Freefalling (3 page)

He wasn’t grey and he wasn’t boring. But she already knew that.

‘You choose.’ He smiled at her over the menu.

‘Me? How am I supposed to know what you want?’

‘Men do it all the time.’

‘True. But it always seemed a bit daft to me.’

‘Guess.’ His mouth twitched. ‘And I’ll make you eat what I don’t like.’

He’d picked the perfect place, even if he didn’t want to pick the food. She loved tapas, quick mouthfuls of fresh flavour, each one a different explosion on her taste buds. ‘How did you know I’d like it here?’

‘I guessed. Go on, pick, I trust you. I thought you were hungry.’

‘Sure?’ A grin twitched at her mouth; she liked spice, she liked variety, and she guessed from the way he’d shagged her that he might be the same. But who knew? So she went the full hog from sweet crab to spicy pimiento, from garlic to ginger, and everything in between. At least he wouldn’t want to kiss her after that lot.

‘You look like a naughty schoolgirl.’ His eyes had darkened. ‘Which might not be a good thing from your point of view. You’ve not got a uniform still hidden away at the back of your wardrobe?’ He really was going to test every last bit of her self-control. ‘I take it from that look that I’m just supposed to eat and stop talking?’

He ate it, all of it, including the big chilli that was decoration, which he stuck in his mouth whole.

‘You’re changing colour, you know,’ she observed. He was so moreish, even if he was turning a funny shade.

‘Not grey and boring?’ He choked on the words, tears streaming from his eyes, which made him kind of hard to resist.

‘Pink, as in lobster pink.’ She really shouldn’t laugh at him. Really. He was just too easy to – well, to connect with. ‘Is that how you want your paintings?’

‘I want –’ He topped up their wine glasses and dabbed at his eyes with his napkin. ‘Fuck, I want to be able to breathe again.’ She watched transfixed as he took a long swig of water, could sense it rippling its way down his throat. She could kiss her way down that neck; feel that Adam’s apple move under her tongue. ‘I want you. In the paintings, I mean. I want colour and life and spontaneity and fun, everything my boring predictable life hasn’t got. Is that stupid?’

‘No, it’s perfect.’ Christ, why did she have to sound so mouse-like and feeble, and emotional? But every painting she did was her, which was why she had to stay free – why she needed every bit of herself, her emotions, there under her own control. Not trapped, not damaged, not high and low and totally fucked up every which way. ‘And, erm, how big?’

‘Massive, mind-blowing.’ He threw his arms wide, stretching his shirt button to just short of popping, then seemed to realise he was being uncharacteristically demonstrative and gave her a sheepish grin. ‘I want them to be the first thing people see, and I want everyone to stop in their tracks and think our company must be the most exciting thing since sliced bread.’

‘Sliced bread isn’t very exciting.’

‘Since chilli-enhanced tapas?’

‘Better. If you’re – well, a boring … What are you, exactly?’

‘I run a service and solutions company, IT solutions, you know …’ He paused and took a sip of wine.

She loved that hint of perfect crisp white cuff under the dark jacket when he stretched his arm, the way he …

‘You don’t know, do you?’

‘Sorry?’ What had he said? Something about servicing, IT?

‘I’m a man in a suit who sits in meetings all day telling other people in suits how they can run their companies better.’

‘Oh that, piece of cake, then.’ The way he’d loosened his tie just a little bit uncovered that kissable V of brown skin at the base of his neck, that little dip where he tasted all salty.

‘I’m boring you.’

No, not at all, keep talking. She took a sip of the perfectly chilled wine and ice trickled its way down her own throat. ‘No, you’re not. It’s just I was thinking – well, how come you look like you spend all day in the gym? I mean, shouldn’t you be all flabby from those business lunches?’ Not toned and perfect, not fit with the type of stamina that left a girl a quivering, useless jelly.

‘I do all kinds of stuff in my spare time.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m an adrenalin junkie, I like to push myself to the limit.’

‘So you’re not boring.’ She knew he wasn’t.

‘I do it in a boring, predictable way. You know, rock climbing, freefalling, abseiling – stuff like that.’

‘Rock climbing, freefalling? You call that boring?’ She’d gone all squeaky. ‘Predictable?’ Very squeaky. She took another gulp of wine.

‘Well, what’s the worst that can happen?’

‘You die?’ He was mad. Worse than mad, he was crazy, suicidal.

He shrugged again. ‘Well, the odds are against it. I’m fit, been trained properly, buy the best equipment, and I’m in control of my body.’

Maybe she should forget all her stupid “being in control of her emotions” crap. He could fall out of a plane tomorrow, fall off a cliff, be gone for ever before she’d had a chance to – get to know him. She shuffled uncomfortably on her seat, and all this talk about danger was winding her up, turning her on.

Stop it, Hayley. She clamped her thighs together, which made it worse. Studied her fork so that she wasn’t studying him. ‘Go through my website and tell me which are your favourite paintings, and why. Give me a list of words, thoughts, things, people, emotions, anything that’s important to you, and I’ll come up with some ideas. Unless you already know what you want me to do?’

‘I don’t need ideas. Just paint what you think I want; you probably know better than I do.’ The lightest touch of his finger on the back of her hand made her glance up and meet his gaze. ‘Come into the office tomorrow and I’ll show you round and tell you where the paintings are going to go.’

‘You already know?’ Pulling her hand away would be rude; leaving it there was just ramping up the heat in her body from smoulder to furnace.

‘I always know exactly what I want and where I want it.’ Her stomach gave a little lurch, because he looked like he fully intended to get it, and sometime soon she’d forget that the word “no” even existed.

Chapter Three

OK, she knew it and he knew it. She had to go ahead with the commission. How could she say no to the man, or the work? On the sensible side, it would be professional suicide to turn the work down because there were absolutely no secrets in the art world. And she’d always been sensible. Everyone knew he’d been at the gallery, everyone knew that he’d chosen her work to adorn his prestigious offices, so where was the choice in that?

But there was more to it than that; there was a very un-sensible side. The side that involved him being on her mind 24/7. She could smell him on her sheets, hear him in her head, and feel him in her body. She wanted, needed to see him again. Something deep inside was nagging away like an old woman and telling her that if she said no she’d be sidestepping a man she shouldn’t. She’d never know, never be sure of what might have been; she’d be having dreams, or more likely nightmares, about him and his hands, his searching eyes, his mouth, and that wicked tongue for years to come. She just knew it, which was a bit of a bummer. A lot of a bummer.

She caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror and her mouth curled into a secret smile as she rolled on the sheerest pair of barely black stockings she had. Oh yeah, who was she kidding, telling herself she didn’t care? That she didn’t want him to want her as much as she wanted him? She was as excited as a kid at Christmas about seeing him again, but shit, all she wanted was to know that the warning voice in her head was wrong, that having fun with a guy who woke up every nerve ending in her body wasn’t going to end in a car crash of an affair that left her in brittle shards. Like it had with Chris.

She ran her hand over her knee, over the cool smoothness of her thigh. He should be touching her, his warmth caressing, sliding up her barely covered calf, up until he met the slightest tempting flash of pale skin, up until the heat of his hand bled through her silk knickers.

A slight tinge of colour spread along her cheekbones as she surveyed herself, moving her hands up to cup her small, rounded silk and lace-covered breasts. He’d said they were the perfect handful and she’d never really thought about it like that before. Her grin widened and a small shiver spread over her skin; they’d been more like the perfect mouthful. Her nipples started to tighten into peaks and she brushed both thumbs over them, sending a buzz straight to her clit. Maybe she could get by on just fantasising about him until after she’d done the paintings; the memory of his tongue snaking over her breasts, of his mouth closing around her soft flesh.

She closed her eyes, savouring the moment of anticipation as she ran her hand down her stomach, glided effortlessly under the silk, her finger instantly homing in on her swollen clit. The lightest pressure sent a shiver through her hot, swollen flesh as she circled, tipping her head back, imagining his mouth on her throat, travelling down her body, the languorous swirl of his tongue on her swollen nub. His lips closing around her, gently tugging before he sucked, hard.

In her imagination it was his fingers that sank deep inside her slick channel, and she gasped as her pussy clenched urgently, cried out as the intrusion tipped her over the edge, her hand instantly damp with her juices as her swollen flesh pulsed greedily around her.

The soft moan filled the room and she paused, waiting for the last of her orgasm to drift away before opening her eyes and staring at her reflection. Green eyes glowed back, dark with arousal, her cheekbones dusted with pink. Slowly, she lifted her damp fingers to her lips, ran her tongue over them, sucked gently, shuddering at the heady smell, the sweet taste that flooded her senses.

She could do it, she really could. She didn’t need his touch, his demands and complications. She could let her mind do the work, let the crystal sharp memory of what he’d done to her satisfy the cravings he’d triggered in her body. She could keep it light.

She picked up the emerald green silk dress from the arm of the chair, lifted her arms so that it slithered sensually down over her body, and then slipped her feet into the black stilettos. The dress looked almost demure; almost knee length, with a neckline that sat just high enough above her cleavage to be business-like. But demure wasn’t how it made her feel. She grinned as the sensual material wrapped itself round her body, the skirt floating around her legs so that the slightest breeze would send it thigh-ward.

She pulled her hair into a ponytail, and then stood back to study the end result. Most of her time was spent in scruffs, clothes that got covered in paint smudges and charcoal, so it was nice to dress up and feel sexy. And it was just for her, not for him. Definitely not because she wanted to see those golden eyes go dark with lust. Nope, it was to make her feel good, confident. In charge of the situation. And herself.

Her reflection grinned back wickedly as she shifted her hips so that the silk caressed her inner thighs. Demure with a hint of dirty. Well, maybe more than a hint; her face was still flushed and she had a feeling he’d know exactly what she’d been up to. To hell with it; sex had never been off the agenda, just relationships and getting so lost in someone else that you forget who you are. Like was fine, and sex with people she liked was fine, and bringing herself to orgasm thinking about people she liked was fine. So it was fine, all fine.

And she was perfectly capable of facing him and not thinking about watching him strip naked, and she could ignore that cute dimple and lopsided smile that made her want to kiss him. And she wouldn’t tremble inside when his skin met hers. She’d just find out where he wanted the paintings, work out what he wanted. And then she’d get on and make it happen. The work bit. Not the lust bit. Definitely not the lust bit. Not yet.

‘Tom, Miss Tring is here.’

‘Oh, call me Hayley, please.’ She was smiling at Annie, and Annie was smiling back, and all he could do was stare, probably slightly open-mouthed, as his cock battled to see what it was missing out on. Shit, how the hell was he going to stick to those best intentions if she insisted on dressing like she needed undressing?

‘Hi there, Tom.’ She smiled, the picture of innocence, almost. Took a step closer and he could have sworn the bloody dress tightened round her hips, caressing her mound in the way his hands should be doing.

‘You look stunning.’ He couldn’t disguise the rough edge in his voice as he stepped past her and pushed the door shut on a hovering Annie. She even smelled of sex. ‘I need to get my hands on that gorgeous body of yours.’

He could have sworn she was trying not to giggle. ‘We had a deal, Mr Holah.’ There was a hint of a frown as she smoothed her hands over her hips. ‘Changed your mind already?’

‘We said we’d see how it went, Miss Tring. But I think you might actually kill me in the process.’ God, he so wanted to get his hand on those stockings, to push her dress up to her waist and uncover the golden glow of her thighs. ‘You do look amazing, Hayley.’ His voice was cracking. Maybe he just needed to get this over with fast, stress his brain so that his body didn’t have chance to take over. Yell out to his cock that his entire blood supply was urgently needed up top.

Or beg her to kneel down in front of him and suck him off.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Her eyes had narrowed and he wasn’t sure if they were green or hazel any more.

‘I was being selfish.’

‘Oh.’ She flushed, which didn’t help his self-control one iota. ‘Do you think you better show me where you want the paintings?’ Her words had a throaty catch to them, but enough of an edge to tell him that she was doing her best to ignore the buzz between them. OK, she wasn’t going to suck him off. Not yet.

‘Well, I want one in here.’ He waved at the wall to the right of his desk. ‘Simon says I need a personal touch, a bit of me, whatever the hell that means.’ Bollocks to that; didn’t he just want a touch of colour? ‘And then I want something with the wow factor in the lobby. I’m after impact.’

‘Aren’t you always?’ The note of almost innocence was what got him, mixed with naughtiness. She really deserved a good spanking … He groaned inwardly as an image he really didn’t want flooded his mind and made his cock harder than ever.

‘Stop it, unless you want me to ignore all the rules and sort you out over my big desk. Come on, let me take you down, as in to the lobby.’ She raised one elegant eyebrow, then led the way past a goggle-eyed Annie, who looked like she had prime seat for the spectacle of the century. He glared, which got a bigger grin. God, the women were out to get him today, which was probably his own fault. For deciding he had to win a battle he should have never started. It wasn’t good for her, it wasn’t good for him. Maybe he was being cruel, insisting she did the work for him. Whatever she was frightened of might be for good reason. What if by insisting she do this he really did destroy her creativity? What if she couldn’t paint? And all because of him. One shag. But it wasn’t about one shag, was it? He wanted more; the only bit he didn’t know was exactly how much more.

Hell. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets; the way she was sashaying those hips in front of him made every step a challenge. He really, really had to lift that skirt up to her waist, bend her over his desk, and shag her until she screamed out his name and begged for more.

‘So you want it there?’

‘No, there.’ He dragged his gaze from her bum and pointed.

‘There? Really, right where everyone can see it?’ Her eyes opened wider.

‘That’s the idea.’ He would wrap that ponytail around his hand; hold her tight while he thrust so hard that his balls slapped against her bum.

‘You’re sure?’

Then he would pull the hairclip out, free her hair, slide her off the desk so that she knelt in front of him, the tendrils of her hair flicking against his stomach as she wrapped those perfect red lips around his cock. ‘You’re really sure, Tom?’

‘Oh yes, I’m really sure.’

Hayley gazed at the wall. It was perfect. Nearly as perfect as his erection. She’d been trying desperately not to look at the way his cock had grown harder by the minute, the way it was disrupting the perfect cut of his trousers, but her gaze just kept slipping back to it. The orgasm she’d had before she’d dressed had only made her more desperate and now she just knew she was wet, sopping wet. Do you want to show me what you want in your office? That was all it would take.

He was looking at her intently, his gold eyes glittering, and her heart quickened. Her nipples tightened as he stepped closer; the back of his hand brushed down the side of her face, his fingers tightened around her chin. ‘You are so fucking adorable.’ Then he kissed her. On the nose. On the flaming nose. Like she was his favourite niece or something. ‘Got enough of a feel for the place?’ She nodded, her heart thumping as though it was about to break out. ‘Good.’ He grinned. ‘Let me know if you need anything else.’

I need you to kiss me, hard, now. ‘That’s it?’ That’s it? She could scream. Or stomp her foot. Or back him up against the wall and kiss him. Or go home and see if her heart went back to its normal pace and if she still wanted to paint. ‘I’ll go, then, and make a start.’ And he just bloody nodded again when all she wanted was him to tear the dress from her shoulders, rip the lace bra away from her breasts, and suck them until her whole body throbbed and ached. Well, it wasn’t quite all she wanted. She wanted his mouth on her pussy, his tongue lapping the length of her, and his teeth teasing at her clit until she was writhing in a mix of agony and ecstasy. And instead it was just her jaw that was aching from clenching her teeth. ‘Fine.’ She spun on her heel, and for a second the world wobbled, which screwed up on the sexy and sophisticated front.

‘Hayley?’ Oh yeah, he was teasing, right? She half turned back. ‘I’ll call you later.’

His tone was soft, so soft she could have sworn he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. And the line of his suit pretty much confirmed it.

The door of the stairwell closed decisively behind him and she stood for a moment in the office lobby. It was perfect. Even the frustration racing through every inch of her couldn’t change that. This was something she wanted to do, needed to do. It was the perfect showcase for her work.

The building was old, but with high ceilings and huge windows that filtered the light perfectly. And the wall he’d chosen was facing the right way. It would never be lit by the strongest, most destructive sunlight, but whenever there was daylight it would catch some. Her bright colours would shine from the gloom at each end of the day and glow when they were bathed by light. Rather than one big canvas, she could break it up. She sat down on the visitor seat and stared. Nine square panels – no, three long panels. Three panels with small gaps between, flowing from light to dark in opposition to the natural light. Rich old colours to blend in with the architecture, but with abstract, more modern shapes that would make people pause, make them question what they were looking at. So they could make the image their own.

She fished her phone from her bag and took a couple of photos, then stood up and smoothed her dress over her hips. She needed to get home and sketch, let the ideas in her brain translate through her fingers before she lost the sense of the place.

It didn’t take long to cross town, a short walk that, on some days, she would have relished. But today she hardly noticed. Colour and form were swirling through her mind, changing and blending into the perfect picture, and before she knew it she was automatically slotting her key into the door and hurrying up the stairs to the attic room that she used as a studio.

Her easel was always set up, a huge sketch pad spread on the floor, paints, charcoal strewn around, and she kicked off her shoes and settled on the floor, oblivious to the fact that she was still wearing her dress. The dress she wore when she wanted to feel in control, the dress that made her confident because she knew she looked good in it. The dress she had worn to test out her own and Tom’s nerve. He’d risen to the challenge and been the perfect gentleman, but left an ache that told her she was the loser. But it hardly mattered now. Wow. She dropped the pencil onto the floor. She’d seen him, she’d lusted after him and yet she was here, with ideas, and she wasn’t afraid of losing them. So maybe it wasn’t Chris all over again.