JC Harroway - Her Dirty Little Secret / The Marriage Clause

It changed nothing.

His feet moved as if of their own accord. He took the last two stairs until they shared the small landing.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

She lifted her chin, her stare hard.

‘Why would I have told you? I’d just met you. And I already felt foolish enough.’ Her shoulders lifted a notch and he quashed the crazy urge to touch her. To wipe away the small frown crinkling her forehead.

‘But you haven’t just met me.’ He shoved the other hand into his pants pocket, away from temptation.

‘I didn’t know that about you.’

She shook her head, eyes darting away.

All those holidays, the time they’d spent together—she’d never once mentioned dyslexia and neither had her family. Perhaps she was only mildly affected? No, that wouldn’t explain her obvious disappointment in herself.

‘I... I struggled to talk about it back then.’ She lifted her gaze to his—clear, unguarded. ‘It’s not easy being the dunce in a high-achieving family.’

Something visceral shifted in his chest, and his throat tightened. What the actual fuck...? He knew Hal Jacob was a world-class asshole, but surely he valued his daughter and her extensive achievements?

Not your problem. Keep walking.

Her phone beeped again. She read the text with a curse.

‘Problem?’ So he was a glutton for punishment.

She sighed, her shoulders sagging. ‘There are press outside. My driver is stuck.’ Her eyes slid to his—fatigue-tinged and wary.

‘Camera shy?’ Surely she was used to that. He’d seen her photographed many times over the years at some high-profile event or charity gala. She was New York elite after all, her status rendering her practically a celebrity.

She pinned him with a hard stare.

‘I wanted to keep a low profile tonight. The other designers...’ She sighed. ‘I know how hard it is, starting out. If they see me—’ she pointed down the stairwell, indicating the press ‘—they’ll concoct some story about how I’m using the Jacob name to promote my label, my own interests. It’s...’ she mashed her lips together, her perfectly arched eyebrows knitted ‘...distracting.’

He stepped closer, his movements slow and easy as if he feared he’d spook her. Or perhaps he was simply stopping himself from touching her again.

‘I have a car. Want a lift?’ He held his breath, her answer way too important for someone who shouldn’t care if she walked across Manhattan alone in four-inch designer heels.

No. It was the least he could do after Alex.

She looked up, a small shake of her head.

‘Your car is probably snared up in the same jam as mine. It’s chaos out there.’ She fingered her temple, her brow furrowed.

His hands twitched, the inexplicable urge to pull her close, to feel her feminine curves pressed against him again, relentless pounding waves. It must be the chemistry or sexual frustration on his part. Or the way she looked at him, as if she too liked the idea.

He retrieved his phone from his pocket and fired a quick text to Will. There was likely a back entrance to this building. Aside from everything, Harley looked beat. And despite what she thought of him, he wasn’t an asshole...revenge fucks aside.

‘I’ll sort something out.’ He pocketed his phone, his hands staying safely tucked in his pockets. Hands that remembered every contour of her and how readily she’d embraced their physical connection, her greedy abandon at his apartment the biggest turn-on.

She still wore the frown, eyes wary.

‘Why are you helping me?’

He shrugged, hiding the rush of skin crawling her question and the look on her face caused.

‘I’m a nice guy.’ She’d have once known that if she’d stuck around.

Not that their tender, naïve relationship would have lasted. After his parents’ acrimonious split, he’d re-evaluated all areas of his life, not deeming entanglements worth what it cost him in the control stakes.

He swallowed the surge of bitterness, forcing dangerous thoughts from his mind.

Her tongue darted out to moisten her top lip as she dissected him with her stare. A shot of lust zapped his balls. She favoured cherry-red lip-gloss; he’d noticed that this afternoon and again this evening. What would those pouty, luscious lips look like wrapped around his cock, leaving behind a red print? Damn, he really did need to get laid.

Her stare flicked south.

Was she thinking the same thing? Did she, like him, want another taste?

Perhaps this would tick all the boxes. He’d settle the score and she’d get a sample of what she’d missed out on. After all, he’d never had any complaints and she’d been keen enough this afternoon. She couldn’t hide her physical interest, no matter how much she disliked or distrusted him.

‘Do you want to hang about here in a draughty stairwell or shall we talk about the orgasms?’

Her eyes widened, a pretty pink flush staining her neck and cheeks. She shifted, crossing one foot over the other.

He held back a smile. So his words struck home. He could control this. Them—his physical craving for her and her reaction to the chemistry neither of them seemed able to resist. On his terms. They’d both get what they needed.

She tilted her chin, eyes blazing with challenge, and, he hoped, lust. ‘Orgasms?’

He nodded, slowly encroaching until her body heat registered and her delicious scent tickled his nose.

‘We established earlier, there’s little trust between us. But we don’t need to trust each other outside of the bedroom to have a good time.’

Her pulse fluttered in her throat and he let his stare linger there, letting her know he saw that she wanted him.

‘You trust me with your body.’

She laughed, a nervous snort she used to conceal the rush of excitement lighting her eyes. ‘Cocky much?’

He nodded. Slow, sure, sincere. He’d show her a good time. For old times’ sake. A taste of what she’d never got to experience and what she clearly craved.

His blood pounded harder, her excitement ramping up his own.

‘Here’s how it’s going to go.’ He rolled his shoulders, enjoying the kick of satisfaction when she looked him up and down, her tongue darting out onto that glossy red lip.

‘I’ll call the shots, and you’ll reap the orgasms.’

She lifted one brow. ‘Plural?’

Another nod. Another inch closer. ‘Think of this afternoon as a prelude—not my best work.’ He allowed his eyes to linger on her parted lips, her soft rapid pants encouraging him. ‘The next one will be better. And better...’

She stared as if he’d proposed a naked run through Central Park. ‘Call the shots?’

He held his ground, but she stepped half a step closer. Perhaps she wasn’t even conscious of it. Now only a sliver of air separated them, practically sparking with erotic possibility.

He nodded, his hand sweeping the swathe of her hair behind one delicate shoulder, while his stare searched hers.

‘Are you done?’ He lifted a brow, tempting. ‘Or do you want more?’ He leaned in, his eyes practically closing as her warm scent bathed him. ‘You know I can give them to you. The question is, how much do you want them?’

She placed her hand on the centre of his chest, fingers flexing with enough pressure that he wasn’t sure if she’d push him away or curl those fingers into a fist around his shirt and pull him in.

Fuck, perhaps he’d played too hard? Miscalculated?

No. The unfinished business between them went beyond the stalled deal for the Morris Building. He knew it. She knew it.

Would she submit to his proposal, pick up where they left off earlier, leaving everything but sex at the bedroom door? She called it cocky, but he was a man of his word, he’d prove that to her, even if he had to drag that understanding from her one orgasm at a time while he worked this itch from beneath his skin.