Forbidden To Want

It’s a new experience for me, being chauffeur-driven, but I keep my face neutral, serene, silently enjoying the fizz bubbling up in my chest. I feign uninterest by glancing out of the tinted windows.

‘Where are we going? I don’t do the Bard.’ I turn my undivided attention back to Kit. ‘It’s a personal rule of mine.’ I offer a tight smile as my fingers tap wildly against the tiny clutch bag included with the shoes, as if they too need an outlet for being expensively trussed up like a turkey for his pleasure.

Control freak.

‘The West End—the Shaftesbury.’ His lips twitch. Actually twitch. ‘The Bard?’ He stares, his eyes flicking over my features as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

‘Yes. Watching Shakespeare is three hours of our lives we can never get back.’ I look away, but not before I see him shake his head in...disbelief? Amusement?

Kit slides his arm along the back of the leather seat and angles his body to face me, amused eyes narrowed. My skin tightens in the foreign get-up. I may as well be swimming around under a lens for his invasive inspection—a fish out of water.

He rubs at his bottom lip. ‘Not a fan of the theatre?’

I shrug.

‘What do you like?’ His eyes scan my face.

I stare back and his navy eyes burn into mine, latching on to my erogenous zones like heat-seeking missiles and setting off a series of miniature explosions.

‘I prefer to be active.’ The need to prove myself throbs harder every time he looks down his slightly crooked nose at me and every time I remember I’m in a strange city, closer than I’ve ever been to the woman who birthed me. But I hold his stare, the rebelliousness helping to counteract the attraction.

‘That’s why I love my job. What makes me good at it.’ I wouldn’t be sitting here in his luxury-on-wheels car otherwise. The two older Faulkner brothers I met this morning have a clear vision for their empire and exacting standards for their staff. I shouldn’t care, but I want Kit to know that I’m more than the dressed-up doll he’s made me with the uniform.

Not that the ridiculous dress he sent over, which barely conceals my braless chest, qualifies. And screw him and his rules. He’s rude, obnoxious and acts entitled. ‘If you’d just sign off on my ideas for the film you need never see me again. I’ll be done filming in a matter of weeks, a fortnight if the British weather plays nice.’

He offers no comeback. The car jolts to the right to avoid some cyclist with a death wish and Kit’s thigh glides along mine. It lasts less than a second, but the brief contact is incendiary to my hormones, repeatedly firing my pleasure centres.

Clearly being in London and meeting someone who so effectively both winds me up and turns me on is too much for my hormones. I should shag him and get the highly inconvenient urges over with and show him, whether professionally or up close and personally, I’m up to any challenge. Perhaps with the exception of the heels already pinching my toes.

‘What do you love about your job?’

Him ignoring my out clause throws me, and I answer honestly. ‘Normally I relish the creative aspect of my work, helping clients tell the story they want the world to see, but I suspect this job will present extra...challenges.’ Kit-shaped challenges...

A small shake of his head—confident, assured, perceptive. ‘Someone with your industry experience, your awards, will have no problem with a short promotional video.’

So, he looked me up. Is he as thrown by meeting me as I am by him, despite myself? Heat pools low in my belly, its sweetness cut by the acidic taste on my tongue.

‘Usually my clients are as agreeable as your brothers. Tell me, why are you so rude? Is it just foreigners, or do you try to control everyone?’

For several protracted seconds, I assume he’s going to ignore my questions. We face off. His stare sparks flickers of flame. It’s not a look of dislike, and it curls my toes in his poncey, overpriced shoes.

‘Would it help if I apologise?’

I shrug through my surprise. ‘It might.’ I smooth my features into a mask of indifference. ‘But in some regards, it’s too late. You’ve already raised the stakes, thrown down an irresistible gauntlet.’ I lean in, holding his eye contact, breathing through the burn in my corneas at his proximity and the warm, masculine scent of him, which bathes me like a cloud. ‘Adrenaline is addictive.’

The car slows in evening traffic as we butt horns, but I’m barely aware of our surroundings. His sexual magnetism makes my heart thump in my throat. I like sex. Kit is sinfully hot. A plus B could equal a way to dispense with the potent pheromones and reset our working boundaries for this project. My eyes dance over his lips while I mull turning the nagging idea into a reality.

Kit frowns and changes the subject. ‘What did my brother tell you about me?’ He shoots me a hard look, as if defying me to lie or soften the truth.

I fight a smile and let him have it, right between the eyes. ‘That you’re difficult to work for, that you go through staff like you change your underwear and that I shouldn’t be intimidated by you.’

He stares, frozen and watchful, but it’s a look that makes me aware I’m braless beneath this ridiculous wisp of silk.

‘Are you?’ His index finger and thumb return to that lip. My nipples peak as if craving the same attention. My pulse thrums stronger, roaring in my ears.

Rule one of embracing fear—never admit weakness.

‘No.’

He leans closer, as if about to confide a secret while challenge dances in his eyes. I relax every muscle in my body, holding myself perfectly still.

‘Despite my rudeness?’ His smile is brittle, eyes glittering. This game of wills plays tug-of-war with my body—my heart rate spikes every time we make eye contact and the hard kernel of defiance I’m slave to infects my backbone, banishing any leeway I might have scraped together.

I hold the breath in my throat and shake my head. I was right about him—he too enjoys being proved correct, his uncompromising, forthright manner a front. Self-preservation.

I shrug. ‘Perhaps it’s a front.’

‘Perhaps I simply want things the way I want them, Mia.’ The conversation has morphed. We’re no longer talking about working together. And what do I care how he wants things, as long as he doesn’t try to control me?

There’s something beyond enticing about this man. My body twitches, fighting the urge to lean into him. To see those navy eyes close up. To taste the mouth he habitually toys with.

True to form, he releases another bombshell. ‘Did Reid tell you I lost my wife, Laura?’

His brutal statement squeezes my stomach and I suck in a short gasp. A torrent of questions forms in wake of the shock. How? When? Were they married long? Did they have children? It certainly explains his thorny barriers. But I have no interest in breaking those down.

And the perverse in me likes that he tries to jolt me with this intimate, intensely personal detail, likes that he uses what must be his darkest pain to test my mettle. Perhaps a last-ditch attempt to run me off or freak me out.

But it does the opposite, increasing his attractiveness tenfold. Because it seems I was wrong about him.

He is safe.

Unattainable. And clearly only interested in casual hook-ups. The likelihood we’ll turn the chemistry filling the car into something brief and physical increases.

‘No. But thanks for sharing—it helps to put things into perspective.’ The sooner we move past the physical, the sooner we can move on from it. The sooner I can get back to being me. ‘Look, I’m not intimidated by you. I just want to do my job.’

‘No, I see that. You’re...different, aren’t you? Is it a New Zealand thing?’

I fight my first reaction, rationalising that he probably didn’t mean it the way my defensive self-esteem interprets. ‘You’re forthright and...unconventional. It’s not an insult, so you can stop glaring at me.’ His index finger traces his bottom lip while he contemplates the conundrum sitting in his expensive car.

‘Because I can dish as much as I can take?’ I lift my chin. I won’t let him see how close to home his observation has struck. I’m a square peg. I reconciled this long ago. But here, in London, so near and yet so far from my biological roots...

I shiver, tingles of unease racing down my bare back. This is why relationships and I aren’t meant to be. I’m better alone, free to be myself without expectation or judgment... The tiny part of me clamouring for the validation of belonging stutters like a broken film reel, spliced out of sync.

I let him have the honesty he seems to value. ‘You’re rude, unprofessional and obnoxious. That is an insult.’ But even as the words leave my mouth I want his lips on mine, want more than verbal sparring with him, knowing that’s all it ever will be—brief, physical, no emotional entanglements. And, while locking horns with Kit makes my blood pound, I’m certain the sex would be an even better distraction.

He laughs, a genuine head-thrown-back bellow that vibrates into my bones. It’s short. Not long enough for me to fully appreciate the way pleasure transforms his handsome features, but enough to skyrocket my body temperature when he looks at me with a new layer of heat. ‘What shall we do with each other, then, Mia Abbott, as you seem determined to stick around, despite my obvious shortcomings?’

A hundred filthy replies pop into my head. I let him have the forthright and unconventional one he probably expects least. ‘Why don’t we get this...the sex...over and done with and move on to the job?’

Touché, Mr Straight-Talking...

I must imagine the flicker of excitement I see in his eyes, the one that turns my pulse into a roar of drumbeats, because it’s gone in a fraction of a second and his stare hardens, any trace of humour gone. ‘You don’t imagine I’m relationship material, do you?’

His arrogance shouldn’t astound me quite so much. If not for his extreme hotness, his obvious emotional unavailability and the desire to see him as undone as our chemistry renders me, I’d cut my losses and leave him to his floundering business and his boring night out at the theatre.

‘You don’t imagine I’ll fall for your tepid charm offensive, do you? I’ve never had a relationship and I’m not looking for one now.’ I shrug. ‘I’m practical. And as blunt as you. You’re single, I’m single. Neither one of us is interested in anything beyond sex. Let’s get it out of the way and then I can do my job and move on and you can go back to...’ I wave my finger in his general direction ‘...whatever this is.’

He’s silent for so long, I’m aware of every muted noise outside the car. The angry blare of a horn, the squeal of breaks, the electronic beep of a pedestrian crossing. Kit’s stare scours me like I’m under a giant microscope, and he’s cataloguing my nooks and crannies and the freakish antennae sprouting from my head.

But then his tongue swipes his bottom lip and I almost feel it between my legs. From the look in his eyes alone I’m achy and damp.

‘I bet you didn’t negotiate this into your contract with Reid and Drake.’ A small lip-curl hints at what must be a devastating full-blown smile I’ll probably never see. ‘Wednesday,’ he adds with a bitter twist to his mouth, his serious, intense stare pinning me to the leather upholstery.

‘What?’

‘If you’re still interested, I’ll fuck you Wednesday,’ he says. Like it’s a meeting he’s slotted into his busy schedule, before the gym and after a conference call.

Today is Monday.

My body can’t decide on an emotion, shunting between excitement, outrage and rampant curiosity. ‘Why Wednesday?’ A control thing? Just because he can pick and choose? Well, fuck that.

A defiant trickle of fire winds its way between the exposed bumps of my vertebrae—I’ll tell him Wednesday doesn’t work for me, but could I pencil him in for Friday? But my body betrays me, clamouring for the dark, all-consuming sex I’m guessing he delivers; desperate to have done with the distracting deluge of arousal every time I’m in his presence; determined to show him whatever he can dish, I can take.

‘Because that’s the way I want it.’ He leans closer, his navy stare tracing my parted lips and leaving the ghost of a kiss there. ‘You should know, I’ll be in control. I’ll call the shots. If that’s not your thing...’ Another cocky shrug that fans my body temperature off the scale. He thinks he has tomboy Mia all figured out.

‘You should know that’s dangerous talk in this day and age. Women are in charge of their own sexuality, Mr Faulkner.’ I’m aware I’m the one who brought up sex, and, despite his commanding promise and my rebuttal, my internal muscles clench at the idea of Kit controlling my pleasure. No one’s ever bossed me around in the bedroom before, and if I’d been asked prior to meeting the sinfully sexy Kit I’d have sworn on the life of my brother’s soon-to-be adopted child I’d tell him he could stick his sexual dominance up his tight, toned English backside.

But his offer comes laced with the hint of danger that whooshes the blood through my head in a rush. And I’m confident I can take him. I wonder how many times he’s used the I’ll call the shots line. I wonder if anyone ever turns the charmer down. I wonder if he used it on the late Mrs Faulkner, a woman whose legacy appears far-reaching, as if Kit literally drags it behind him like Marley’s chains.

That we’re negotiating sex like a cold, unemotional transaction isn’t romantic. But I don’t need romance. He’s started a chain reaction inside me, luring me towards the recklessness I crave.

Testing where his head is at, I say, ‘Or perhaps you’re trying to tame the wild girl, eh?’

Perhaps now would be a good time to tell him of my rebellious teens, my reputation as a wildcard...

Kit smiles but it’s feline. ‘You and your command of your sexuality brought this up, Ms Abbott. Just because I like things a certain way doesn’t mean I don’t respect your choices and your right to say no. I’m fully into mutual consent while we explore our mutual pleasure.’ His eyes dip to my mouth. ‘You can take it or leave it, Mia.’ His lips caress the phrase mutual pleasure like they’re already on my skin, my nipples, my clit.

I press my thighs together, stymieing the burn. My head screams one thing while my hormones stage an intervention.

But he’s also given me a bargaining chip. With a rush of exhaled air, I make my decision. I will take it, because Kit Faulkner turns me on more than anyone I’ve ever met. But more so, because I’m up to the challenge. Any challenge. Especially one where the boundaries are so clearly demarcated and the taste of victory already lingers on my tongue.

Kit wears the casual-sex-only vibe like some men wear overpowering cologne. He’s safe. I can concede to a few of his sexual demands without risk, but I have a stipulation of my own.

I shrug, while my blood pounds through my belly. ‘It’s all good—whatever your kink. But I have a condition too.’ My breathing accelerates, a chemical cocktail flooding my bloodstream.

He leans in, waiting, his lips parted and his midnight eyes dancing between mine.

I swallow, ensuring my voice will be clear and controlled when it emerges because the parts of me affected by the hormonal maelstrom inside jerk and jitter like chattering teeth. ‘You can call the shots sexually, but I want full creative direction over my work—no negotiations. No wasting my time or trying to influence the process, and no interfering.’

I wait, breath held in my throat while I stare him down.

Some sort of battle rages inside him—his nostrils flare, his eye actually twitches and his chest rises and falls, telling me he’s used to controlling every aspect of his life, including work. And now I’m burning with curiosity about his dead wife. What happened to her? Has it made Kit the way he is? It would destroy this fiercely controlled man to have such a momentous part of his life turned upside down.

Breath stutters back into my chest in a rush. In that moment I want to reach out to him, to kiss him, more than I want the oxygen that breath delivers to my gasping lungs. He’s the last thing I should want—his privileged, conventional lifestyle, his naturally demanding nature, his disregard for social pleasantries are warning bells rattling my skull.

But he’s safe.

The fact he’s still deeply and desolately in love with his wife is stamped all over him from the creases in the corners of his eyes to the tension he carries around his beautiful mouth and the control he seems desperate to exert on all areas of his life.

My scalp prickles as I wait. I fight the urge to climb into his lap and finish this now, today. Monday. Just to show him life, free will, is about choices. But losing his wife would have already taught him that harsh lesson and perhaps I simply want to watch him shed the battle-scarred armour, even for a few uninhibited seconds.

Wednesday might as well be next year. He’s ramped up my hormones tenfold by making me wait and now my anticipation is stretched taut.

We’re still staring, still breathing in unison, still flooding the space with a pheromone mix more potent than the spirits stocked in the car’s minibar.

I lick my parched lips. His eyes dance over the trail of my tongue.

I’m frozen, but every nerve in my body urges me to take the leap.

At the last second, his pupils dilate and we lunge in unison.

With a small growl his hands slide into my hair and he cups my face and pulls me onto his kiss. I meet him halfway, my hands gripping his shoulders as wave after wave of relief pounds through me.

He’s changed his mind.

We’ll dump the boring play, go back to his place and I can start work afresh tomorrow with this...inconvenient distraction nicely tucked away.

Done and dusted. Kit Faulkner put in his place. Back to being Mia.

His kiss is bold, open-eyed, almost defiant, but my body responds—muscles softening and heart rate accelerating, forcing heated blood around my arteries, delivering the hormones that allow me to ignore all the reasons fucking my kind-of boss isn’t a good idea.

Firm lips direct my mouth open. His tongue surges inside—sublime, possessive, unapologetic. As good as I’d guessed. I clasp his wrists, clinging on for dear life as I meet his stare, even though my corneas are on fire and my mind screams at me to close my eyes. To block out the carnal, almost cruel intensity in his eyes. As if kissing me today, a Monday, is a dare and he hates every second.

To compensate I kiss him like it’s my last second on earth, my mouth a frantic slide on his, my tongue a match for the duel of his, and then I suck on his bottom lip.

He pulls away, his stare savage, breath gusting across my face, and then drags my whole body into his lap, his fingers digging in and a hoarse grunt leaving his throat.

My blood surges, delivering the endorphins to every cell in my body. Perhaps we won’t make it back to his place. Perhaps we’ll finish this right here in the back of his fancy car before we make it to the Shaftesbury.

I straddle his lap and rise up over him to slant my mouth back over his. I was right about the hair. It’s silky and long enough to twist between my fingers. But I don’t get to enjoy it for long because he grips my wrists and directs them behind my back with firm, insistent pressure that tells me he’s a man of his word. He wants to control this... Well, he can try.

I continue to plunder his mouth as he traps both my hands in one of his, and then his other hand is at my breast, kneading and tweaking and making me moan loudly enough to alert our driver, who sits behind the privacy screen, of what is afoot.

Kit pulls on my wrists, breaking the contact between our frenzied mouths. His stare is almost black with desire, a wildness dancing there that steals my breath and banishes any residual hesitation I have for wanting him.

I do.

Desperately.

Now.

He dips his head and his mouth covers my breast, through the fabric of the silk dress that probably cost him more than my flight around the world.

He’s not gentle. His lips clamp my nipple, pulling and tugging while his tongue flicks at the nub. I cry out, the sensation burrowing deep into my belly, sending pulses of fire between my legs.

I knew the second I walked into his office things would be good between us. Just like I intuited his emotional unavailability. Kit oozes distance from every pore. Emotionally, we’re as distant as the countries we come from. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need the trappings.

His free hand skims my thigh as he leans back on the seat, holding me prisoner a short distance away from his mouth, which I want back on me. My breast, my lips, anywhere that helps to slake the burning need he’s unleashed so effortlessly.

‘Is this what you want?’ The bulge at the front of his trousers tells me he wants it too, despite the harshness of his tone. Despite his stupid Wednesday rule.

‘Yes.’ I’ve never been more turned on in my life. Perhaps it’s the dress and the glamour of Kit’s London and limo. Perhaps it’s a comedown from the elevated adrenaline I’ve suffered since my plane touched down in this foreign city, a place I’m tied to through family, both biological and real. Perhaps it’s just Kit, as sexy as sin in his tux—impersonal, unreachable, the ultimate in temptation.

With an impatient grunt, he slides his fingers between my legs. His hooded eyes command my stare, which wants to hide from his brooding, detached perusal. But a pulse hammers in his neck, he’s steel between my legs and his chest works hard, I suspect to stave off a similar light-headedness to that currently rendering me incoherent.

‘Fuck. No underwear?’ He probes my slickness, this time with a gentleness I’d have denied he was capable of two minutes ago.

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