Kitabı oku: «Forbidden To Taste», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE
Kenzie

I’M THIRTY MINUTES early for my first shift at the Faulkner, despite the nerves riding me, threatening to make me flee back home. I believed I’d blown my chance by my behaviour, but Drake’s text yesterday shows the strength of his loyalty to Sam:

Come to the Faulkner at nine sharp tomorrow.

That he would still offer me my shot after I practically propositioned him... My face heats again at the memory of my confession that it’s been too long since I was intimate with someone and my suggestion he might be the one to help.

I’d almost made a fool of myself.

Almost kissed him.

Drake Faulkner of all people.

A man who was practically a brother to Sam. A man of honour and integrity. A man who’d never think of me as anything but Sam’s widow... He showed me that by keeping his distance all these years, and his cool reception in the restaurant two nights ago proved nothing has changed.

Was I that lonely, that sexually frustrated or just curious to explore the flicker of attraction that, had I not once been married to his best friend, had potential to flare like a blowtorch...?

I worry at my lip, shake any notion that isn’t strictly professional from my head and focus on filling out the Faulkner’s paperwork. I’m going to cook my arse off, wow the restaurant’s Michelin-starred head chef and stay the hell away from Drake. Clearly my lonely, neglected libido can’t be trusted around hotness of his calibre...

Why has it chosen now to come out of hibernation? Not once in the past three years have I looked at a man in a sexual way. Not even during the rocky last year of my marriage to Sam, when I had the perfect justification had I wanted, was I tempted by another.

Why now? Why Drake? Yes, I’m ready to get my life back on track, but am I ready to embrace intimacy again?

I add my signature to the bottom of the form with a flourish of finality. This is my chance to build something for myself, a career I’ve been too busy to pursue, here, close enough to Tilly to support her burgeoning independence. I cannot screw this up. Especially not with any further ideas of kissing Drake Faulkner, sex with Drake Faulkner or making Drake Faulkner see me as more than the wife of his friend.

I take a cleansing breath and hand in the forms. The Faulkner’s Human-Resources manager passes me a temporary security card and leads me upstairs. In the stairwell, the scent of onions and garlic and red wine waft to my nose. My stomach clenches, but with excitement. I touch the pristine chef whites folded in my bag, buzzing to get started.

‘The boss wants to see you. He’ll introduce you to the rest of the kitchen staff.’ The woman from HR swings open the door and points me in the right direction down a nondescript corridor. ‘Second door on the left.’

Behind the scenes, the luxury of the Faulkner the guests see persists with the same plush carpet and soothing decor. I suck in a deep breath, a little intimidated by meeting Rod for the first time, which is probably why I come to an abrupt standstill in the doorway when I find Drake sitting behind the desk, talking on the phone.

Heat shunts my entire body up in flames as my eyes latch to his moving mouth. I almost kissed him. Almost begged him for the sex he would have probably treated his date to, had I not gatecrashed.

Drake’s green eyes land on mine, pinning me to the threshold.

No smile of welcome. Just that impenetrable stare, which could mean anything from I’m seconds from tearing off your clothes to I’m still smarting at your inappropriate behaviour.

I lift my chin and stare back. There’s no shame in admitting you haven’t had sex for three years. That you’ve been busy rebuilding your life, regaining your confidence and changing career paths. And I made myself a promise, packed it safely in the boxes with my belongings when I moved to London—no more putting myself last. Time to make something happen.

Of course, kissing Drake hadn’t been one of those promises.

Drake’s brows slant downwards and his mouth tightens. ‘I’ll call you back.’ He disconnects the call while I dither in the doorway, torn between running to the nearest fast-food restaurant advertising a vacancy and riding out my mortification.

I stand tall. We’re adults. I’ve been looking after myself and my sister since the age of twenty-one, since the death of our parents in a car crash. I can handle one inconvenient little sexual attraction...

‘Hi.’ I didn’t actually touch a single hair on his glorious head. I can laugh off the rest—hypothermia and too much wine... Not that we’ve ever teased each other, as if we both subconsciously knew playing it straight guaranteed the boundaries stayed in place.

Drake stands, beckoning me inside and showing off his broad chest in another of his crisp shirts. ‘Good morning. Are you all signed in?’ I guess we’re not going to talk about my overt proposition. He’s right. I, too, should pretend it never happened and get on with proving myself worthy of the vacancy.

I nod. Perhaps women come on to him so often, he didn’t even notice. A flash of foolish disappointment clouds my buoyant mood. But then, what was I expecting from the ice king? Hi, Kenz. I’ve thought about what you said and I’d be happy to break your sexual dry spell—now, then, doggy or missionary first...?

I swallow at the lurid images my shrivelled ovaries have helped me create and press my thighs together. The man standing in front of me dressed for a boardroom fills his suit like he belongs on a billboard, but clearly my interest isn’t reciprocated.

I drag my eyes away from the open neck of his shirt, deciding it’s best to forget I all but pestered a man who could barely tolerate a cordial conversation with me for sex.

‘Thanks for this—I really appreciate the opportunity.’ I rub at my wrist, remembering the illicit heat of his fingers on my skin. I must have imagined the way his eyes dipped to my mouth and his head lowered a fraction as we invaded previously uncharted personal space.

He grimaces, as if he’s recalling the fool I made of myself. ‘No need to thank me. Have you been to HR?’

I nod, my head wooden.

He’s definitely not going to bring up my confession. Rather than congratulate my escape, that he couldn’t have noticed me mooning up at him, it feels like a backwards step. Last night, talking with him by the fire... I’ve never felt closer to this man I’ve known for years, but don’t really know.

My feet shuffle backwards, embarrassment a thread tugging me to a safe distance. ‘Well. I’m sure you’re busy enough without welcoming the newbie. I’ll just...head to the kitchen...’

‘Not so fast.’ He cuts off my nervous over-talking. ‘I’ll show you the way.’ He waits for me to vacate the doorway and indicates the route, while he shrugs back into his suit jacket.

My pulse may as well be a ping-pong ball bouncing all over the place. This is stupid and hardly the behaviour of a grown woman with her shit together. I suck in a breath, preparing to reveal the elephant in the room.

But Drake interrupts. ‘I told you Rod is...temperamental.’ He holds open the fire door and ushers me though. Professional. No touching. A perfect gentleman.

‘But we don’t tolerate harassment or bullying here at the Faulkner.’ He shoots me a serious look. My steps inch closer to his, as if of their own accord. A fraction closer and our arms might brush. I exhale through pursed lips—I’m playing with fire, but can’t seem to stop. Is this loneliness or liberation? Grasping the possibility of moving on with my physical life as well as my professional one?

‘Anything of that nature—I want to hear about it, understood?’ He pauses to hold open another door.

I’ve never seen him so...protective.

An almost giddy bubble of laughter rises up to escape. ‘I can handle myself, don’t worry.’ I’m warm all over, a foreign feeling I know better than to trust. But I can surely enjoy the concern he probably offers all new employees for a few heady seconds...

He pauses, turning to face me, giving me the decadence of his undivided attention. My clothes, a sweater and jeans, cling too tight at the look on his face, which reminds me once, not so long ago, this urbane man was a soldier.

‘I mean it, Kenzie—I want to hear about any misdemeanours, verbal or...physical.’

His concern washes me with heat. Mmm...misdemeanours. Then nerves spoil it, causing me to snort out a laugh. ‘What’s he going to do? Dice me into tiny pieces with a chef’s knife? Hide me in the walk-in freezer?’

Drake’s mouth flattens as if he’s smelled something unpleasant, but he doesn’t elaborate. And then we’re off again. ‘I’ll show you where the chef whites are kept and then I’ll take you to the staff changing rooms.’

‘I have whites.’ I force my eyes away from the clench of his muscular arse as he walks. I shouldn’t notice, but there must be something in the London water. I can’t decide if I prefer him in his tailored suit or his combat dress.

Drake opens another door, flicking on lights, and I follow him inside a long, narrow storeroom lined with shelves.

‘The Faulkner whites are monogrammed.’ He strides to the back, his hand rifling through the piles of crisp white laundered uniforms.

‘I can find the right size, if you want.’ I know the Faulkner brothers have a hands-on attitude when it comes to running their chain of London-based hotels, but his attentiveness seems above and beyond, even for the widow of a friend. ‘I’m sure you have more pressing things on your agenda?’

Drake turns, thrusting the garments at me with a grim expression, his obliging orientation now a distant memory.

I glance down.

He’s guessed my size correctly.

When I smile up in thanks, his brow is pinched in a frown, his dark eyes unreadable. His hands fist in his pockets, the bumps of his knuckles showing through the fabric. He’s wary, looking at me like he expects me to strip right here and beg him to shag me out of my desperate state.

I sigh. Here is as good a place as any. No more chickening out. He deserves a thorough apology and more of an explanation—time to clear the air. I put him in a shitty position that night, just because I’m embracing my new life a little too thoroughly, and he handled it with the levels of discretion and integrity I’d expect.

‘Look, Drake, about the other night—’

‘I can’t stop thinking about what you said.’ His confession rushes out, his words clashing with mine, his voice low, gruff, and his eyes the emerald colour of a wine bottle.

The tiny room shrinks, compressing the air. The fluorescent tube buzzing overhead replicates the buzz in my nervous system, every sense on high alert.

My head vibrates the loudest, filling in the blanks. He’s furious I crossed the line. I’ve messed this up, before I’ve even started. I should never have gone to that hotel suite with him—my reaction to seeing him again in the restaurant on a date with another woman provided enough of a clue that I have chemistry with him.

But why is his stare filled with heat?

‘I...I was inappropriate—I’m really sorry. It’s just that it’s been a long time since I’ve felt desired.’ Even before Sam’s death. ‘Can’t we just...forget it?’ I’m happy to plead, not just for my potential job, which is literally slipping through my fingers like grains of rice, but for the intact memory of his friendship with Sam. I made this mess—time to clean up after myself.

‘Did you mean it?’ His mouth is still grim. He’s not even going to cut me a little slack, even for old times’ sake.

My shoulders collapse and I look at our feet, my Converse toe-to-toe with his brogues. ‘That I haven’t had sex for three years...?’ My voice trails away to a whisper. I clear my throat. ‘Of course I meant it.’ I’m not sure which mortification is worse—that I’m admitting my pathetic lack of a sex life to a man I don’t share a confessional kind of relationship with, or that, when I brought up a solution that night, I was deadly serious.

But neither matters.

He’s shown me over and over that he doesn’t see me that way. ‘I’m just lonely, probably. I haven’t had any time for making...friends yet.’ I should take a leaf out of his book. I should remember who he is—Sam’s friend—and that he’s the last man on earth likely to want something physical with me. No matter how temporary.

‘I mean...’ He steps closer. The toes of his shoes touch the toes of mine, and his body heat warms my breasts, my downturned face. ‘...About helping you out of your dry spell—did you mean it?’

The air thins. My lungs catch fire. I brazen it out, lifting my chin and latching on to his heated eye contact, only inches away. I shouldn’t want him. But I do.

My knees almost buckle with need to feel something other than second best.

I nod.

A single decisive gesture.

‘I—’ I don’t finish. Drake’s hands cup my face.

With a strangled whimper, I drop the whites and my bag and reach for his shoulders. He swoops his mouth down on mine, my feet straining on tiptoe so I can get closer to his kiss, which is hot and possessive and so welcome, the head rush gives me vertigo as he drags a sob of relief from me.

So long. So, so long since I’ve felt this heady physical connection to a man. So long since I’ve felt desired, wanted.

With an unintelligible growl, Drake’s lips encourage mine open, his tongue surging against mine before my brain has even registered I’m kissing Drake Faulkner. And he’s kissing me.

Madness.

Euphoria.

I need to stop.

But as soon as I pull away I’m right back there for a second addictive taste, my mouth seeking his once more as he walks me backwards and presses me up against the shelves at my back.

My mind, all my faculties, actually blink out for a few seconds, so heady is the feel of this big, strong man before me, his large hands tangled in my hair, his broad chest colliding with my nipples, his breath gusting in and out and his erection a rigid length against my belly.

Heat pools between my legs and my blood sings. It’s as if I’ve locked my femininity into a box and he’s turned the rusty key, setting me free. Three long years of doubt dissolve for a few giddy seconds.

When I open my eyes he’s looking down at me, his mouth still dragging moans from my throat. When he boldly palms my breast, as if he’s thought about doing it a thousand times, and thumbs my nipple into a hard peak through my shirt, I want to weep.

So good, I’m on the verge of combusting.

I gasp and pull away from his mouth, needing more oxygen to handle his touch. But I want more—this is too good to pass up. I push his jacket over his shoulders and slide my hands down his back, savouring every bump and ridge of muscle I skim over on the way to his arse. I cup his toned backside, shunting his hips forward until the hard tip of him nudges my clit through my clothes and I bite my lip, I’m so close to coming. From just a few forbidden kisses and an ungainly dry hump.

Drake dives for my mouth once more as if he knows what my body craves, and I tangle my hands in his hair, revelling in the contrast of the shorn strands at his nape, which scrape the sensitive pads of my fingers, and the longer, silky strands on top. And then I’m being hoisted onto the shelf and Drake is between my thighs, his mouth on my neck and his hand rubbing me through my jeans.

‘Fuck, Kenzie...’ he rasps against my skin, his stubble scraping.

‘Yes...’ I all but hiss. I gyrate my hips against his hand, all arguments about why this is the worst idea in the world drowned out by the hormones raging through me and how right this feels, which is heightened tenfold by the magic wielded by Drake’s hand and his mouth.

I need this. I want this, with him. Just one time. The perfect antidote to the years of feeling inferior. I deserve this, don’t I, just like I deserve to chase my dreams?

It’s not until this moment that I realise the shaky feeling deep inside is vulnerability. I trust Drake. My body chose him, seemingly independently of my psyche. He’s decent and considered and earnest. He’s not going to use me, dump his load and run or want anything from me that I can’t give.

Perhaps that’s why my subconscious chose him. Drake won’t want anything beyond the physical.

It’s an addictive, heady realisation. I lose myself in his kiss once more, blotting out reason, memories and any other thought that might drag me from the quicksand of desire I’m in up to my neck.

Voices on the other side of the door see Drake springing back like he’s been scalded and me helping him get there with a hefty push to the chest.

‘Fuck.’ He looks at me, panting. His mouth is red and his hair fucked by my fingers. He adjusts his cock and reality douses me like an ice-bucket challenge.

What did I do? To Sam’s friend Drake? I kissed Drake. I dry-humped Drake. I rode Drake’s hand. At work. On my very first day.

My thighs judder, the remnants of delicious pleasure tendrils fading to be replaced by the momentarily forgotten doubts.

Drake clears his throat and swoops down to collect my things from the floor. I take my bag from him with trembling fingers, eyes downcast. Shame lashes my skin, a million pinpricks, making way for the hollow swell of loneliness, twice the size of the burden I arrived with.

My throat is too tight to speak. I busy myself with folding the pristine white uniform I’ve already sullied. Not only have I just jeopardised my one chance at a job—in other words, even if I’m good enough, I’ve shown willing to shag the boss—but I’ve also just kissed a man. A man that isn’t Sam. Almost done more than simply kiss him, although there was nothing simple or innocent about what just transpired.

Would we have stopped, but for that interruption?

I bite my lip, my burning eyes flitting to anywhere but him. I fiddle with my ponytail and wipe the lip gloss from my chin in lieu of blurting out another pointless apology, or freeing the hot sobs clogging my throat.

Drake turns his back, silently giving me some seconds to compose myself, and then he opens the door. Drake is back together. His jacket donned, his tie straightened and his hair tamed.

As I pass him on the threshold he blocks my exit with his arm.

‘I’m in a board meeting until six tonight. Don’t leave until we’ve had another discussion.’ And with that he lowers his arm and strides back the way we came, leaving me shell-shocked, my good intentions ripped in two.