Talking Dirty With the Boss: A Talking Dirty Novel (Entangled Indulgence) (12 page)

Annoyed with himself and the way she seemed to get under his skin just by eating, he put his knife and fork down neatly on his plate. “What does ‘hmmmm’ mean?”

“It means I’m thinking about it. You really eat a croissant with a knife and fork?”

“What? How is the way I eat relevant?”

“Why not use your hands?”

“Using a knife and fork is more orderly. And it means I don’t have to wipe my fingers. Saves time.”

“Orderly, right.” She broke off the other end of her croissant. “It seems a little extreme, though. There you are in your jeans and your T-shirt, eating your croissant with utensils.”

The tension in his shoulders tightened. No one made fun of him these days, not the way they had when he was at school. And if she was going to start…

“Here,” she said, holding out the other end of her croissant to him, “try this.”

“What do you mean?”

She waved the croissant at him. “Go on, eat it. You won’t even have to wipe your fingers.”

“I don’t understand your point.”

“Maybe I want to see you relax.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Don’t you ever want to, Luke? For a second?”

He shifted the napkin on his lap. “Not particularly.” He couldn’t, not even for a second, not that he could tell her that.

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she leaned forward, holding out the bit of croissant. “Go on. Eat it. I dare you to.”

“What are we, children? Don’t be ridiculous.”

But she said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow. And just like that something kicked in, a part of himself he kept tightly in check, locked away. The part that liked speed, that liked the thrill, that liked adventure. The part that had nothing whatsoever to do with his OCD.

And he found himself reaching out and grabbing her wrist, bringing her hand close so he could take the pastry in his mouth. It was crisp and crunchy and sweet with honey.

Her eyes widened and that bad-boy part of himself loved that he’d surprised her. So he went further, indulging himself in the impulse he’d had earlier, licking one of her fingers. She went still and he heard her breath catch. He took the finger into his mouth, sucking gently, tasting the salty sweetness of her skin underneath the honey.

“Luke,” she murmured, the sound sharply bitten off as he nipped the end of her finger lightly with his teeth. Her eyes had gone dark, her lovely face flushed. She was staring at his mouth and for a second there was nothing between them: no OCD, no baby, no questions about the future. Only desire and desperation.

“Stop.” Her voice was thick and breathy. “We can’t do this, okay? I can’t do this. Not again.”

And she pulled her hand away from his.

Of course she was right. But that was no help to the hunger raging through his veins. Or to the sense that somehow he’d slipped again. Jesus, this woman was a bucket of salt on a snowdrift when it came to his control. She melted right through it.

“Now you know why I use a knife and fork,” he said curtly.

She was staring down at her plate. “And now you know why I can’t move in with you. You and me alone? It’s disaster.”

“I can manage it.”

“Yeah, and we both keep saying that, and yet look what happens.”

“Nothing happened, Marisa. We pulled back.”

“And what about next time?”

“There won’t be a next time. Stop pushing me and we’ll be fine.”

She let out a breath. “I haven’t made any decisions yet, Luke.”

“Well, you have to.” Otherwise the alternative would be him being here, every morning and every night because he wouldn’t be able to deal with the rest of his routines until he’d made sure she was okay. And if that happened then he didn’t know how he was going to explain it to her in a way that wouldn’t look like he was completely mad.

Marisa leaned back in her seat, raised a hand to her mouth, and nibbled on a fingernail. “So…say I did move in. What’s in it for me?”

He didn’t blink at the question. If this was like business—and it sort of was—then that was a logical thing for the other party to ask. “You’ll get your own suite of rooms. I have a housekeeper who keeps everything clean and to my liking. She also cooks on occasion. And like I said, you can have this rent-free.”

“Yeah, about that. Rent-free is nice of you, McNamara, but it’s too much like freeloading for me.”

“I haven’t finished.” He’d formulated another plan this morning. One that should appeal to her need for independence. And rightly so. Everyone should have financial independence and security that was all theirs. “The living expenses you pay now, you’ll continue to pay, but they’ll go into an account that I’ll manage for you. I do a lot of what they call high-risk trading, which means I can probably triple your money in a short space of time. So that by the time the baby is born, you should have enough to repay any existing debts plus a tidy lump sum to put toward the glass studio you wanted.”

She didn’t say anything, continuing to nibble on her fingernail, blue eyes watchful. “I’m keeping my job, then. Otherwise I won’t have any money to pay those living expenses.”

Luke shifted. If she kept her job, they’d be working together, and that was going to contravene the rules about workplace relationships. Rules he’d put into place himself. Then again, technically they weren’t in a relationship. Not a sexual one, at any rate.

“I could pay off your debts for you,” he said, still not happy about it.

But Marisa was adamant. “I pay my own way, Luke. And if you start pulling crap like paying for me, I’m not moving in.”

Stalemate. God, how he hated compromising. But there wasn’t much else he could do.

Oh, he could fire her from her job and pay her debts for her, but then she’d
never
move in with him. “Fine. How about this? Move in with me for a month. A trial run. We’ll keep our hands off each other, which means we’re not breaking the rules at work and you get to keep your position at
Total Tech
. Once a month’s over, we can see where we go from there.”

“And if it doesn’t work I’m returning home.”

He had to force the word out. “Yes.”

“Okay then,” she said slowly. “I think we’ve got a deal.”

…

“Wow, Mar,” Christie said, shocked. “When you drop a bombshell, you really drop a freaking bombshell.”

After Luke had left, Marisa had instantly picked up her phone to organize an emergency gossip meeting with Christie, only to find at least ten texts from her friend. Apparently after she and Luke had left the auction, Caleb had declared his undying love for Judith.

They’d met up at a café on Ponsonby Road, one of Auckland’s über-fashionable shopping strips, and Christie had given Marisa the lowdown on the Caleb/Jude situation.

Then Marisa had girded her loins and reciprocated by telling her friend about the Luke/Marisa/baby situation. Which she hadn’t been able to keep quiet about any longer, especially not if she was moving in with Luke.

Hence the bombshell statement.

“So let me get this straight,” Christie said, waving the spoon with which she’d been stirring her hot chocolate. “You and Luke had a one-night stand—”

“It wasn’t really a one-night stand. Technically, it was more a ten-minute stand. Against a door.”

“Mar, please. Spare me the freaking details. Anyway, you had a one-night stand and yesterday you found out you’re pregnant? And today you’re moving in with him?”

“Just for a month, but yep, that about covers it.”

Christie glared at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you.”

“Yesterday!”

Marisa toyed with her hot chocolate. Her second of the day. Hell, she deserved it if she couldn’t have coffee. “I know. I’m sorry. I was kind of in shock yesterday.”

“I get that. No wonder you lost it at the auction.” Christie chewed on her marshmallow. “So…you’re keeping the baby, I guess?”

“Yeah. I mean, I made a mistake but that’s not the kid’s fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who needs to take the consequences of it.”

Her friend’s brow wrinkled. “You want it then?”

Marisa found she was resting an unconscious hand on her stomach again. “I do.” She did. And one thing was for sure, she wasn’t going to screw things up with this kid. Even if it killed her.

“But the moving-in thing?” Christie leaned forward and added in a whisper, “What about those workplace relationship rules?”

“Uh, we’re actually not in a relationship so there’s no problem.”

“Sure, like I believe that.”

Marisa scowled. “It’s true.”

A crease appeared between Christie’s brows. “Well, whatever. I gotta say it seems weird.”

It was weird. But then Luke had provided a compelling argument that morning at breakfast. The whole “suite of rooms” and a housekeeper hadn’t sounded too shabby, either, but it had been his suggestion about what to do with her rent money that had made her really think. She needed money in order to pay off the rest of her debts, get this glass artist dream off the ground, and Luke’s method of savings would definitely make the whole process far less painful. Especially if he could triple her money, and given that he was a financial genius, she thought he probably would.

Perhaps it would mean she’d have enough to pursue that degree one day. The degree her mother had told her was a waste of time and money in the years after her father’s death. Told her she should be pursuing modeling instead.

And look how well that turned out, Mum.

No, this time she was going to do what she wanted. And if Luke could help her achieve that, then why not? However, a month’s trial run seemed like a good idea. That gave her an out. Which she’d probably need because, let’s face it, her and Luke living together? Not exactly a recipe for harmony, was it?

“I suppose it is weird,” Marisa allowed. “But hey, if it’s going to help me repay my debts then I’m all for it.”

“How are you going to cope? He’s kind of…” Christie paused, frowning.

“Uptight?” Marisa supplied.

“I was trying to think of something not quite so mean, but yes.”

“He is a little.” Kind of an understatement. He was a lot. With his predilection for rules and neatness. The constant smoothing of his clothes. And yet there were times when uptight was the last thing he was… “But I’ll manage.”

Christie narrowed her eyes. “You like him, don’t you?”

The observation took Marisa by surprise. “Uh…what makes you say that?”

“You’ve got a weird look in your eye. “

Marisa fixed her friend with a glare. “We’re not together, Christie, and we won’t ever be. We’re too different. Besides, I’ve always said love sucks balls and it does.”

But her friend shook her head. “It doesn’t, Mar. I know you had a crappy experience once, but that doesn’t mean all relationships have to be that way.”

“Huh. Easy for you to say, married to Mr. Perfect.”

“He’s not perfect. And neither am I. But we’ve learned to live with each other’s flaws and accept each other for who we are. That’s the way love is.”

Marisa scowled down at her hot chocolate. “You’ll forgive me if I disagree with you. Majorly.” Because in her experience love wasn’t about acceptance. It was about giving someone all of yourself while they gave you lies in return.

Christie had found a guy who loved her for who she was, but that’s because she was lucky. Marisa had thought the same until Alistair had revealed his true colors.

Love sucked. And it was mistake she wouldn’t make again.

“So tell me more about Jude and Caleb,” Marisa said.

Chapter Eight

The lights came on, one by one, illuminating the deceptively massive space of the underground garage and the five cars lined up inside it.

“Wow,” Marisa breathed, sounding awestruck.

Luke leaned against the doorframe and watched as Marisa walked slowly over to his fire engine–red Ferrari Enzo.

He’d picked her up coming back from his afternoon out on the racetrack and he was feeling good. A little reckless, even. Allowing himself a speed high always had that effect on him, though usually, once he got home, the feeling faded. But not now. And not with her here.

Marisa had been surprised when he’d arrived at her apartment, all ready to take her back to his place. Apparently, she hadn’t been expecting the month to start now. But they’d had a little chat and eventually she’d agreed.

This hadn’t proved to be as difficult as he’d thought, and as a result, the usual tension between them had eased, at least enough for friendly conversation.

“This is definitely not a Volvo,” she said, putting out a hand to the glossy metal.

“Don’t touch,” he ordered before her fingerprints could destroy the paintwork.

“Of course not.” Indeed, she hadn’t, her hand remaining hovering above the car. “If you’d waited a second longer you would have heard me ask for permission.”

He sighed and pushed away from the doorframe, coming over to stand beside her. She watched him, a distinct gleam in her eyes. “Give me credit here, McNamara. I can be sensitive when I want to be.”

Luke put a hand in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the soft square of chamois cloth that he kept there. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Use this to wipe off any fingerprints.”

She grinned and took the cloth, and he tried not to tense as her fingers brushed over the car’s metal bonnet. “Sexy,” she purred, giving the car an oddly sensual caress. “This is quite a collection you’ve got here.”

“I told you I liked fast cars.”

“You did. Expensive habit.”

“I don’t spend my money on anything else.”

“Which means you must have rather a lot of money.”

It was true, he did. Not out of any conscious desire to accrue it but because he got a lot of pleasure out of playing the markets. And once he had it, he tended to give large portions of it away to charity or spend it on his own private passion—cars.

He even viewed is as a form of therapy, an outlet for him when the frustrations of his condition got too much.

“These aren’t cheap, it’s true,” he allowed.

Marisa gave the Ferrari’s fender another stroke, then rubbed at the paintwork. “So these aren’t for any kind of investment? “

Luke snorted. “No. Cars don’t make good investments, especially considering the depreciation as soon as they roll off the assembly line.”

“Totally for stress relief, then?”

He had no idea why the question sounded so sexual. Or maybe that was his one-track mind. “Yes,” he said, trying to keep his voice on an even keel. “I’ve always been into them, since I was a kid.”

Marisa moved away from the Ferrari, wandering over to the black Jaguar. Her hair was up in a ponytail and it swayed with her walk. He found himself watching her, the movement of her hips, the way her jeans hugged her bottom, and he realized he had his hands curled into fists, itching with the need to touch her the way she was touching his cars.

She leaned down, peering in the driver’s side window. “So where do you drive them? They must be too fast for the roads here.” Her head turned, giving him a rather wicked glance. “Or do they stay in the garage where you can stroke them?”

Dear God, what had he been thinking having her here? The woman was trouble. Pure, undiluted trouble.

“I go to the racetrack at Hampton Downs,” he said tersely. “I wouldn’t take them on the open road. You can’t go fast enough and it’s too dangerous. Not to mention illegal.”

Marisa straightened and turned around to lean against the side of the Jag, the gleam in her eyes even wickeder. “You know, you’re kind of sneaky, McNamara. You seem like this uptight, proper, sensible guy but underneath you’re a secret bad boy.”

Ridiculously, he found himself rather liking this assessment of himself. “Because I have a few cars?”

“Not any old cars. Fast, sexy cars.” She raised an eyebrow. “So, when can I have a drive?”

He rounded the end of the Ferrari and came over to where she stood, knowing it was a bad thing to do but he couldn’t stop himself. “You can’t. No one drives my cars but me.”

“Aww, that’s no fair. Not even a teeny, tiny drive?”

She had the most delectable mouth. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from it. He remembered how she tasted, too: spicy and hot, yet sweet at the same time. But then that was Marisa, wasn’t it? She was spicy all right, not to mention sexy. And yet there was an unexpected, vulnerable, sweet side to her, too.

He put his hands in his pockets, trying to control the urge to touch her gripping him like the most insistent of his compulsions. He’d told her he would control himself and he would. He had to, didn’t he?

Do you? Do you really?

A thought occurred to him. A dangerous thought, powered by the reckless edge he tried to keep locked away. Perhaps by denying this need he was doing the opposite of managing it. Perhaps, like his compulsions, denying it would make it worse.

In which case, in order to manage it, control it, he should be indulging it.

What about work? You have to keep your hands off her otherwise you’re breaking the rules.

Today was Sunday. And they weren’t at work. Tomorrow it would be a different story, but today…

The thought sat there in his head and he couldn’t let it go.

He could have her right now. Right here if he wanted. Spread her out on the bonnet of one of his cars, the Ferrari for example. Golden hair and golden skin all over the red metal…

“Uh-oh,” Marisa murmured. A flush had crept over her cheekbones, her eyes dark. “You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

No, of course he wasn’t. And having her here on the car would be madness. She’d make a mess of the paintwork for a start.

Yet still he found himself taking a step toward her. “And what do you think I’m thinking?”

“I think you’re thinking about sex.” Her voice had gotten breathless. “You’ve got that hungry ‘I must have sex now’ look about you.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Perhaps you better not.”

“This is the problem. I’m not sure I can stop.”

Her gaze locked with his. “I thought you said you could manage it.”

“I thought I could.” He took another step toward her, closing the distance between them. “But it’s getting harder and harder.”

“Hmmm, so it would appear,” she said, her gaze dropping down.

“That is not helping.” He reached out, took her chin in his fingers, and tipped her head back. “I think we’re managing this wrong. Ignoring it is not working.”

She made no effort to get away from him, her eyes wide and dark. “If you’ve got a better idea, I’d like to hear it.”

He couldn’t stop himself from touching her, letting his thumb trace the line of her lower lip, outlining the curve of it. She was so soft. So unbelievably soft. Just the way she’d been when he’d lost his head and taken her in the supply room. Melting into him, giving and generous. He didn’t know why that appealed to him so much when the women he preferred were self-contained, serious types. Women who didn’t care that he never told them about himself and who weren’t interested in finding out. Women who wanted something physical but nothing more. Women who didn’t mind when he ended it after two weeks because two weeks was all he could manage to hide the OCD for.

She didn’t pull away from his touch so he did it again, watching her shiver as his thumb brushed her mouth.

“Perhaps indulging is the answer,” he said quietly.

“But we did that last time, though. I mean, that’s the whole reason I’m pregnant now, after all.”

“Only once, remember? Maybe once isn’t enough. Maybe it’s an itch we need to scratch a couple more times.”

A strange expression crossed her face. “So that’s all this is to you? An itch you have to scratch?”

Her voice sounded level but there was something else in the question, an element he couldn’t identify. It sounded like hurt. He frowned. “That bothers you?”

“Yeah, you know, actually. It kind of does.” She twisted away from his hold. “I’m not one of your two-week girlfriends and I don’t want to be.”

Frustration ate away at him. Trying to curb his impatience, he put his hands back in his pockets. “My two-week girlfriends? Where the hell did you hear that?”

“Office gossip. It’s true, though, isn’t it?”

His jaw tightened. “Have people got nothing better to do than discuss my sex life?”

“Apparently not.” She looked up at him, her eyes dark, her pulse beating fast at her throat where the blue bead of her necklace rested. “Well? True or not?”

What could he say? It was true but not for the reasons she was probably thinking. “It’s true I haven’t been looking for a relationship,” he said carefully. “But that’s got nothing to do with what’s going on between us.”

“Isn’t it? When you’re using me to scratch an itch just like you used them?”

He frowned. “I don’t use anyone, Marisa. The women I date all know that I can’t give them anything more than a couple of weeks and they’re all happy with that. Where did you get the idea that I’m using them?”

She glanced down at her feet, a finger creeping into her mouth. Biting her fingernails again. He’d begun to notice that she did that a lot when she was disturbed or uneasy. “I was with a guy once,” she said after a moment. “A photographer. I fell in love with him, the works, and I thought he loved me, too. But he didn’t. He was married the whole time and I didn’t know. I only found out when his wife called his cell phone and I happened to answer. Basically he didn’t give a shit about me. He used me. He liked my body and he spent my money and once those weren’t on offer anymore, he went back to his wife.” Her shoulders had drooped a little, her finger still in her mouth. “Sorry,” she said after a moment. “Way to kill the mood, Marisa.”

Luke said nothing for a moment. Because what he really wanted to do was punch the lights out of the bastard who had hurt her. And she’d been hurt, he could see that. She’d given her heart to some idiot who hadn’t understood that it was precious.

“He sounds like a fool,” Luke said at last. “A liar and a fool. He wasn’t worth your time.”

“Yeah, well, I was a fool, too. There were signs all along that he was married but I missed them. Or perhaps it was that I didn’t want to see them.” She lifted her head. “I don’t know why it should matter. It’s not as if we’re going to be more to each other than acquaintances or anything. And you’re not like him really. I…thought you should know why I can’t do this with you again. I’m sick of people using me to work through their issues.”

He wasn’t good at giving comfort. But that strange possessiveness had begun to seep through him again and he hated the idea of her being hurt. She was having his child, she was his now. His to protect and keep safe. And he wanted to do something for her. Make her feel better. But this wasn’t a moment that called for a pat on the shoulder and a handkerchief. It required something more but he didn’t really know what that was.

So ask her, fool.

Luke took a breath. “What do you want then, Marisa?”

“Good question. Actually, no. You know what I want? I want someone to want me for me. Not because I’m beautiful or sexy and look great on their arm.” Her gaze rested on him. “Or because I’m an itch to scratch and I’m carrying their baby. I want someone to want me because of who I am.”

Her honesty flipped something inside him, an emotion he couldn’t quite place and yet was somehow familiar. As if he knew exactly what she meant.

“I’m not sure if this is what you want to hear,” he said slowly, carefully. Knowing he had to get this right because he didn’t want to hurt her again. “But I want you because you’re beautiful. And you’re sexy. And I think because you irritate me, too. No, you’re not an itch. This is more than that. A lot more. I’ve…never felt like this before.” He hesitated, meeting her gaze. “You’re a threat, Marisa. You get under my skin, under my control. And I’m trying to deal with that the only way I know how.”

She stared at him, continuing to nibble away on her finger. “You want me because I irritate you?”

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same.”

“No, I can’t.” Another pause. “I get under your skin?”

God, she had no idea. Irritating him, tempting him, driving him crazy. Even the way she had her finger in her luscious red mouth now was giving him the most inappropriate thoughts. “Unbelievably.”

“What about the fact that we’re supposed to be keeping our hands off each other? Workplace rules and stuff.”

Frustration, desire, and that raw possessiveness coiled tighter. How strange that she was the one thinking about the rules while he couldn’t give a toss. When all he wanted to do was have her on the bonnet of one of his cars, wipe out the hurt he’d seen in her dark eyes. Replace it with pleasure.

He had to force himself to think. “Yes, but we’re not at work today. And if we stop by tomorrow, we won’t technically have broken any rules.”

Her brows twitched. “Very logical. I like it. So…how much do I get under your skin then?”

She was so close—the spicy, earthy scent of her making him hard. And abruptly, he’d had it with the conversation. He took a step even closer. “Shall I tell you? Shall I tell you exactly?”

Her breath caught. “What kind of exactly are we talking here?”

Luke held her gaze. “When I’m around you all I can think about is touching you. Tasting you. Having you. I want to push you against that car, pull off your jeans, your T-shirt. Spread you naked against the metal. Stroke you till you’re so wet you’re dripping. Then push my cock inside you. Make you come so hard you scream.”

Her finger dropped from her mouth. “Oh,” she said in a husky undertone. “That kind. You’re quite good at this talking dirty thing, you know?”

Yeah, he was getting some idea. Luke stepped forward again and this time he didn’t stop, putting his hands on her hips, pressing her up against the car as he’d promised. She didn’t pull away, looking up at him from beneath gold-streaked dark lashes. “If I don’t have you right now, I’m going to go out of my mind,” he said, his voice rough-edged. “So if you don’t want this, you’d better tell me to stop.”