Kiss Don’t Tell. Avril Tremayne
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No way would Adam guess she’d agonized over what to wear.
And then the implication of that hit home and her shoulders drooped. ‘And that’s a good thing, is it, to look like you didn’t spare a minute’s thought for how you look?’ she asked her reflection.
Eye roll. ‘Aaaaand you’re talking to yourself. Isn’t that the first sign of madness?’
***
If talking to herself was the first sign of madness, Lane figured that wandering around the office like she’d just woken from a coma and didn’t know where she was had to be the second.
So poor was her concentration, it was almost a relief to pack up her laptop and files and head out to the reception area to wait for Adam.
Or it would have been, if she’d known what to do when she got there five minutes ahead of their appointment.
She knew it was an unusual occurrence that she was leaving the office early, but she hadn’t expected it to be remarkable enough to warrant the receptionist’s constant semi-alarmed glances at her. Or perhaps it was her style of loitering that was making a spectacle of her—the way she sat, then stood, then sat, then stood. The receptionist kept on looking at her like she was a zoo exhibit, which made Lane send a silent prayer of thanks skywards that the area was more or less deserted. Some of her colleagues had left for the day, but most were out of sight, hunched over desks, and therefore not watching her.
She was even gladder of the lack of an audience when Adam emerged from the elevator at 6:05 p.m., because for sure he would have drawn every assessing eye. He was wearing blue jeans and a navy Henley T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Despite the swaggeringly casual attire, he looked perfectly in tune with his surroundings. It was as though he’d been walking onto her floor at 6:05 p.m. every evening for three full lifetimes. He looked more at home there than Lane herself did, even though he dressed nothing like a banker—certainly nothing like the impeccably tailored David Bennett.
As he turned in her direction, Lane noticed that the top two buttons of his T-shirt were open, which made Lane wonder if two undone buttons was the rule when you wanted to look ridiculously sexy. One look at him and her fingers itched to get at her own buttons, which were primly done up to the hilt.
But there was no time, because he was charging straight for her, glancing neither right nor left.
Lane knew it was going to be an awkward moment—how could it not be?—and cast around in her head for a suitably safe topic of conversation to break the ice and establish a nothing-to-see-here-folks vibe. Something that would prove to the receptionist that this was nothing more than a regular business meeting, regardless of Adam’s two undone buttons. He was a builder so … house prices maybe? Because she’d seen some research today that indicated a renewed boom, with house prices set to rise by—
Oof.
She was suddenly in Adam’s arms, looking up, and she couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking. Something to do with percentages … or was it—?
Ahh.
His mouth was on hers, his rock-hard chest plastered against her.
And her brain went dead.
His mouth was firm and soft at the same time. It was like he was … ohh … massaging her mouth with his. Insistent, nudging, nuzzling. She realized her breath was stuck somewhere in her chest, and she opened her mouth to drag in more air. Then his tongue—his tongue, God, God—was inside her mouth, pushing, licking at her own.
She felt his hands slide down her back, cup her bottom, pull her closer, adjust her pelvis to his. She heard a soft moan—where it had come from? He deepened the pressure on her mouth, his tongue sliding rhythmically, luxuriously, licking into her like she was full of warmed honey and he was searching out every last smear of it. Another moan. Oh, God, it had come from her. She was moaning. And she couldn’t seem to help it.
Lane’s hands crept up, clutching at Adam’s T-shirt as she held on to him, leaned into him. Dear Lord, what was happening to her? If not for her hands anchoring her to him, she’d keel over. The kiss was so … delicious. Smooth and rough at the same time. How could that be? Her legs felt unsteady. And there was a shivery sensation flowing down through her chest to tingle in her breasts, in her stomach, lower.
She should be concentrating. Trying to work out what it was about Adam’s technique that was making her feel like this. But his tongue was everywhere inside her mouth and she couldn’t think, could only feel, only drown …
At last he raised his head, slowly, so slowly, his breath a warm mist against her still-open lips. Don’t stop. The words were there, in her head, wanting to get out, but before Lane could form them with her mouth, Adam stepped back.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said softly, and smiled, and Lane’s mouth snapped shut because the smile was very definitely one of triumph.
She took an extra step back, recovering quickly now she was free of the intoxicating kiss and had put some extra space between them. She looked around, saw the receptionist staring at the two of them. This was not good. There would be gossip. Uptight Lane Davis kissing a hot guy in the reception area! How did boring old Lane get such a gorgeous guy? Lane Davis, the ice queen, getting into it with a man who anyone could tell was out of her league—way out!
Lane’s insides clenched. She didn’t want to be gossiped about, sniggered over, at work. Never again would she put herself in such a position. And she particularly didn’t want this little episode to find its way to David Bennett. God forbid David should think she was already taken. If David lost interest in her, it would ruin everything, negate the whole reason for the contract. Without David there would be no Adam Quinn as far as she was concerned.
If there’d been an actual purpose in telegraphing her relationship with Adam to her colleagues, it would be a different story, but it wasn’t as though ‘anywhere, any time’ was a real lesson. Adam had only kissed her here and now to make a point. He wanted to be the one in charge; he’d chosen her workplace deliberately, because she’d said not here. She’d read up on the alpha male in preparation for tonight; understanding them wasn’t exactly rocket science.
But if this was an indication of the way he anticipated their arrangement would proceed, she knew she had trouble on her hands. She was the one in charge; she had to be. So best get the derailed train back on the tracks immediately.
‘Sweetheart,’ she repeated the word, as though tasting it. Shook her head. ‘No. Not necessary, I think. No endearments.’ She straightened her jacket, frosted her eyes and raised her eyebrows at the receptionist, who quickly averted her rapt gaze. Turning back to Adam, she said, ‘Shall we go?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Adam said, and who knew a guy could drawl out a Southern style ma’am without any hint of softness? ‘I’m parked in the station across the street.’
‘How nice for you,’ Lane said. ‘My car, which I have every intention of driving home, is in the car park of this very building.’
She started walking towards the bank of elevators, but stopped when she sensed she was walking alone. She turned back to find Adam standing where she’d left him, rooted to the spot, his countenance dark.
It felt a little like pistols at dawn. Her at one end of the reception area; him at the other; both waiting for the goggle-eyed receptionist to drop a hanky to signal the start of a fight to the death. And suddenly, Lane wanted to giggle. She didn’t, though. She couldn’t, if she wanted the upper hand. The upper hand … and him. She wanted him. Because the kiss had been good. Very good. And that was part of the alpha male she’d read up on, too—the part she needed. The I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing, take-no-prisoners part.
She needed to learn how to kiss like that, how to melt a guy using only her lips and tongue. So no giggling; no getting on her high horse, either. It was concession time, and she was happy to negotiate if it would get