Off Limits

My breasts are covered by two dark, wet marks. I lift my fingers to them and trace their outline, shuddering at remembered sensations, desperate for more. More of him. More of this.

I groan loudly and stomp through to the kitchen.

What the hell just happened? He’s my boss. My boss! And I know what he’s like. I know how messed up he is. For two years I have kept all this swirling desire at bay. Why couldn’t I control it tonight?

I pour myself a glass of wine in the hope that it will somehow reach back through time and wipe the experience not only from my memory but also from existence. It doesn’t. Each sip reminds me of him, and the faint overtone of alcohol hits the back of my throat, making me crave him.

This is not good.

I walk more slowly through the house, up the narrow stairs—two flights. The house is tall and skinny, with one or two rooms on each of its five storeys. My office is on the first floor; my bedroom and bathroom are on the next. There are three bedrooms on the next few levels, and a roof terrace right at the top. I love it, but I am not here nearly enough.

I kick my shoes off, then flick the light on with the base of my wineglass, narrowly avoiding spilling Pinot Noir on the beige carpet. I pad over the carpet and strip off the dress as I go. I’ll give it to charity as soon as I can.

In just my still-damp underpants, I climb into bed and pull the duvet up to my chin. Wineglass in hand, I stare at the wall.

It’s not that bad, is it?

People must do this kind of thing all the time. We work together. Hell, we practically live together. Something like this was kind of inevitable.

I cringe.

It’s so not okay. Wasn’t I just congratulating myself a few days ago on the Very Important Lessons I’ve learned from watching female bosses get derided and demoted over the years? Surely the cardinal sin for any woman in the workplace is to get involved with a colleague? And definitely not a senior, super-rich, super-yummy, fuck-around kind of colleague.

Ugh!

There are only a handful of us that work at The Mansion. Jack’s two assistants, his driver, a bodyguard and me. We are all bound by a strict notion of confidentiality, and I think most of his staff are too afraid of me to get on my bad side anyway. So it’s not gossip I fear.

It’s Jack. And it’s me. It’s the respect I suspect I have sacrificed by letting this happen.

Letting it happen? My brain is outraged. My brain, after all, did try to stop it.

Sorry, I wasn’t listening. I won’t make that mistake again.

I pour the wine into my mouth, wincing at the astringent taste I really don’t enjoy. I’m tired. It’s been a long day and a weird night.

The last thing on my mind as I fall into a tortured, sensual sleep is a question about what tomorrow will bring.

* * *

He’s at his desk when I arrive the next morning, coffee steaming in front of him, dark head bent. I move past, telling myself I would never do anything as cowardly as tiptoeing even as I hold my breath until I’m past his doorframe.

‘Gemma? Get in here.’

Shit.

I squeeze my eyes shut, suck in a deep breath. I can do this. We just kissed.

You didn’t ‘just kiss’. He stuck his finger deep inside you and made you come.

Shut up, brain.

He sucked on your breasts and you fell apart at the seams.

Seriously, I’m going to lobotomise myself.

‘Gemma?’

With a silent oath, I spin on my you-can-handle-anything Jimmy Choo heel and stride into his office with my very best appearance of calm.

‘Oh, hi, Jack.’

Crap. He’s wearing the pale blue shirt that makes his eyes look like bloody gemstones. It’s unbuttoned at the neck and I can see a hint of dark hair curling above the top button.

‘I didn’t realise you were here.’

His smirk shows my lie for what it is.

‘Sit.’

I arch my brow, staying exactly where I am, ignoring the wall to my left. The wall he pressed me against while he explored me intimately. My eyes stray to the bar instead. To the cocktail he was drinking last night.

‘Sit,’ he says again, and there is something in his voice that makes my nerves twitch.

There is promise in that command. Promise and heat.

‘How are you?’ The question, softly asked, makes everything inside me tremble.

‘I’m fine,’ I snap, to counteract that response. ‘And busy. What do you need?’

His smile spreads slowly across his face. It is fire and it is flame and my brain is beginning to get very, very anxious.

‘How did you sleep?’

Does he know I dreamed of him? That in my dreams he did very, very bad things to me?

I swallow, crossing my arms over my chest as the memories nip at my heels. They are in the room with us, swirling around him, me and the things we did. I can’t give them more air.

‘Did you want something?’

He stands up, and I am frozen to the spot as he moves confidently across the room, shutting the door and clicking the lock in place.

‘I slept badly,’ he says, ignoring my question, his voice sunshine on my cool flesh.

‘Mmm...?’ I murmur, making sure no warmth conveys itself to him. ‘Maybe you should have tried a sedative?’

He strides to the chair across from his and holds it out. Shooting him a look laced with my fiercest resentment, I sit down, careful not to so much as brush against his fingertips. Fingers that have now been inside me—that have not just touched me, but have breached my barriers and found my throbbing heart.

Fingers that have undone me.

I am holding my breath again. Is that how I’m going to get over this little hurdle? Suffocate myself? Is that even possible? I’m pretty sure we have some breathing trigger in our brains, but my brain is a bit pissy with me so maybe it would conveniently forget about the button.

I push air out consciously, quietly, and he takes his seat.

‘Anyway...’ I prompt impatiently.

His smile is a flicker. Is he laughing at me? Arrogant arsehole! That’d be just like him. See? That’s the problem! I know him. I’m not one of his other women. I know that he is as bastardy as he is sexy.

‘How did you sleep?’

I blink at him, my eyes wide. ‘You’ve already asked me that.’

‘You didn’t answer.’

I expel a sigh that speaks of anger. ‘Like I always do. Seriously, Jack. My desk is covered in paper. I have to get to work.’

‘I’m your work,’ he says with a shrug.

Insolent bastard.

He leans forward, and while his face is casual there is an urgency in the flecks of gold that fill his eyes. ‘Did you see him last night?’

I want to remind him of the salient fact I pointed out the night before. It’s not his damned business. But I’m not sure I can say that with such conviction now that I’ve tasted his mouth; now that I’ve been stunned by his desire.

Can I skirt around his question?

‘You’re my work? Okay, the thing is I have the New York guys waiting on contracts, you have a meeting in a week that I have to prepare for and Athens wants your input—which means my input—on a lease agreement. And I need to—’

‘Quiet.’

God! Don’t hate me, but when he’s bossy I love it. And he’s almost always bossy.

I glare at him across his desk; it’s best if he doesn’t know that this is just about my favourite version of him.

‘You’re fucking telling me to be quiet?’ I lean forward, and we’re close now: almost touching. ‘Seriously?’

‘You’re pissed off.’

‘Damn right, I am.’

His laugh is soft. Throaty. Hot. ‘Because we didn’t finish?’

I flick my eyes shut. My cheeks are hot. ‘What do you need?’

‘Are you in a relationship with him?’

‘Who?’

‘Wolf DuChamp?’

I hide a smile. ‘So you do know his name?’

‘Now I do.’

His expression is unreadable. But deep inside me something stirs. Hope. Because isn’t there an implication there that he knows about Wolf because of me? Because he wants to know about my life?

‘So? What’s the deal?’ he asks.

‘Are you jealous?’ The words are a challenge; they escape unbidden.

His response is razor-sharp. ‘Why would I be jealous?’

Crap. A stupid challenge, apparently.

‘Forget it.’ I scrape the chair back and stand, my eyes not inviting argument. ‘Is that all?’

‘You haven’t answered me. How can it be all?’

I expel a breath angrily. ‘I like him.’ I shrug.

It’s true. Not romantically, necessarily. But he’s a nice guy. Good-looking. It doesn’t matter that I’ve already ruled out a relationship.

‘Are you fucking him?’

My expression is ice—even I can feel the chill that spreads through the office.

‘Isn’t this the question that got us into trouble last night?’

He stands up, slamming his palms against the desk, his eyes lashing me. ‘Are you fucking him?’

It’s loud. Not quite a roar, but close to it. I’m startled. This is outside the bounds of anything that’s happened between us and we both know it. Then again, I guess we’ve obliterated boundaries now. They—like me—are in a state of flux. Changeability that is unpredictable and not good.

‘Go to hell.’

I turn around and walk out of his office, but my knees are shaking and I feel really weird, as if I could cry—which, for your information, I haven’t done in years. I literally don’t cry. Not at sad movies. Not when my cat died.

But I’m shaking, and if he follows me I’ll be really lost.

He doesn’t.

I storm over to my desk. I wasn’t lying or exaggerating. Piles of paper clutter every available inch of the thing. I turn my back on them and stare over the Heath, my eyes brooding.

This is a damned nightmare, isn’t it?

My brain nods along smugly. Told you so.

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