Can't Get Enough (24 page)

"Really, I'm happy to get you a coffee," she assured him.

"You made the last one," he insisted.

She reached for the coffee can, but he got there ahead of her. A spark
of annoyance burned its way through the lust clouding her brain.

"No one's keeping count," she said, reaching out to take the can from his hands. He twitched it out of her reach.

"Fine, so I'll make it, then," he returned infuriatingly.
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Suddenly she found she was really, really angry. She wanted to rip the
coffee can from his hands and then beat him about the head with it.

"Look," she said, trying to sound rational and calm, "just hand over the coffee."

"No."

She glared at him, and he glared back. She felt like a thwarted
five-year-old. Before she could stop herself, she lunged forward to try
and snatch the coffee from him. He was gripping it with both hands now,
holding it tight against his body, and they swayed back and forth for a
beat, both clutching at the small silver can.

She could smell his deodorant and aftershave, and his fingers were warm
on hers as they both scrabbled for purchase on the coffee can. And
then, all of a sudden, her fury twisted inside her and she realized her
nipples were hard and that she was so turned on it was a wonder there
weren't dogs howling at the moon all over town.

She broke away from Jack, confused, hot for it, panting with desire and
the exertion of their tug-of-war. They stared at each other for a beat,
Jack's own breathing harsh, his face tense. Then he seemed to make a
decision.

"To hell with it," he said suddenly, tossing the coffee can to one side
and lunging toward her. Then he was kissing her, his tongue demanding
in her mouth, his hands sliding under her jacket and onto her breasts.

She wanted to touch all of him at once. She returned his kisses
greedily, her hands roaming across his back, dipping down to grab his
butt, then racing back up again to traverse the width of his shoulders.
This was so good—so much better than her memory of that day at Jack's
place, better even than in the elevator since she'd had all this time
in between to anticipate his touch. Better even than the many fantasies
she'd concocted.

He ducked his head to kiss her neck, working his way down into her
cleavage. She writhed with pleasure, then snaked a hand between their
bodies, feeling a deep and intense satisfaction as she found the rigid
length of him, hard and straining against the faded denim of his jeans.
Jack groaned into her mouth, and suddenly he broke away from her,
picking her up and turning to place her on the boardroom table before
moving to assume a position between her parted thighs. They stared at
each other briefly, panting, hot.

His eyes locked with hers, Jack slid a hand under her skirt, and she
bit her lip as his fingers stole up her silk-covered legs. The shock as
his hand found her naked thigh made her gasp, and he seemed startled,
too, that he was suddenly touching bare skin.

"Garters?" he guessed.

"Stay-ups," she clarified, and Jack pushed her skirt up roughly so that
he could see her unencumbered. His breathing quickened as he studied
her, legs spread, black stockings in stark contrast to the tanned
expanse of her upper thighs.

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His eyes glinting dangerously, he ducked his head to her breasts again,
suckling at her nipples through the thin silk of her shirt, the hunger
in him almost frightening. As her head dropped back helplessly, his
hand completed its journey, gliding up her thighs to land unerringly on
the part of her that needed him the most.

"Yes," she breathed as he rubbed her already swollen mound through the
silk of her panties. And then he was hooking a finger into the elastic,
sliding her panties down over her hips. She felt mindless with need,
the thought of being one with him again driving out every other
consideration. She reached for the stud on his jeans, but Jack simply
shook his head at her. Before she could protest, her panties were off
and Jack was ducking down to blaze a trail of kisses across her lower
belly. But she was aching for him now. She needed him inside her, and
she was struggling to tell him just that when he dropped lower still
and silenced her with one lightning sweep of his tongue.

"Oh!" she moaned, reaching for the edge of the boardroom table and
hanging on for dear life. His tongue was hard and hot and firm, and she
felt overwhelmed by the spiraling desire that was drawing tighter and
tighter inside her. She forgot to breathe as he lapped at her, delicate
then rough, slippery and deft as he tongued her clitoris again and
again. She could feel the faint friction of Jack's stubbly cheeks
against her sensitive inner thighs, and the firm, delicious pressure as
he parted her slickness and slid a single finger inside.

"Oh, yes!" she cried, writhing, uncontrolled. She was so close, so close—

Then a faint, foreign sound intruded—a phone ringing in the next room.
Vaguely Claire registered the rumble of someone talking on the phone
through the wall. And suddenly she recalled exactly where she was, and
what she and Jack were doing, and just who was likely to walk through
the boardroom door any second now.

Was she insane? Had she lost it completely?

She stiffened and Jack's head lifted at the same time that they both
heard the distinct sound of Morgan talking to Jenny just outside the
door. Claire's heart leaped into her throat, and she pushed Jack away
and slid off the table in one clumsy move. Breathless, disoriented, she
tucked her shirt in and pushed her skirt down. The feel of the silk
lining of her skirt against her bare butt reminded her that her panties
were lying around here somewhere, and she spotted them on the floor at
the same time that the door began to swing open. Jack had been busying
himself with buttoning his own buttons and tucking his shirt in, but he
spotted her panties at exactly the same moment and suddenly lunged
forward. Claire held her breath as he scooped up the offending triangle
of black silk and stuffed it into his jeans pocket just as Morgan
stepped into the room, his attention still on Jenny, unseen outside the
room.

"…that should be fine. Make the booking for eleven," he was saying. Her
heart pounding, Claire ran a shaky hand through her hair and shot a
look at Jack. To her horror, she saw he had her lipstick smeared across
his face, and she gestured urgently for him to wipe it off. He, in
turn, gestured for her to pull her jacket closed, and she looked down
to see twin wet patches on her shirt where he had been sucking her
nipples through the silk.

Fingers fumbling, she tugged her jacket closed just as Morgan turned to
face them properly. Attempting to be casual, Claire smiled brightly.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jack doing the same.
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There was a fraught, stretched moment as Morgan stared from one of them to the other. Then he frowned.

"Is everything okay in here?" he asked.

Claire didn't dare look at Jack.

"Sure. Absolutely. We were just having a coffee break," she said, only
then realizing that the coffee can she and Jack had been arguing over
was lying abandoned on the carpet in front of them. All three of them
stared at the can, then Jack laughed.

"To be honest, Claire and I were having a bit of a wrangle over whose turn it was to make the coffee," he said lightly.

The frown creasing Morgan's forehead deepened, but he turned back to the other end of the table.

"I see. Perhaps we should finalize these last matters and call it a
night." Claire forced herself to walk back to her place at the table,
horribly aware of how hot and flustered she felt and no doubt looked.
If that phone hadn't rung in the next room…She felt sick to her stomach
as she listened to Morgan drone on for the next five minutes. Jack was
very quiet, also, and eventually it became clear that nothing of great
value was going to be achieved this evening. Shooting each of them an
exasperated look, Morgan slotted his expensive pen back into his
expensive folder and closed it decisively.

"Well, I have to say I'm very disappointed," he said heavily. Claire
twitched. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jack stiffen.

"The Hillcrest account is very important to our client-based magazine
division. I had hoped that I would have the undivided attention of two
of my top editors on this project." He looked from one to the other,
and Claire just resisted the urge to toe the carpet and hang her head.

"Was I wrong in thinking you were the right people for the job?"

"No, Mr. Beck," she said.

"No, Morgan," Jack said.

Morgan eyed them both for another beat or two.

"Well, perhaps we should call it a night."

Claire nodded her acceptance of his decision, and concentrated on
shuffling her papers into her briefcase. Issuing them both a curt
good-night, Morgan exited. Silence stretched as Claire finished sorting
out her briefcase. Then she cleared her throat.

"Could I have my panties, please?" she asked tightly.

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She couldn't look at him, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Jack
tug her panties from his pocket. He slid them across the table to her,
and she scrunched them into a ball and stuffed them into her briefcase.

Then, horribly aware of the cool breeze on her bare derriere, she
headed for the door. She couldn't bear the thought of waiting for the
elevator, so she bolted for the stairwell. Once the plush-carpeted
halls of the thirtieth floor were behind her, she let out a strangled
moan of despair, the sound of it echoing up and down the stairs. When
was she going to learn to stay away from Jack Brook?

12

THE NEXT DAYwas a Friday, and the triathlon final. Claire awoke with a
single image burned into her mind's eye: her, sprawled across the Beck
and Wise boardroom table, Jack Brook between her thighs, her
self-respect and dignity nowhere to be seen.

It was enough to make a girl dye her hair, change her name and
emigrate. How was she ever going to look Jack in the eye again? And as
for Morgan Beck…Lord knows what he thought had been going on.
Something, obviously, hence his little lecture.

Although, really, she should thank her lucky stars that he'd come back
when he had. Anything could have happened. Another few minutes, and she
and Jack would have been on the floor, oblivious to anything and
everything.

Deep down inside, a tiny, forbidden, depraved part of her wished that
they'd had those few extra minutes. She'd been craving Jack's hands on
her body for days. Was it wrong that she couldn't find it in herself to
truly regret what had happened, no matter how humiliating the
circumstances?

She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. She couldn't think
about any of this now. She was supposed to be building herself up for
the challenge of the race, not reliving each second of her humiliation
in psychological Technicolor.

She rolled out of bed and trotted into the bathroom, amusing herself by
mentally reviewing her résumé. She could resign by e-mail and never
actually have to see Jack Brook or Morgan Beck ever again. Tom could
clear out her desk. For five blissful milliseconds, it felt like an
option. Then she passed by the answering machine and her eye was caught
by the blinking light. She'd been so overwhelmed with shame last night
that she hadn't noticed she'd missed a call. She backtracked to press
the play button, then froze as an awful thought occurred.
Please don't let it be Beck. Or Jack. Or Katherine. Definitely not
Katherine—she'd be able to tell what happened in the boardroom just from the sound of my voice.

"Claire, it's Harry. I just wanted to let you know it looks like I will
be in town for the final tomorrow. I'm assuming you'll have an early
start, so I'll make contact with you at the race." She stared at the
machine, all thoughts of Jack and finding another job pushed to one
side. Her father was coming. She'd given up on him, really she had. But
he was coming, he was coming to watch her race.

Almost two weeks of silence, and now this!

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A little flare of hope sprang to life inside her, and she immediately
told herself not to be naive. This was her father, after all. Even if
he was coming, it didn't necessarily mean anything. She shouldn't get
her hopes up.

But would it be completely self-delusional to think this might be a
step in the right direction? That she'd told him how she felt, and he'd
been moved to take action after her outburst?

As she turned on the shower, she told herself to stop speculating. But
it was no use. She'd been worrying about this for too long to set it to
one side. She dressed quickly in her competition swimsuit, smoothing
suntan lotion into her arms and legs, and putting sunblock on her nose.
And all the while her mind was working overtime, hoping that this
contact from Harry might signal a change for the good. She grabbed up
her backpack, water bottles and bike helmet and headed out the door,
aware that there was a new thread of excitement burbling through her
veins, not just the usual prerace jitters or the normal adrenaline buzz
that came from anticipating competition.

She realized that she really wanted to win this race.

Of course, she really wanted to win every race—that was the point of
competing, right? But this race…she really, really wanted to win this
race.

She paused on the next to last step down into the underground garage. Because of her father?

An image of herself streaking across the finish line, her father
watching, flashed into her mind. Yes, because of her father. Because
she wanted to prove to him that he'd been wrong about her, to show him
that she was a success in her own right and that his approval didn't
matter to her at all. She'd put the bike rack on last night, and her
competition bike was already suspended above the tailgate. She threw
her helmet and other gear onto the passenger seat, and swung herself
into the car. Her father was coming, and she wanted to win for him. She
wanted him to see her win, more correctly. And she wanted to pretend
that she'd never kissed Jack, that they hadn't almost been busted by
her boss and that she didn't remember every second of their encounter
in the finest detail. Great mindset to take into a race you've been
aiming for all year. Just great.