Pressure Point (Point #2) (11 page)

“That was fast,” he murmurs in that silky voice of his.

“Do you mean to be intimidating or does it come naturally?” I can’t help the bite in my tone. I’m frustrated, exasperated…and sad. Terribly sad that my friend has lost any need for my companionship.

One perfectly arched eyebrow lifts. “Pardon?”

“You’re not surprised that I’m here.” I shut the door behind me and cross the wood floor until I reach the black carpet with gold designs. The color scheme matches the hockey team that Blake was recently promoted to President over, the Scrapers. I prop my hip against the side of his desk, cross my arms over my chest, and stare down at him. The whirlwind of emotion shields me from remembering how attractive Blake is, how badly I want him to miss me.

Then he smiles, a twist of his lips in bitter amusement. “No, I’m not surprised, because my sister mentioned that she needed a break from you.”

“What?” I growl furiously. “
You
texted me, told me that it was okay for me to come by. Why would you set me up for failure? Why didn’t you warn me?” Instinctively my hand flies to my chest, covering my aching heart. “This isn’t funny to me, Blake.”

Blake sobers instantly and pushes to his feet. One large hand reaches out, clutches my wrist, and tugs me closer to him. Spearmint assaults my senses, a subtle and intoxicating scent. My head is forced to tilt up to meet his gaze. There’s fire in his eyes. He’s worked up, too. Intensity ripples between us.

“You think Zoe is a
game
to me,” he snaps.

I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off. “You’re here because I was hoping my sister would realize that she needs you. Two therapists have failed to get her out of the house, and now, she is finally communicating with one. Dr. Greene has encouraged my sister to talk to you, but she’s holding onto some bullshit excuses. Like you, I would do anything for my sister. Does it look like I think this situation is funny?”

“Let me go.” I clench my teeth together. Everything he says is familiar to me. I know as well as he does that Blake would go to the ends of the earth to take care of his sister. The accusation was out of character for me and unnecessarily punished him. I’m embarrassed by my outburst and want to hightail it out of here. Zoe doesn’t want to see me, there’s no reason I should have come here to fight with Blake.

Except that you’re in love with him. Except that you want to take comfort in his embrace. Except that he’s the only guy who you’ve ever loved and probably will ever love.
The thoughts are automatic and I silently beg the little voice of wisdom to shut up. I’ll lick my wounds when I’m alone.

Instantly, his hand falls to his side and he takes a step backward.

“I’m sorry, Blake,” I say quietly, my eyes falling to the ground. “I’m feeling helpless and taking it out on you. You don’t deserve my wrath.” I find the nerve to meet his gaze.

Something sparks.

His deep brown eyes shine as they pin me in place with steady concentration. His hand flexes at his side.
What I would give to know what you’re thinking.

“Call me if…” I shake my head lamely. “If there’s anything that I should know or do. Please.”

Blake nods once, silently surveying me with his mask still carefully in place. I reach out to touch him because I don’t think it will impact him and I need the connection. Touching him is the last piece of solace left for me. I lift my knuckles to his cheek and graze the skin because his warm, golden smoothness draws me in effortlessly. I press the back of my hand against his cheek because even though he doesn’t reveal his emotions (like,
ever
), I know that he hurts, too.

As I begin to retract my hand from his face, long fingers clasp my wrist and he yanks me against his body. Hard. Like I’ve imagined so many times, Blake’s body is a wall of muscle. The shirt that he’s wearing does little to hide the ridges of his abdomen where my body presses against his. Blake’s free hand falls to my waist, his knee pressing between my thighs, sending tingles of awareness skittering down my legs, up through my torso, and nailing me in the heart.

“Tell me no,” he demands hoarsely. “If you don’t want this, say no.
Now.
”

There’s only one thing for me to say. “Yes.” It’s a husky murmur and a moment later, he’s lifting me off my feet and whirling my body toward the desk. Then I’m crashing down on his computer, the clamshell smacking shut underneath me and pinching my skin. I gasp in a quick breath of pain, and Blake glances at me sharply.

“All right?”

I nod automatically, forgetting about the pinch. This may be my only chance with Blake, and I’m not going to let a little discomfort get in the way.

From there, everything happens quickly.

Breaths, little gasps, and needy moans are the only sounds we make. Blake grabs the hem of my chunky sweater, tearing it off me and tossing it aside. His lips fuse to the side of my neck.

Teasing.

Licking.

Sucking.

It’s a heady combination and my legs instinctively cling to his lower back, urging him closer. His hands slap the desk on either side of my head as he pushes himself upward. I whimper at the loss of contact, my body trembling with need.

I’m drunk.

Off the wicked, hungry gleam in his eyes.

Off the ridge of his erection, straining at his pants.

Off the tingles that set my body ablaze.

I’m physically panting from where he’s spread me out on his desk, watching his movements with breathless anticipation. How long have I imagined this? How long have I dreamed of this intimacy with Blake?

Blake rips his eyes from mine and then the flurry begins again.

I hear the sound of a zipper, belatedly realizing that it’s mine when he lifts my hips from the wood, yanking my panties, denim, and socks off like a freaking magician.

How many times has he done this?
I push the thought away forcefully when I watch his hands unlatch the brown leather belt around his waist.

Ding.
Belt back smacks against metal zipper.

Zip.
Teeth of the zipper open.

Rustle.
Fabric pushing down the length of his hard legs.

Purposeful fingers dig into my hips as he jerks me forward, my bottom awkwardly on the desk while my lower back is pinned to the computer. My legs flail until he reaches back and yanks them around to the spot right on his lower back. With a fluid thrust, he’s inside me and I can’t hide my gasp. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s unnatural because… He distracts me. Once again, his lips find my neck—nipping, tugging, and lapping at the skin. I tilt my head backward and squeeze my eyes shut as he begins to move inside me.

God.
It’s like coming home.

Our bodies fit together like they were designed for the sole purpose of joining this way. He surges forward, hands slipping around my back to yank me closer. His face, lips, nose, and shut eyes go flush against my clavicle. The rhythm is frenzied, each thrust more powerful, urgent, and pleading than the last. He groans against my skin, his breath leaving a hot trail on my vibrating body.

I’m close. Getting closer.

Blake grunts, a deep guttural sound, and then exhales a shuddering breath. He loses control, slamming into me as I whimper. And then…it’s over.

He collapses on top of me, sucking in heavy breaths while I lay beneath him. Waiting.

Ten seconds pass.

Sixty seconds pass.

One hundred and twenty seconds pass.

I count. Each second he doesn’t say my name. Each second he doesn’t kiss me. Each second he stays silent. Each second he proves to be a selfish lover.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He pushes up on his forearms, staring down at me like he didn’t realize that I was the woman underneath him. Another fluid motion, this time him jerking out of me and yanking his pants and boxers back into place.

He didn’t undress, never bothered to take off his pants, whereas I lay one peach-colored bra away from naked strewn across his desk. He doesn’t cast me a second glance when he strides out the room, slamming the door behind him loudly.

I’m left more heartbroken than when I came to him. Blake is only the second man I’ve ever made love with. He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t care about my pleasure. He hardly looked at me. He may have even pretended that I was someone else.

The realization shatters me.

To Blake, I was a warm body. One that he didn’t bother asking about contraception. He didn’t use protection. Thank God, I’m on the pill. With shaking hands, I push up and wiggle down the desk so I can press my feet into the area rug.

What have I done?
First comes the resounding heartache, like a knife pierces straight through the muscle thumping in my chest. It’s not working properly anymore, I can tell. The guy who I convinced myself that I loved used my body as if I were a concubine.

Kneeling down, I gather my clothes from where he tossed them carelessly to the ground. I ignore the dampness between my legs, a vulgar reminder slithering down my thigh. My nose stings with emotion, throat tightening in shame and mortification. I never wanted to be that friend to Zoe, using her to get closer to her brother.
At least now she wants nothing to do with me
, I scoff silently.

Once dressed, I turn from the desk, body trembling badly enough to make me pause and clutch the corner to balance myself. Nausea rolls through my stomach, making the room sway.

Inhale. Exhale.
I breathe quivering breaths.

This is what it feels like to have a dream of six years crushed. Utter devastation.

The house remains dark when I trek through to the foyer. There are no sounds of life, no Zoe or Blake to speak of.

Get home, get home, then you can break down,
I promise myself silently. Somehow, through the fog of betrayal and heartache, I clumsily close my jacket and slip into my heavy winter boots. There’s nothing left for me to do but flee. Zoe won’t come looking for me, and Blake clearly doesn’t care about my wellbeing.

I dash out the front door, before I even remember to put my gloves on.

Blake

Apparently transforming into the world’s biggest asshole dulls my senses because when I stride across the garage and climb into the Cayenne, I don’t notice that I’m barefoot. It’s not until my foot connects with the cool brake pedal do I realize that I stormed out of the house without shoes like some testosterone-filled moron.

That’s what I am, though, the definition of a moron.

Disgust fills every cell in my body. Self-loathing torments me as I maneuver the SUV south on Ogden. At first, I force my mind to blank, watching the streetlights glimmer as the car rolls past them. It’s not until I merge onto I-290 that the emotion overtakes me.

“Fuck!” I growl. The moment the word is out into the cabin of the car, I remember that was the only thing I said to Stella after I fucked her on my desk. Not made love to her like she deserves. Tenderness escaped the intimate moment we shared completely. The scene flashes before me in short, stabbing spurts. She touched my cheek and I was lost to her innocent, delightful spell. Passion buried logic with one gentle whisper of skin against skin. I was uninhibited, raw, animalistic, and the epitome of a scumbag to a woman who deserved so much more.

Ever since a man broke into Clarkes Elementary and pulled a gun on my sister, threatening to kill her and whoever else came in his way, I haven’t been myself. In fact, the man who stares back at me in the mirror at times is unrecognizable. Weakness, a trait I’m not familiar with, lurks around every corner. So when Stella appeared, like a fucking ethereal angel at the mouth of my office, weakness won over. I wanted to take comfort in her, indulge in the woman who I’ve lusted after for years. After many nights imagining the taste of her flesh and taking care of business myself, I snapped.

No doubt, I wanted her, finally giving into the temptation that has nipped at my heels for six agonizing years. No other woman could distract. No amount of work could smother my feelings. No matter what I tried, the same result.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing could stop me from wanting Stella. Then I allowed the lesser of my two heads to make a choice that could never be undone. If a guy had treated Zoe the way that I treated Stella, I would have gladly beaten the shit out of him.