Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

"Great," I say briskly. "Now, I have some rough sketches for the print ads I want you to look at . . ."

For the rest of the week, Maia and I knuckle down with the team. Noah, too, though of course he has an entire company to run simultaneous to us planning the Red Brick rollout.

Even so, he's in the trenches daily, working shoulder to shoulder with me, and when I point out that he has other responsibilities, he reminds me that while Stark Applied Technology is firmly established, the Austin office is still new--and still proving itself. Red Brick is its first high profile product.

As if there weren't enough pressure.

I'd thought that his daily presence would be awkward; I was wrong. Just the opposite, actually. The days fly by and we fall into a rhythm. A pattern. I work closely with him, and it's wonderful. We instinctively know what the other wants. Needs. Honestly, if it were sex, it would be the best ever.

I know I shouldn't be thinking like that. But as the days pass--as I watch him competently sketch changes to a design or authoritatively tell the team in which direction to move--I find myself inching closer to something I know I should be backing away from.

And when he's standing behind me, his hand pressed to my shoulder as we look at the laptop screen, it's everything I can do to think about the words and images in front of us, and not the pressure of his touch. Or the way he could so easily slide his hand down to caress my breast, or twine his fingers in my hair and force my head back for a long, deep kiss.

Honestly, I think I've used my vibrator more in the past week than all of last year. It's a good thing Ares has already left on tour and I have the house to myself. I'd be mortified if he heard me all alone in my room.

And the vivid dreams in which Noah has a starring role . . . Oh. My.

Between my sleepless nights and my long hours at work, I'm bordering on exhausted. But at the same time, I've never been more pumped up. The campaign prep is going great, and every day the thought of seeing Noah again is as invigorating as coffee.

Well, not quite. I'm drinking so much coffee I should probably hook myself to an IV.

"You're really good at this," Noah says, as he and I are bent over some mock-ups that the art department sent up to the conference room.

"Thanks." I smile up at him, feeling more pleased by his praise than I should. After all, he hired me, didn't he? Of course he thinks I'm competent.

He's smiling back at me, his eyes crinkling at the corner, his hair wild from having run his fingers through it at least a dozen times that morning. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, and my heart does a little flip-flop.

I quickly turn back to the mock-ups so that he can't look in my eyes and see my thoughts. "I like the challenge," I continue, mostly to fill the silence. "So much that I sometimes think I shouldn't even consider starting Pink Chameleon up again."

"Why?" He steps back from the table.

I turn to see him better. "I don't know," I say, as Maia steps into the room and heads to the far side of the conference table where her laptop is set up.

I glance at her, but she's already tapping the keyboard, obviously deep into some project of her own.

I turn back to Noah, who's clearly waiting for a better response from me. "I guess I think about what a good thing I have with Crown Consulting. Why would I want to risk that?" Not that I would be. Maia has the skill to keep the business alive. I frown, trying to order my thoughts. "Or, I guess, why do I need more?"

"Fair enough," he says. "But you're talented and you're passionate and you're ambitious. Don't settle just because that's comfortable. You should go after what you want."

I swallow, hearing the words in a different context. Not music, but him.

I look away. "I guess. I don't know."

"Or maybe that's not really why you're hesitating."

"What?" There's a ridiculous note of panic in my voice, and I want to kick myself.

"I just wonder if maybe you're afraid of making it. Because you came so close one time, and then it all got ripped away."

I gape at him, and it takes me a moment to realize he's still talking about singing and not us. "I . . ."

I trail off. I have no idea what to say.

His smile is gentle. "Sorry. I didn't mean to sound preachy. All I wanted to say was that I think you have the talent to make it. Don't deny yourself just because you're scared and comfortable with the status quo. You'll only regret it."

"Thanks," I say, his belief in my talent meaning more to me than it should.

"Anytime." This time his grin is wide, even a little playful. He heads toward the door. "I'm due on a conference call. I'll check in later."