Friction(43)

Then, tossing the cuffs on the bed, he leaves the photo room without uttering another word.



Lying in bed much later, I realize something heartbreakingly sad:

I don't remember much about the first time Tom kissed me.

I had met him through a mutual friend right before I graduated from Stanford—Sarah had talked about her old UCLA classmate for months and months, praising everything from his intelligence to his athletic prowess to his physique. "He's a soccer player," she had told me with a waggle of her brows as she scribbled his number on a piece of paper. "He has that Beckham body if you know what I mean."

Since, at the time, I had no earthly idea who she was referring to, I had simply nodded and accepted the phone number she thrust in my direction. "If he's so gorgeous, why aren't you dating him?"

"Because I'm seeing Logan, and they're friends."

I had sat on Tom's number for two weeks until Sarah gave me another gentle nudge to call him. When I did, I remember thinking how beautiful his voice sounded. It was a deep tenor, and even though I hadn't felt that twinge deep in the pit of my stomach as we talked for an hour about his childhood split between Yorba Linda and Seattle and how he endeavored to someday make the best damn coffee blend the world has ever seen, I couldn't help but admire the guy.

He was smart and driven and cocky, which I had told myself was okay because Thomas Duncan knew exactly what he wanted.

When we met in person nearly a month after that first phone call, I was captivated by him. By that time, I had looked up David Beckham, and I couldn't help but agree with Sarah that the dark-haired, blue-eyed god sitting across from me at my favorite Brazilian steakhouse and talking about his future plans for an organic coffee company was breathtakingly beautiful.

Walking me to my car after dinner, he had kissed me.

Thinking back to that moment now, I feel ashamed to admit that even though I had called Jamie the next morning and gushed about the incredible night I had with the man who'd eventually become my husband, the details of that first kiss are hazy.

Which makes the moment I shared with Jace in the EXtreme photo room so much heavier. At least to me. I roll onto my side and check my phone, wishing I’d find a message from the man who’s haunted my thoughts all day. There’s nothing there.

I hate him for that.

Almost as much as I hate myself for sliding open my nightstand drawer and reaching blindly for my vibrator. I don’t bother to remove my panties because it’s over almost as soon as it begins, my body buckling beneath the hum on my sex. As I crash, I think of Jace. Of his demanding mouth and his rough touch in my hair and pressed against my skin. Of the way I’d wished he hadn’t left earlier today and how I’d escaped to the restroom for longer than necessary to catch my breath.

Because that kiss with Jace—I remember everything about it. Every stroke of his tongue and brush of his fingers. Every second, period.

And it’s a memory I’m not sure will go away, no matter how much I pray it will because he’s made it evident where we stand.





Fifteen





Jace





Every time I look at her—and unfortunately for me, it’s too bloody often—vivid images shoot through my head. When she comes into my office on Tuesday to tell me that Allene wants to interview me on her show next week—for a post-Valentine’s Day special—I picture my hand undoing that prim ponytail falling over one shoulder and the other on the slim column of her throat.

My fingers spasm on my desk.

“I’ll check my schedule,” I say, and she flicks her tongue over her bottom lip, skimming it from one side to the other. She’s wearing red lipstick today—the same color she wore the night of Bailon’s party. My thoughts creep from kissing her to the way she’d molded that curvy body against the glass in the voyeur room so she could watch. She hadn’t been able to look away then, and I can’t now.

I want to watch her. I want her bound and bucking against my tongue and fingers. Then I want more of her.

“You can go now, Williams.” The sooner she leaves, the faster my cock will recover from her presence.

She doesn’t budge. Instead she taps her fingers anxiously on my desk. “Do you think you might not be able to do the interview?” Those hands. Since she first walked into my office, I’ve thought of Lucy Williams in a hundred different positions, but the need to possess her has gotten worse since I touched her, since I tasted her.

And it all started because I asked to use those hands.

“Jace,” she whispers, snapping my attention away from her fingers. “I can email Allene and let her know that—”

“I said I’ll check my schedule.” She flinches at my harsh tone, then wets her lips again. “And don’t do that.”

“My lips are dry.”

“Then buy some Chapstick or pick another lipstick, Williams. I pay you well enough,” I growl because I’m a split second from telling her to close the door so I can clear my schedule right now and wet her lips for her. “Christ, love—” I start, but she nods curtly and stands, filling my office with her sweet scent.

“Let me know what you decide about Allene.”

She leaves without another word, which is better for her.