Tempting Meredith (9 page)

Emotionally, he was already beyond a hookup. She’d touched something in him, and he wanted to explore it, but if he didn’t agree, he wouldn’t get that chance. “I can do that.”

“Says the man who insisted on seeing me home at three this morning.”

“A quick fuck doesn’t translate into treating you like shit.”

Her body relaxed almost infinitesimally. If he hadn’t been pressed against her, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed it. Was she giving in or giving up? “I’ll think about it. Okay?”

Better than a
no
. “That’ll do...for now.”

Chapter Seven

After work that evening, Meredith poured a glass of Pinot Grigio and sat on the couch with the envelope. She’d put it off as long as she could. No more excuses. No Charlie. No hiding out in the lab. No students. She’d kept the last one in her office long after he’d grasped the concept. Cowardice on her part.

Her chest tightened, her stomach roiled, her hands were ice cold, numb enough that if she wasn’t careful, the wine glass would slip from her fingers. She tightened her grip and took a gulp then set it down and worked her finger under the glue flap.

Huggins meowed from the wood floor a split second before landing lightly in Meredith’s lap. She stroked her fur, and after a few minutes the satisfied cat stretched out in the valley created by Meredith’s thighs, still purring.

Meredith returned her attention to the envelope and ripped it open before another excuse to avoid it arose. Taking a shallow breath—all she could manage with the tightness in her chest—then holding it, she slid out a folded sheet of paper stiffened with the photograph inside. She unfolded the letter but didn’t read it. Her gaze was drawn immediately to that dear, happy face. A little shyness there. Long blond curls and blue eyes. And so much younger-looking than her seven years. Genes would tell. No one would be able to deny it. All the more reason to stay away. She could imagine the confusion and drama her presence would create. Her daughter deserved better.

Her daughter. That was the problem. She couldn’t stop thinking of Cassandra in those terms.

She didn’t know how long she feasted on the photo, memorizing every curl, every millimeter of that precious face, searching for the slightest hint that things weren’t as they seemed. Finding nothing, she read Larry’s handwritten letter.

Dear Meredith
,

Isn’t she beautiful?
And as smart as her mother.

God, she hoped not. No, she didn’t mean that. Yes, she did. She hoped her daughter was more like Nikki. Intelligent, but not so far above everyone that she had trouble relating to her peers. Too fucking lonely.

She’s reading the encyclopedia!
Trying to keep up with her is both exhilarating and bewildering.
She asks questions about everything.
She added tap to her dance classes this year.

Meredith hoped her daughter’s dads weren’t forcing the dance issue. She’d hated dance class when she was a child.

There’s a recital on June 2
,
so if you can’t make Mother’s Day
,
perhaps you could come for the recital.
She wants to meet you so badly.
We’d love to have you stay with us
,
but we’d understand if that’s too much.
There’s a charming B&B less than a mile from the house.

We have some good news that will make it more convenient for you to see Cassandra.

As if “convenience” was keeping her away. There were flights from Austin to Boston every day.

Chris has taken a position with a firm in Houston.

Meredith’s heart lurched excitedly before she remembered why this wasn’t a good thing, why she hadn’t seen her daughter, touched her, kissed her, since she’d placed her in Larry’s arms when she was three days old.

We’re moving in August.
Cassie is excited that she’ll be in the same state as you.
I’m hoping we’ll be able to get together as soon as we put the house in order.
Can I tell Cassie that you’ll be at her birthday party?
Just us and you.
It would mean so much to her.
She asks about you constantly.

Three invitations in one letter. That was a record. And each one so tempting. Mother’s Day sent her into a funk every year. She’d recover in time to start the cycle again with Cassandra’s birthday at the end of August. And a dance recital. She’d love to see her daughter dance.

When she’d decided on an open adoption, she’d done it to give her daughter the very best life. She’d found parents who, unlike Meredith, were financially secure and in a good place in their lives. Chris and Larry had been more than ready for children. The openness allowed them access to Meredith’s medical records. Guilt stabbed like a dull knife. They didn’t have access to the father’s medical records. She consoled herself with the knowledge that a good PI could find Dylan if the need arose. Assuming he was the father, since his condom was the one that had failed. And if he wasn’t, well, Blaine wouldn’t be any more difficult to locate.

Besides the medical records, she’d pumped breast milk the first year and delivered it faithfully to Cassandra’s dads. And she’d kept tabs on her daughter to make certain she wasn’t being abused. Because people weren’t always what they seemed. She’d learned that the hard way. She’d been so confused after Dylan’s abandonment that she’d had no faith in her ability to select the best parents for the baby. What would she have done without Nikki’s help?

Her sister had been with Meredith throughout the pregnancy and birth, and the only other person close to Meredith who’d known. Meredith had told Jake later in hopes of convincing him not to impregnate her sister. Obviously that hadn’t worked.

She hadn’t told her brother. Why burden him with the knowledge? Bad enough that she’d had to saddle Nikki with it. She hadn’t told her parents, either. Not that they’d be interested. Meredith had been an accident. Her mom and dad had lost interest in the parenting gig before she’d come along. Nikki had filled the role of mother.

Meredith didn’t share the photos or Larry’s letters with anyone, not even Jake or Nikki. Oh, she was tempted to show off her beautiful, shiny daughter, but she didn’t. Instead she stashed them in the drawer in her bedroom. Out of sight, out of mind, for Nikki and Jake anyway.

Not for Meredith.

She hadn’t counted on these reminders. Hadn’t counted on Cassandra’s parents taking the openness to such extremes.

She tossed the letter on the sofa, picked up her wine and studied the photo again. Cassandra appeared happy. Healthy. Her daughter was thriving. That precious child didn’t need the woman who’d given birth to her screwing up everything. She’d want answers to all sorts of questions.

Answers that made Meredith cringe. Painful, shameful answers.

Coward
.

She shook her head vehemently, although no one but Huggins was there to see. Not a coward. Just a mom wanting to protect her daughter from the truth.

* * *

Meredith hadn’t believed Charlie. Not at first. She’d expected him to call or email or something every day until she agreed to go out with him again. But by Friday she hadn’t heard word one from him.
Nada.

She cringed. She’d actually accused Charlie of wanting more. Idiot that she was, she’d believed it.

As her expectations sank, she told herself it was for the best. That line of thought had worked until today, because it was Friday. Meetings were done, and she hadn’t seen a student in two hours. Since she didn’t dare come in to work this weekend, it would be a long couple of days until Monday.

Now, she was trying to decide whether to text Charlie to see if he was interested in dinner. After all, if she’d been wrong about him forming an attachment, she’d be safe. She’d gone so far as to type “dinner?” but hadn’t sent the text. She’d made a mental list of pros and cons. So far the pros outweighed the cons. At the top of that list was surviving the next week. Mother’s Day was in nine days. And while that fact wasn’t consuming her every waking hour, thanks to Charlie, she was feeling sorry for herself. He was leaving town the Saturday before Mother’s Day. A week of mindless sex was just what she needed to distract her. She could wallow after Charlie left.

“You’re deep in thought.”

The voice startled her. It shouldn’t have. She’d been staring at him without seeing him. He was leaning against her door frame, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans, his broad shoulders filling out the white polo shirt with the black gun club logo over the pocket area. He looked good. Really good.

She rolled back in her desk chair and stood so he didn’t have too much of a height advantage. “Hi. How did you find me?”

Charlie chuckled and stepped inside the office, closing the door behind him. “It wasn’t difficult. I took your advice and did an online search.”

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away, just looked her up and down.

She crossed her arms self-consciously in front of her then realizing how insecure that appeared, uncrossed them and pointed to a chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

“Ladies first.”

She tried to relax into her standard university-issue, black vinyl office chair. “I don’t have a lot of time.” A lie. Why was she fighting this? She knew what she wanted. She should be begging him to stay. Hell, she should be begging him to spend the entire week with her.

He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and leaned back against the door. “A quickie.”

She stared at him, trying to process those two words and the fact that he was here, in her office.

“You asked what you could do for me.” He smiled. “A quick fuck.”

The suggestion took her by surprise. “This evening?”

He straightened and took a few steps toward her, his gaze never leaving hers. Intense. “Right now.”

She was speechless. Yeah, she knew some people liked the thrill of getting caught while having sex in the workplace, the very real possibility that the boss might walk in or a coworker might peer through the window or listen at the door. But she was up for tenure and a woman to boot. A man could get away with it.
Boys will be boys.
But a woman had to be above reproach. She absolutely couldn’t risk that kind of scandal.

He turned and twisted the lock.

She stood, smoothed her skirt with sweaty palms and took a few steps to her mini fridge. She grabbed a couple of bottles of water. “Want one?”

He held out his hand, still focused on her. “Thank you.” He set the bottle on her desk without opening it. “Take off your underwear.”

Surely, she’d misunderstood. “Excuse me?”

He flicked a hand at her. “Your panties. Get rid of ’em.”

She hated the nervous giggle that bubbled out of her mouth. “You’re joking.”

He closed the short distance between them but didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. Just his scent, a spicy musk that was amplified by his body heat, had her actually considering slipping her hands under her skirt and giving him what he wanted. Her fingers plucked at the smooth fabric of her skirt. Despite it being casual Friday, she’d worn it because of a meeting with a project engineer from NASA.

He leaned into her and murmured against her cheek, “I thought you were in a hurry.”

She glanced at the small window high on her door then at the large window on the opposite wall. The mini blinds were closed, but a couple of slats were broken, leaving gaps. The occasional pair of legs strolled by.

She licked her dry lips. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I didn’t ask if it was a good time.”

She couldn’t debate that, but she still didn’t obey.

“If I have to repeat myself, I’ll take them off.”

He was serious. She could see it in his expression, his determined but relaxed stance. Still, she dared him with her eyes.

His lips quirked in a small, challenging smile. “Ah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” she countered, although now that he mentioned it...

“Safe word?”

Was he reminding her about it or asking if she remembered it? She nodded, simply acknowledging its existence.

Her gaze flicked to the door and window again. Gathering the fabric of her skirt a pinch at a time, she hitched it up until it just covered her butt. Then she slipped her fingers underneath, hooked them in the silky fabric of her panties and slid them down, letting them drop to the floor before stepping out. Her skirt fell back into place, the satin lining seductively caressing her ass.

“So many possibilities. Where to start?” He slipped his hands underneath her suit jacket and nudged it off her shoulders and down her arms until it bunched at her wrists. Was it her imagination or were his hands a little shaky? She shifted, intent on freeing her arms, but he stopped her. “No. You don’t get to touch.”

One finger drifted from the crook of her neck down to the valley of her breasts, where he flicked open the top button of her crisp, white cotton shirt. And the next, and the next. His eyes widened with each one, as if he was afraid of missing something. The waist of her skirt prevented him from going further. He didn’t seem to mind, just slid the shirt off her shoulders until it joined her jacket, cuffing her hands at her sides. The back of his hand brushed her nipples through the comfortable cotton bra. Still using one hand, he unhooked the front clasp and the cups popped apart, spilling her breasts. She closed her eyes and moaned, the connection from her breasts to her sex overloaded with sensation. And then the warmth of his hand was gone and she slowly opened her eyes. He was twisting the lid off the sweating water bottle.

Fine time to quench his thirst. But he didn’t drink. He tipped the bottle above her shoulder. She jerked to the side before the water could splash over her.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“Put the bottle down.”

“No.” He pressed more tightly against her.

“I’m working. I can’t get wet. My clothes...” But the thought of the cool water running down her heated skin weakened her protest.

He tipped the bottle again while holding her firmly in place with his other arm wrapped around her waist. The cold liquid puddled in the valley formed by her clavicle. Not a drop spilled. Charlie lowered his head and stirred the makeshift bowl with his tongue, sending shivers of pleasure to her breasts. He was inventive. She’d give him that. Inventive enough to keep her on edge, to keep her guessing, to keep her aroused and wanting when normally she’d be tolerating while she waited for the final act.

He sipped from the bowl, then straightened and lifted the bottle again. His eyes held hers, daring her to protest. The first drops plopped against her clavicle. Had he missed the shallow bowl on purpose or was he taunting her? He corrected his aim without releasing her gaze, and the drops splattered faster until they formed a thin stream. He didn’t stop when the well filled, and the cool liquid spilled over the bone and slid down her chest and over the outer swell of her breast. She didn’t protest when the water, warmed by her skin, soaked the waist of her skirt. If anyone asked, she’d tell them she’d spilled—