Meg Maguire - Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down - Making Him Sweat / Taking Him Down

Jenna sat a few paces away, hugging her knees.

“Maybe I should just move out now,” Mercer said.

“To where?”

“I dunno. Sublet somewhere, cash in a favor and crash on somebody’s couch till I find a place I can afford. It was nice of you to let me stay, but that was before we knew we’re…”

“Allergic to each other?” It earned her a grudging smile.

“I know you think this is simple for me,” he said. “Like I think sex is as incidental as a movie we might watch together. I wish it was. But you’re my mentor’s daughter. And the woman who turned up here prepared to end my life as I know it.”

Unsure what to say to that, she kept her mouth shut.

“I dunno what the hell to make of you, Jenna. My body has plans for yours—plans I can usually take or leave, because sex doesn’t come first for me, believe it or not. My responsibilities do, and you’re the worst possible woman I could let myself get distracted by.”

“I’m sure.” She was spacey, lost in what he’d said about his body having plans for hers. She felt strangely honored to be singled out, maybe targeted , curious beyond belief.

“What I joked with you about in the kitchen was bullshit. This isn’t simple to me at all.”

Not sure how to process what he was telling her, she looked to his legs, to the red smear streaked along one shin. “You’re bleeding.”

He glanced down. “Oh, right. I’ve got no feeling left there anymore. No decent kickboxer does.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met. Why don’t you come upstairs and get cleaned up?”

A monstrous sigh. “Yeah, fine. I can barely move now, so my work here’s probably done.”

Jenna stood and offered him a hand. He clasped it in his wrapped one and she helped haul him to his feet. The cotton tape felt exotic against her palm, his hand big and scarred and fascinating as always. Allergic indeed.

She was ready to take her hand back, but he held it in his grip, his eyes on hers. “Why’d you come down here, anyway?”

“To see if you were okay.”

“I really seemed like that much of a mess?”

She nodded.

“Better work on my game face.”

He dropped his gaze and her hand, then wandered to grab his water bottle and shirt, slipped flip-flops on his feet. She tried and failed to keep her eyes off his bare chest and stomach and arms, that body looking as reckless as the urges it inspired in her. But they were in firm agreement on one fact—hooking up was a terrible idea. It nearly disappointed her. If Mercer had kept that door open on his end, she just might have let herself be yanked inside.

He hit the lights and locked up, and they trudged up the two flights and down the hall to the apartment.

She shut the door behind them and it felt as if something ought to be said. An apology tendered, or even a joke to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

“That’s a really nerdy sweater,” Mercer said.

She laughed, relieved by his levity but pretending offense. She looked down at her argyle cardigan. “It’s librarian chic.”

Neither spoke for a moment, though she knew he was struggling for the next quip, same as her. Words came, but not ones she’d expected.

“I don’t want you to move out. I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you have to move out sooner than we’d discussed.”

“It might make everything simpler.”

“It might. But I’m already turning your life upside down by even being here. You’re acting a lot more civil about us coexisting than most people would, knowing what could happen come January. If letting you live here makes the transition easier, it’s the least I can do.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She sighed, staring at their feet, if only to keep her eyes off the more arousing bits of Mercer. Even with her gaze preoccupied, his scent was all around her, heady and exciting, as thrilling as a physical touch.

“This is going to be complicated, no matter what we do,” he murmured. “No matter if I stay or go, or whatever rules we invent to keep from sexually assaulting each other, or how hard we try to rationalize everything.”

She nodded.

“So it can’t actually get much worse.”

“Not that I can foresee,” she said.

“Right.”

She sensed it as he stood a little straighter, and she raised her chin to scan his face. He still looked beat, but there was a glimmer of resolution. He’d made peace with their situation.

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

She started. “Excuse me?”

“Things between us can’t get any worse, so I’m gonna go ahead and make a move on you. Only way I’ll be able to get any sleep tonight.”

“Don’t do that.” Do it. Do it .

He put his wrapped hand to her jaw, leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. He kept it slow to start, giving Jenna a chance to protest, a chance to cling to her charade of propriety.

No way in hell.

She kissed him back, tasting salt on his lips—the flavor of a man who’d spent the past few hours trying to beat the desire out of his body. Desire for her . His tongue brushed hers and she grabbed his arm, thrilling anew at its hardness, its size. He kissed her until soft moans hummed from his throat, until he’d backed her against the door and her palms had slid south, from his chest to his stomach to his hips. Next and final stop—Bad Decisionville.

He broke away, taking a step back. The look in his eyes was wild and his tongue traced the corner of his lips. He began unwinding the tape from his hands, exciting as a striptease. Jenna held her breath until he spoke.

“I’m gonna take a shower. That gives you ten minutes to change your mind about where this is heading. If you come to your senses, shut your bedroom door. If you’re as stupid as me, leave it open, and we’ll find out what the hell else is supposed to happen between us.”

JENNA WAS FROZEN, dumbfounded as she watched Mercer turn the corner to the bathroom. Ten minutes? Ten minutes wasn’t nearly enough time to decide what to do.

Then again, ten minutes was plenty of time to change into cuter underwear, and wasn’t that her answer, right there?

She jogged to her room and flung her suitcase open, rifling for anything that matched, preferably involving lace. Quick as a pit crew, she stripped and changed into her best bra and boy shorts, found a black camisole and yanked her pj’s back up her legs. It’d be dumb to pretend this was any kind of smooth seduction, so she didn’t bother wishing for candles, for a chance to freshen her makeup. All they needed was a bed.

Actually, all they probably needed was a floor.

Oh crap, and condoms—which she didn’t have.

Maybe that was for the best. She wasn’t going to follow the Spark guidelines for how far and how fast to go with a man, but she didn’t need to go all the way before even making it to date number one .

The water running in the bathroom shut off and panic—exciting and pleasurable panic—gripped her. She lowered the dimmer and sat on her bed, heart in her throat, until she heard the bathroom door open. Footsteps, then silence, more footsteps and the kitchen went dark.

Footsteps, and Mercer was in the threshold in a T-shirt and boxers. He looked her in the eye. “This door get blown open?”

“No. I guess I left it open.”

“Guess you did.” And that was all anyone said for a little while.

She’d been afraid it would be awkward now, with intention behind whatever was coming, instead of those earlier mutual, spontaneous lapses in good sense. But it wasn’t awkward. It was mindless and fast, wholly instinctual.

He was on her in seconds, pushing her onto her back, his weight feeling sinful against her hips as he braced himself above her. She welcomed his kiss, deep and aggressive and everything Mercer, as primal as a man ought to be. He lit her up like no one ever had, on a pure and animal level, a connection no measure of logic could predict.