Friction(14)

I exhale.

Then breathe in deeply for good measure.

“Much better,” he says.

"I wasn’t aware that stripping was in the job description,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. It’s flimsy and broken. “If you tell me to take off my pants next, I swear I'm walking out of here."

“That would be a mistake, don’t you think?” He bends his dark head to mine, and our mouths are so close all it would take is a simple “mistake” for our lips to touch. For more. "Ahh, Williams. You’re just as I remember you," he suggests, the scent of his wintermint gum fanning my face.

“And how’s that?”

“Uptight.” Leaning back, he searches my hazel eyes. I sit up taller, so he won't notice the tremor that wanders down my spine. "You’re perfect now."

And here I was thinking red lipstick was adventurous. He returns to Daisy's desk, leaving me a mess, so I hug my arms around my stomach. "Wh-what time do we have to meet your client?" Seventy-five percent of the confidence I swept through the door with is gone now, replaced by uncertainty because he touched me.

Because our mouths were so close.

Because he’s not even aware of what he’s managed to do to me in a matter of minutes. And if he does know, he doesn’t seem to give a damn.

Sure enough, his expression is relaxed when his dark head pops up from sifting through paperwork. "Whenever." Stacking a small packet of papers, he slides them in a clipboard, grabs a pen from the cup on Daisy’s desk and then hands it to me.

It’s a non-disclosure agreement—I've signed one at every job I've worked at since graduate school—so I read over it silently, tapping the pen on the side of the clipboard in sync with my erratic heartbeat.

"No questions?" he asks, sounding surprised when I click one end of the pen and place the other to the paper.

"Don't share your design secrets and don’t share information about your clients."

“No photos without permission,” he adds. “Ever. That means no digital cameras and definitely no selfies while you’re at work—not even on the loo.”

I make a face. Because who the hell takes photos on the toilet?

“Yes, sir.” I scribble my name across the bottom of the page and then date it before returning the clipboard. I hate that our fingers graze again. And I hate the static sparking between our flesh. I offer him a tight smile despite it. "Anything else? Tax forms, direct deposit information, emergency—"

"Daisy will handle all that on Monday." He wiggles the clipboard from side to side before tossing it on her desk. "This couldn't wait, but now that it's taken care of, we're good." He gives my outfit—the one he’d personally picked apart with his hands and voice—another once over. "You'll ride with me. We’re going to Winchester, and I wouldn't want you to get lost on the way.”

"That's fine." But it's not because I'm scared shitless. The idea of sitting right beside him for god only knows how long curls my stomach into knots that likely won’t untangle until well after we’ve parted ways later tonight.

"No arguments?" He almost looks stunned, but when I shake my head, he recovers, grabs his keys and winks at me. "That's a good girl."



Jace is a fast driver—not that I'm surprised. I clutch my seatbelt as he bobs and weaves through traffic on the interstate and pray that the next curve will be the one that makes him slow the hell down. My prayers go unanswered. He drives with only one hand on the wheel, his focus split between the road and the occasional bold glance in my direction.

"You look positively green, Williams."

I grit my teeth while he takes a fifteen-mile per hour exit at a smooth forty. He never leaves the confines of the white lines, but it still terrifies me. I've gotten one speeding ticket in my life when I was twenty-two for driving six miles over. And sadly, that's probably the fastest I've ever gone. "The speed limit is sixty now,” I point out.

"And that motherfucker"—he nods at the sleek Corvette that whizzes past his black Challenger—"is going ninety. You can untwist your knickers. I promise to bring you back in one piece."

I hate the way his voice drops an octave lower when he mentions my underwear just as much as I hate the way my hand automatically goes to my chest. Hopefully, he attributes it to fear and not the fact the sound of his tongue working over the word “knickers” is like water to my thirsting ears. "Yes, but will that one piece you return still be breathing?" I mutter.

"Relax and listen to the music. You’ll thank me for it later.”

He doesn't seem affected by the harsh look I send in his direction, he only grins. I sit back in my seat and attempt to focus on the angsty sound of rock music as opposed to the frantic throbbing of my pulse. Whatever we’re listening to is admittedly catchy—a song called “Black Honey.” I won’t tell him that I’ll look up the artist later since he’ll likely rub it in my face that I enjoy something he’s introduced me to.

And having him sit beside me is about all the friction I can take from Mr. Jace Exley tonight.

"I’ve a question for you, Williams," he says several minutes later, after the song transitions to another good one—“Way Down We Go” by Kaleo. “Why do you still use Duncan in your email address?”