Never Say Forever

Could I do it? Place me in this position, with one man, with two? Satisfy this sweet, sticky need snaking through me?

Cries turn to moans. Because it’s hard to shout when your mouth is full.

She looks . . . delirious. Blissed.

I force myself to turn away as the men swap their positions.

This should turn my stomach, this sordid scene, yet it doesn’t. This voyeur feels nothing but envy and desire. The heady fusion of fear and thrill.

My reactions aren’t at all in keeping with how a good person—a mother—should feel as I turn and stumble from the room, pressing my back to the cool of the wall, the only thing about the moment that feels solid or real.

I tell myself I need to pause to catch my breath. To try to make sense of why I watched, why I stood there, my insides pulsing emptily. And not because I need to press my thighs together in lieu of the overwhelming desire to slide my hand between my legs.

Two heart beats later, I swear I feel a change in the air: something not quite tangible yet something so real that a frission of anticipation sweeps across my skin.

I lift my gaze, and hope sings inside me because Carson Hayes is stalking towards me. I don’t take a moment to process how or why or anything logical because all I can think is the man looks lethal in a tuxedo. His dark eyes spear me to the spot as he secures the button of his jacket like it’s a declaration of war.

I lick my lips as he draws closer because I don’t know what to say. Because I want to feel his mouth against mine. My insides are plump with the thought of it, my skin almost seeming not to fit any more.

He comes to a halt in front of me, and though I find I can’t lift my gaze, I still devour the sight of him. The dark fabric coating his strong thighs, the pleat knife sharp. My gaze wanders up the broad expanse of him, halting in the vicinity of his chin as I scan my mind for something to say.

Fancy meeting you here.

I can explain . . . Some of it, at least.

Just, please . . . touch me.

I inhale, really not sure what I’m about to say when he beats me to it.

“Don’t,” he commands in a tone not at all like the Carson I’m familiar with. The man who is quick to smile and always ready to tease. “Not here.” His large hand appears before me as the devil whispers, “Come with me.”

I place my hand in his, finding there isn’t anywhere I wouldn’t follow him right now.

20

Fee

My hand still held fast in his as I struggle to keep up with his long strides, aware of the people we’re passing. Their expressions are a mixture of enquiry and calculation. Jealousy, even.

“Where are we going?” As my heart continues to beat so hard it rings in my ears as arousal and alarm comingle into a heady internal stew.

“Somewhere we can talk. Without distraction.”

That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. I push aside the implication because no, I can’t talk about what I’m doing here. Not after what I’ve just witnessed. If he’d caught me just ten minutes before, my conscience would be clear, and my knickers wouldn’t be sticking to—

Ten minutes.

“No, stop.” In a hallway now, I pull on his hand, pull with the full weight of my body. “I don’t have my phone. I was only meant to be here for an hour.”

As his feet come to a halt, I almost bounce into him, into his broad back.

“What did you hope to achieve in an hour?”

“Not whatever it is you’re thinking.” My retort is delivered to the back of his head, my uncomfortable heels bringing my height a little closer to his. As I try to pull my hand from his, his grip just tightens. “Lulu is with a babysitter, and I already had a mini heart attack when I found out I had to leave my phone at the entrance.”

He turns to me then, his eyes an angry shade of midnight. “You didn’t read the instructions?”

“What instructions?”

“The member’s area of the website.”

“I must’ve missed that bit,” I snap back, my voice rising in intensity if not volume because he’s not at all endearing himself to me currently.

“What parts did you read?” He tugs on my hand, and I stumble into him, my free hand finding its way to the firm expanse of his chest. My clutch drops to the floor, and I find myself flattening my palm against his shirt, wondering if his heart is beating as hard as mine as I inhale a lungful of his scent. Why does he always smell so good? That damned cologne of his with the underlying scent of whisky and mint.