Off Limits (21 page)

F
rom the moment
Chloe climbs out of the taxi, her makeup still smudged from where she’d obviously been crying at the hospital, her normally pristine blouse wrinkled and her hair mussed from her hurried journey, I know Travis was right. This is a woman worth fighting for. Even now, grief-stricken and harried and freaking out, she is gorgeous.

I meet her on the curb, wrapping my arms around her without a word, and she buries her face in my chest, her shoulders tensed. I rub her back in slow circles, and bend down to rest my forehead on the crown of her head. I lose track of how long we stand there—the taxi is long gone by the time she draws in a deep breath and leans back to smile weakly up at me.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she says, but before she even finishes, I stop her right there with a kiss.

“You are no more of a mess than I am,” I promise. “How is Paul doing?”

Her teeth edge around her lower lip, and a crease of worry appears on her forehead. I want nothing more than to smooth that away, to lift this pain and worry from her shoulders. But I know I can’t, not about this.

“He’s up and down. I got to speak to him a little, he was conscious . . . the doctors aren’t sure yet, though. It’s going to be touch-and-go for a while, I think.” Her lower lip trembles, and I run my fingers through her hair, still holding her tight against me.

“I’m sorry, Chloe. I know how close you two are. But Paul is a fighter. I can’t see him going down easy.”

She smiles again, just a little bit, but it’s nice to see. Better than her near-tears expression, which could just about break my heart. “You’re right. He’s definitely going to fight it.” She sighs, then, the smile dropping from her lips as she steps back from me. Her expression looks almost sheepish now, if anything. “I’m sorry, too. About Friday night. I shouldn’t have. . .” She shakes her head, eyes on the ground. “I heard you talking on the phone in the middle of the night, and then I woke up and you were gone, and I just, all these insecurities I have flooded in, and I panicked and decided this wasn’t worth the risk.”

I catch her hand in mine, lock our fingers together. It never ceases to surprise me, how smoothly our hands fit together, how natural it feels, like finding a limb I hadn’t known I was missing. “I understand why you’re nervous, Chloe. I should have explained in more detail what happened that night—”

She interrupts me with a shake of her head. “You don’t need to if you don’t want to, it’s fine. I trust you.”

“But I do want to explain.” I glance around us at the street corner we're still standing on, lost in our own little bubble. More passersby are starting to pour out of neighboring shops, though, as the hour ticks by. Pretty soon the restaurants nearby will start to flood as well. "But not here. Inside." I tug on her hand gently, and she lets me lead her down the sidewalk into the small side door with no name on it, just a drawing of some fresh veggies beside fish and pasta.

"What's this one, a vegetable themed bar?" she asks with a quirk to her lips, and the fact that she's joking eases the tightness in my chest just a little.

"Not quite." I squeeze her fingers. "Though no promises on the cheesiness or lack thereof," I add, and she groans.

But when we push through the inner doors to our destination, she falls silent. We're in what appears to be an underground wine cellar: brick ceiling, stacks of wine bottles on beehive-shaped crates in the corners and all. Except that the middle of the wine cellar has been cleared of wine, and built up like a modern kitchen—granite countertops circle the room, each one paired with two high-backed stools and its own set of electric burners, plus a small sink.

There are a couple of other people dotting the room, but for the most part, it looks like we picked a quiet night.

"Is this what I think it is?" Chloe murmurs.

"You said we ought to come here for cooking lessons sometime," I reply, just as the head chef bustles into the room and takes her place behind the only counter without a pair of chairs before it. "I thought it might be good for tonight." I don't say it out loud, but I think this might be a good distraction. A way to get her mind off of Paul, while she's doing nothing but treading water, waiting to hear how he's doing.

When she glances up at me with a small, grateful smile, and squeezes my hand back, I know she understands what I meant anyway, and she agrees.

We sidle onto the nearest stools and listen to the chef explain tonight's menu: we'll be learning to cook Flounder Mediterranean. We spend the first half of the lesson busy, dicing tomatoes and mincing garlic and learning which order to put in the ingredients for the sauce, how long to blacken the fish for, all the little things that you can't really pick up from a cookbook.

Chloe gets into it, setting little contests for us: who can mince their pile of garlic the fastest, who can cut their fish to look the most like the chef's demonstration. But by the time our sauce is simmering and our fish grilling, we've settled into an easy partnership, neither of us needing to speak as we share the duties together, each of us monitoring half the cooking.

When we settle into a lull period, I clear my throat softly, fighting back nerves. I've never tried to explain about Travis to anyone at work. It always sounded pretentious, talking about mentoring someone else when I hardly have my life together outside of the office. "So," I start, my eyes fixed on the simmering sauce. "I said I was going to explain."

She watches me, silent, her gaze sympathetic.

So I do. I tell her the whole story, not just of what happened on Friday night when I sped out of the house, but starting from the beginning. How I fell into mentoring as a resume booster, something I'm not proud of to start with. But how I got hooked, and how, once I met Travis, I knew I could actually help someone, work to change this kid's life for the better. He's a brilliant kid, he just needs a little extra attention sometimes, something his school isn't always equipped to give him.

By the time I finish, Chloe has slid off her stool to wrap her arms around my shoulders, her temple resting against mine. "His mother is okay, though?" Chloe murmurs. "After her fall?"

I reach up to run my hand through her hair, before I turn to draw her into a quick kiss. "She's doing just fine. Already back at work." I catch her eye and half-smile. "So, you never know. Sometimes these things work out all right in the end."

Chloe smiles back, then leans in to press her lips to mine again, slower and softer this time. I close my eyes, let the kitchen and the sound and scents of the food melt away, until it's just her and I, alone in our bubble.

"You lovebirds are going to burn this fish," a loud voice interrupts us, and we separate, grinning sheepishly, as the chef stops in front of our table, one eyebrow raised while she studies our dinner in progress.

Flushing, Chloe takes up the spatula again, and we wait, nervous, as the chef samples our fish and sauce side.

“Not bad,” she says, her eyes lighting up with a smile. “You two make a good team. But take it off the burner now, or it’ll overcook.”

We snap into action, and finish plating the dish, though not without casting sideways glances at one another the whole time, both of us finding excuses to lean around each other so that our hands brush, our shoulders bump, our elbows touch as we work. In what feels like no time at all, we have a full dinner prepared, and as the chef makes another round of the room to check that everyone’s ready, we finally perch on our stools, ready to eat.

A wine sommelier joins the class to discuss the wines they selected to pair with the meal we cooked, but honestly, half of whatever he’s saying just goes in one ear and out the other for me. I can’t stop stealing glances at Chloe, distracted by the serious, studious expression on her face as she listens to the sommelier speak, drawn in by the way her eyebrows knit together when she’s concentrating, and the adorable little moue her mouth makes when she’s swirling the wine glass the way he shows us, to draw out the flavors we’re supposed to be tasting.

Normally I love this class, but tonight, Chloe draws all my attention. The way her perfect, hazel-gold eyes flutter closed as she sips her wine, the expression of surprised delight on her face when she tastes a buttery slice of the fish we made; it’s more intoxicating to me than any flavor ever could be.

As we’re settling in to enjoy our food, the class portion over, Chloe leans her shoulder against mine, perched on the edge of her stool.

“Paul told me not to be like him,” she says as she cuts through her fish.

“What’s so bad about being like him?” I raise my eyebrows. “He’s successful, well-respected in his field, looked up to by tons of people. He’s kind of your idol, isn’t he?”

She quirks a tiny smile. “That’s what I said. But he told me he regrets spending too much of his time on work. He wishes he lived outside of the office, too.” She glances up at me with a sigh.

“That’s a lesson we could both stand to listen to, I think,” I murmur softly. Then I cut a piece from my own fish, spear it on my fork, and extend it to her to try. “But this is a good start, right?”

She locks eyes with me as she leans in to wrap her lips around my fork, drawing the fish off of the tines in a slow, sinuous motion that makes my blood pump faster. Her tongue lashes out to lick around her lips, purposeful, her gaze still on mine, and my cock stiffens against my jeans. “A pretty good start, I’d say,” she says, still smirking.

Damn. She knows exactly how to get to me.

Good thing I know her weaknesses too. I rest one hand on her knee, and trail the very tips of my fingers up her thigh, hardly touching her at all, just lightly enough that she’ll feel the pressure. When my hand reaches her upper thigh, I pull away and turn back to my food. “It’s a start, anyway.”

When I glance back at her again, Chloe has her eyes narrowed, her legs crossed, and she looks slightly uncomfortable. Revenge is a great feeling. But she’s grinning, too, even as she glares at me. “To be continued,” she says, her voice low and dark with promise.

Oh, it’s on now.

B
y the time
we reach my doorstep, I’m ready to tear Max’s clothes off right here and now. He’s been teasing me all night, touching me and then drawing his hand away at the last moment. Especially in the cab, his palm slipping under my shirt so I could feel his bare skin against the small of my back, hot as a forest fire, and yet the moment I shifted toward him, he’d draw back again.

To be fair, I’d done my fair share of torture/teasing right back. Every time I took a bite of anything, especially the ice cream the restaurant served us for dessert, I made sure to lock eyes with him and take my time licking the fork or spoon clean, my mouth parted just enough so that he could see my tongue working.

Now we’re finally back at my place, and I’ve had more than enough of this tension to last a lifetime. Before I even finish turning my keys in the lock, I whip around to throw my arms around his neck, and he lifts me in his arms, my legs wrapped around his hips, his mouth ravaging mine as we crash through my apartment door.

We don’t make it to the bedroom, or even to the couch. We stagger into the kitchen, right inside my entrance, and he balances my ass on the granite countertop as he pushes my skintight skirt up around my waist. I squeal a little as my bare ass, exposed in my tiny, bright red thong, hits cool granite. But things don’t take long to heat up, as he slides one hand under my ass to grip me roughly, his other hand tugging at my blouse. He pulls too hard, and buttons pop, go flying across the kitchen. Neither of us care.

“I need you right fucking now,” he growls. He rips the shirt the rest of the way off and tosses it aside, his mouth already hot on my skin, sucking at my neck, my collarbone, working his way toward my aching breasts.

“Take me,” I gasp, leaning back against the counter and bury one hand in his thick hair, gripping hard for balance, as I slide my other hand over his chest. He’s wearing a button-down too, so I return the favor and yank until it parts, his buttons joining mine on the kitchen floor. His shirt hangs open, and I trace my hand over his now-familiar chest, his solid abs and that irresistible little V by his hips, leading down, pointing like an arrow toward that gorgeous cock. I trace both sides of that V with my palm flat against his skin, and enjoy the way his muscles tighten beneath my fingers.

I have every bit as strong an effect on him as he does on me, and I fucking love seeing him react to me.

Suddenly, he steps forward, pinning me against the counter with his weight, and reaches up to push my glasses up my forehead into my hair.

“Miss MacIntyre." He levels his gaze at me, and a shiver runs through me at the command in his tone. That reaction makes him grin. "You've been accused of being too sexy for your own good."

He dips one finger down the center of my chest and traces his way under my breast, pressing just hard enough that I feel the pressure of his finger, the subtle brush of his nail bed on my sensitive skin. When his finger crosses around the top of my breast and circles my tight nipple, barely touching so lightly, I have to fight the urge to squirm. "How do you plead?" he murmurs.

I wriggle a little against the counter, and his fingers close around my nipple in a hard pinch.

I gasp, my neck arcing to the side, startled. Then I fix my eyes on his, and curl my lips into a smile. "I'm afraid I'm guilty, Your Honor."

"I see." He runs his finger down my side, following the curve of my waist, around to brush over my ass, still lightly, hardly touching me, and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. "What on earth are we going to do with you, then, Miss MacIntyre."

His voice is so low and commanding that it makes me want to drop to my knees right here, do whatever he orders from me. I want him to order me, now. So I toss my long blonde curls to one side, my head tilted coyly. "I don't suppose you'll go easy on me for pleading guilty?"

"I could. . ." he muses, drawing his finger around to brush the inside of my thighs.
Oh god.
"On the other hand, we could make an example of you. You need to be punished."

My heart pounds with desire.
Yes.
I reach out to grab him then, to return the favor of his torturous hand on my thigh. But he slaps my ass hard with his other hand, suddenly, and I stifle a yelp, mostly from surprise. He catches my wrists and pins my hands to the counter, now, and I grin up at him. "I guess you'll just have to do your worst, Your Honor," I purr, my smile widening.

"I'll give you your choice of punishment." He squeezes my ass hard, right where he just spanked, and I gasp again in spite of myself, my eyes fluttering half-closed. "We could give you a good hard spanking."

"Tempting," I reply, and he half-drags me off the counter to slap my ass cheek again for good measure.

"I wasn't finished."

I bat my eyelashes. "Yes, Your Honor?"

He pulls me the rest of the way off the counter, bends over me, his lips tantalizingly close, just inches from mine, as we stand bare chest-to-chest, his pecs digging into my tits. "Or, we can put that sinful mouth of yours to work."

My heart rate practically triples at that. But I try to play it coy, pursing my mouth as though I'm thinking hard, debating. "That's a hard choice, Your Honor," I say slowly. As I do, I slide one leg around his, slowly lifting my calf against his, trailing my leg up his. "Both options have their . . . attractions."

He smiles down at me, slow and predatory. That expression alone makes me want to surrender right here to whatever this man wants to do to me.

"I have been working on my oratory skills." I lift one eyebrow and flutter my lashes again.

"On your knees, Miss MacIntyre. I want to feel those bee-stung lips around my cock.”

Oh my God.
I drop to my knees in front of him, already reaching for the zipper of his jeans. I can already see the outline of his hard cock through the fabric, and I want to taste him, make him come hard down my throat, make him lose control just like he does to me.

"Ah ah." He catches my hands in his. "Hands behind your back, Miss MacIntyre."

I fold them behind me, another thrill of anticipation tingling down my spine. I peer up at him from beneath my lashes, my expression sly. "Don't go easy on me, Your Honor."

He unzips himself, draws his thick, solid cock from his boxers with one hand and runs his other hand through my hair before grabbing a fistful of my curls roughly and pulling my face toward his cock. "Oh, I don't intend to."

I part my mouth to reply, and he pushes the tip of his cock into my mouth. Automatically, I open wider, flicking my tongue against his tip as he presses farther into my mouth. He goes slow at first, inching deeper and deeper as I force my mouth wider, my lips curled around his shaft, my tongue working against his solid girth. He tastes exactly the way he smells, entirely himself, a heady, intoxicating flavor that makes me wet with desire.

“Suck me, you dirty little girl.” He tightens his fists in my hair, both hands now, and holds my face in place as he eases farther in. He touches the back of my throat, and I fight the reflex to gag, force my throat open wider to take him in, swallowing once, twice when I feel him twitch and buck his hips further into my face. “Fuck, Chloe, right there.”

I want all of him, every inch.

He draws away, his hips rocking away from me, then slides back in, faster this time, deeper. I wrap my tongue around him, press into him as he slides in and out, flicking across his tip whenever he pulls back, and I'm rewarded by faint groans from him as I do.

I hit one spot in particular and he shouts, both fists clenching so hard it makes me wince, my eyes watering. And yet, the pain adds to the pleasure, knowing that I'm his, knowing he can use me for his pleasure however he desires, that he'll take me any way he likes.

"You've been a bad girl, Miss MacIntyre."

I
moan
, my mouth still full of his cock, and the vibration makes him twitch between my lips. I tighten my lips in response and suck harder, as he starts to pump his hips against me, faster, thrusting deeper.

“You dirty, dirty girl," he hisses as he fucks me faster still. “Fuck, Chlo, that mouth of yours is going to kill me.”

I open my mouth fully now, taking every inch of him, as deep as I can. His balls slap against my chin as he thrusts into my mouth, and I can feel my throat muscles clenching and releasing around the tip of his cock. And the whole time I keep tonguing him as hard as I can, reveling in his groans and moans whenever I do.

He fucks my throat, losing control. “Oh, fuck. I can’t . . . don’t stop, dirty girl,” he groans through his clenched teeth, and I clench my thighs together, desperately trying to stem my release. Is it possible to orgasm just from words alone?

I lift my hands now, knowing he's too lost to stop me. I grab his ass and pull him against my face, even as he uses his grip on my hair to thrust into me over and over. When he comes, it's with a loud, desperate moan, spurting deep inside my throat. He continues to come as I lick and suck at him, taking every last drop, my tongue lapping at his still-hard shaft, sucking him dry.

When I finally sit back on my heels, his legs seem to go weak. He drops to his knees in front of me, pulls me against him for a deep kiss, his tongue exploring the space his cock just claimed.

When we break apart, both of us panting, he squeezes my ass hard, a promise of the rest of the night yet to come, his mouth inching down my neck and leaving sharp little bites the whole way down.

"I cannot get enough of you, Chloe MacIntyre."

I grin and pull his face up to mine, kissing his lips, his cheek, his jawline, down his throat. "Nor I you, Max Davis," I whisper against his ear. And for the first time since I can't remember, everything feels right in the world.