let go of her wrist. Tell her it was great to catch up after all these years and send her home in my car.

But I’m frozen.

Frozen in time, to our first meeting. Frozen in those heady seconds of possibility when all three of us—Kenzie, Sam and I—were strangers in a bar. Then, I planned to buy her a drink, invite her out, get to know if we had anything in common beyond attraction, which, for me, was pretty instantaneous.

The medieval-torture device strapped to my chest cranks another notch tighter. Breath strangled. Without stepping back I release her wrist, waiting for the tension to snap, but if anything the air around us thins.

She tilts her head. ‘I’m glad I came...’ A small sigh blows over her plump bottom lip, her gorgeous mouth perilous temptation. And closer than ever before.

The urge to kiss her roars back to life, hijacking my brain, my body and my sanity. I’m steel-hard now, straining the fly of my trousers. Her eyes suck me in. Muscles primed to break the restraints, I’m about pull her close, to cover her mouth with mine, when she emits a nervous laugh.

Steps back.

Shakes her head.

‘I’m sorry.’ She covers her heated face with her hands.

I’m doused head to toe with ice. I scrub a hand through my hair, a fist forming. What the fuck...? I must have imagined the last few seconds—that look on her face, her rapid breaths and dilated pupils. There’s only regret in her eyes now.

My mouth opens and then closes. Do I play the gentleman, breeze over what my body is desperate to interpret as...a moment? Our first.

She drops her hands from her face and looks away with a snort of embarrassment. ‘Clearly I need more help than a job.’ She’s bright red now, braving it out with a flash of humour and a roll of those expressive eyes. ‘If you want to help me out beyond giving me a chance in the kitchen,’ she looks at her shuffling feet, ‘perhaps you could help me over my dry spell.’

My brain impulses blink in and out like static. WTF...? She made light of those momentous words, which have hurled us into a forbidden, previously uncharted no-man’s-land.

‘I...’ I’m gaping, synapses firing so hard I’m surprised my head doesn’t explode. Surely she doesn’t mean what my brain and dick have concluded?

‘What are you saying?’ I croak out, too dazed by testosterone for subtlety. Does she mean for me to help, personally— hell, yes —or is she asking me to set her up with some other dickhead? Over my dead body. But, even if my libido has made the correct interpretation, nothing can happen between us.