In Pursuit (19 page)

“Hello,” I huff into the phone.

 “Am I interrupting something?”

Harris!

“Harris!” I gasp, nearly letting the paintbrush slip on my lap. I quickly drop it on the paint pallet, but not before droplets splatter on my denim cutoffs. “Shoot, shoot, shoot!”

“What’s wrong?” He’s panicking. Lack of control does not suit this man. “Edith! Are you alright?”

I laugh at my own foolishness. “Do you inherit clumsiness? I want to blame something other than the sound of your voice for paint I just spilled.”

He chuckles. “Now would be a good time to admit how affected you are by me.”

“Never,” I tease. The awkwardness from our first no longer exists between us. If he wants to forget it happened, I can, too.

“What are you really doing?”

“A project for the blog,” I grumble. “What are you doing?”

“Working… thinking of you.”

I beam with pleasure on my end of the phone.

“Come to dinner at my place tonight. We’ll have a home cooked meal,” he requests.

He cooks, too? Could Harris be any more perfect?

“Only if you let me bring something for dessert.”

It’s an open opportunity for a sexual innuendo, but he doesn’t take the bait. Probably out of respect for my freak out.

“I’ll come get you at eight.”

Baking relieves tension in the sweetest way. Cooking the triple berry cobbler (made wheat free, if only I could send some to my dad) settled my lingering nerves in anticipation of the date.

Tonight, I’m more casual. I’ve swept my hair into a ponytail and kept the makeup to a minimum. I’m wearing a soft orange skirt that accentuates my waistline, and a gray tank top tucked in. In lieu of heels to give me extra inches, I stick to flat sandals.

Claire’s absent from the apartment again.
Good, then she doesn’t need to grill me before Harris and I do a take two on this whole dating thing.

Five minutes before eight, there’s a knock on the door. Never a minute late, Harris Grant waits when I open the door, holding a bouquet of white hydrangeas. My mouth drops open.

“My favorite flower,” I say by way of greeting.

A smug look of satisfaction crosses his face. “I know.”
           
Yeah, I mentioned it in the blog three months ago. How far back did he read?

 “Thank you for the flowers,” I say bashfully as I study them. “Do you want to come in while I grab my stuff?”

I turn and start making my way to the kitchen when a large arm slips around my waist, lifting me up against a wall of muscle.

“Is that the kind of greeting a man gets on his third date?” he growls teasingly. Then, while still carrying me into the kitchen, he presses light kisses from my forehead down the side of my face and on the shell of my ear.

“Harris,” I squeak in laughter. “Put me down!” 

“If you insist.” He settles me back on two feet, then spins me around. So he doesn’t crush my flowers, he sets them somewhere else and, in a blink of an eye, has me swept up in his arms. He’s lifted me so that we are at eye level, his strong hands find their way to the spot right above my ass.

“I’m on to you, Mr. Grant.”
            “What do you mean by that?”

“Your fascination with this area of my body.” I wiggle against his fingers and he laughs that husky, dreamy sound, dropping me to the ground lightly.

“You caught me.”

While I gather my purse and the cobbler, Harris arranges the flowers in a vase. He knew where to find one faster than I did.

“It’s like you live here,” I comment as he enters the security code and then locks the door behind me with his own key.

“Didn’t Claire tell you I bought this place a few years back?” he asks, guiding me with a hand pressed to the small of my back.

“That explains the masculine coloring.”

Another weird detail that Claire left out. She always maintains that she owns the condo. What’s her motivation by keeping things from me? With every odd reveal, the time line on this living arrangement gets shorter and shorter.

A tap to my nose gets my attention. “You left me again.”

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

He has brought me to the car. Harris lifts me into the passenger seat as per usual then leans in before I can get situated. “Kiss it and make it better?”

I lean in and give him just a hint of peck. “That’s all for now.” I let our lips brush as I speak. I feel rather than see the twitch of his grin before he retreats.

It’s less than ten minutes, and then the valet graciously escorts me from the car. I keep my dessert firmly in front of my torso as we enter the elevator to prevent any funny business with Harris. Despite the awful reaction I had to our intimacy, he’s unaffected. His warm hand cups my neck from behind in the elevator, and gives me a little pull, making me look up at him.

“As badly as I want you, I will wait until you are ready.”

I respond with a half smile and nod. With his hand still loosely at my neck, Harris and I enter the apartment. This time, I get an opportunity to observe my surroundings. Whomever Harris used to decorate his other place obviously had some hand in this one, too. It’s all clean lines and contemporary furnishings.

We walk to the prominently white kitchen, entirely open into the living and dining area. There’s food in the oven already, and the place smells like a roast. I eye Harris’ suit warily. “Did you cook?”

“I instructed the cook,” he replies with a wink.

That’s when I notice that his dining table is set romantically for two. Fine white china rimmed with platinum sits at each place setting, and a candle burns between them.

“So lovely,” I murmur.

He reaches down, taking the cobbler from my hands and dropping a light kiss on the spot in front of my ear. “You are.”

We settle into the kitchen, both eyeing the oven. “How about you get changed and I see to our dinner?” I suggest.

He opens his mouth with a retort, but I cut him off. “This time, let me be bossy. We’ll actually end up eating the food if I handle this.”

He wavers for a moment then drops the sweets on the counter.

“You win.” He disappears from the room.

In the refrigerator I discover a watermelon, feta and tomato salad already plated. I pull out a crystal water pitcher and the appetizers, then place them on the table. I’m about to open the oven when his hands land on my waist, pulling my back to his front.

“You like me in this position,” I say breathlessly. Despite what happened on Friday, I do want him, so badly. But I never want to react that way to him again – fearful.

His tongue licks a trail around my earlobe, sending delicious tingles down my spine. “Yes.”

With a teasing swat to my ass that makes me yelp, he asks, “Does the food look alright?”

“If the smell is any indication, we’re going to be in heaven tonight.”

“Good. My housekeeper, Eleanor, is a godsend.” He changed into low slung, light washed jeans a soft gray cotton t-shirt. As usual, he’s utterly lickable. I nearly sigh at the thought.

Over our meal, I tell Harris about the new client Amanda connected me with, Mrs. Fletcher. It turns out she is the wife of the gentleman that Claire seemed to dislike at the Franklin & Smith party.

Before I know it, we’re eating my cobbler, and Harris groaning in delight.

“How did you learn to cook so well?”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Lots and lots of practice.”

“You just keep getting better and better, don’t you?”

My cheeks turn rosy as I study my plate. “I’d like to think so,” I respond softly.

“Do you want to see the rest of my place?” He pushes back from his chair, extending his hand to mine to help me up. He won’t let me do the dishes. After setting them in the sink under some warm water, he tells me that Eleanor will take care of everything tomorrow morning.

The condo is room after room of flawlessly decorated space, luxurious furniture and gleaming technology. But the space is cold; there are no personal affects. Unlike Claire’s photo lined walls, I can’t find any indication that he even has a family.

I don’t have too much time to dwell on the depressing notion, because the tour continues.

Now he drops down on the couch, reaching for my hands and bringing me to stand before him. This is what got me in trouble last time, straddling his hips, so I sink into the space next to him. His palm cups my cheek. Though there is a tender smile tugging, his eyes darken.

“In the fall, this is where we’ll watch games together,” he indicates the television dominating the wall across from the sofa. On our first date, Harris and I realized a mutual love of football. My heart leaps into the air, soaring like the hummingbird in Alex Clare’s song. The fall is a few months away and Harris is planning time for us then.
We
has a nice ring to it.

I trace patterns on his t-shirt with my pointer finger, reveling in the hard ridges of muscle that flex underneath my touch.

 “That’s the one thing Dad and I did together. Watch games on Sunday. If he had a night shift, I’d wake him up in time for the one o’clock game.”

Harris captures my hand in his and lifts it to brush his lips across my knuckles. “Would you be willing to try a new tradition?”

I study him, his gray eyes now dark storm clouds, pupils dilated. I unconsciously lick my lips, forgetting our conversation. “What is that?” I ask, dazed. Both of his hands rise to my ponytail.

“May I?” He asks softly, and I nod dumbly as he releases the elastic from my hair, letting it tumble down my shoulders. His hands cradle my skull and a thumb strokes the sensitive spot behind my ear.

“If at any point you want to stop, just say the word,” he instructs huskily. I nod again. “Please, just don’t run. Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

The room shrinks to just us. Lingering music in the background turns into white noise that I no longer pay attention to, the stunning cityscape just a background, no longer holding our attention. We meet in the middle this time, the kiss one thought between our two bodies. Ours lips press together tightly, mashing together for maximum exposure.

Whether or not I move or he pulls me, somehow I end up straddling him again. He places a whisper of a kiss on each corner of my mouth. The pleasure almost too much for me to bear as he peppers kisses along my lips, withholding what I desire.

I whimper in frustration and he chuckles slightly.

“Impatient, are we?”

One hand now grips me lightly at my neck, and the other arm curls protectively around my waist. My hands rest on his shoulders, not moving because I am so swept up in the moment.

“Yes,” I breathe in response.

“What,”
kiss
on my chin, “is,”
kiss
on my left cheek, “it,”
kiss
on my right cheek, “that,”
kiss
the spot in front of my left ear, “you,”
kiss
the spot in front of my right ear, “want?”

Even though we only met a few weeks ago, it feels like the answer has always been, will always be Harris.

“You,” I whimper. Then I wiggle slightly against his arousal and he lessens his hold on me.

“Are you alright?” His concern is genuine, but I’m fine. Instead of a response, I slip my hands underneath the hem of his shirt and rub them against his rippling torso. Of their own accord, they travel to his taunt lower back.

No doubts or fears remain. Passion. Lust. I want him so badly.

“Please, kiss me,” I beg. I’ve
never
begged, never wanted someone so badly that I will do whatever it takes to get him.

“I’m going to lay you down on the couch, baby.” When I don’t protest, he carefully lifts my body and lowers me so I am laying flat. My hair fans out underneath my head, and I breathe heavily. We’ve barely just begun, and I already feel out of breath.

He moves his hand to either side of my hips, staring down at me. His thumbs brush where the elastic of my skirt meets my tank top.

“Edith, you are so fucking sexy.”

Harris Grant
thinks I’m
fucking sexy.
There’s no time for me to thank him for the compliment, because he crushes his lips to mine. It’s an all-consuming kiss. I am his to do whatever he wishes, whether he knows it or not.

I gasp at the contact, allowing his tongue access to my mouth. He lavishes mine with long languid strokes of affection.

Using one arm to balance, he uses his free hand to gather the fabric of my skirt in his hand, dragging it up my legs achingly slowly. To encourage him, I move my hands up his back, digging my short nails into the taunt skin.

“More, Harris.
Please.
” This time when I say it I know there is no looking back. I’m thrilled at the notion.

He bunches my skirt around my waist and touches the flimsy lace at my hip. The kiss breaks and he drops his face into my neck, flicking his tongue and making me squirm in delight. My hands drop away from his back, falling to my sides.

His hand begins a hot trail down my hip toward the v between my thighs. I bend my knees, placing my feet flat on the leather couch to give him more access. Never in my life have I felt so sex crazed that I would do whatever it takes to urge my partner forward. I lift my hips slightly as his forefinger tickles my damp crotch.