The Beau & the Belle
Page 35

At this point, I’m in the running for an Academy Award.
He chuckles once and it’s a husky, dark sound. My thighs try to grip together, but Beau’s between them. Friction rubs me in all the wrong places. His hand reaches up to cradle my neck. His thumb brushes against my pulse and I feel it leap in response, punching against my skin.
“You’re so cute,” he says, brushing his finger back and forth.
I frown.
I was going for more of a slutty temptress vibe.
I look down and try not to squirm. He’s getting hard.
“Do you always have your guests sit in your lap, or only when you run out of seats?”
He laughs again and the friction drives me mad. I want to grind down onto him, roll against his hard thigh. I’m seconds away from mewling like a kitten.
His hand moves higher and the pad of his thumb skims along the edge of my bottom lip. I never knew there were so many nerve-endings there. They fire one after another.
“Are you still seeing Preston?”
“Why does that matter?”
My question sounds desperate, like I’m crawling toward water in the desert and someone asks if I’d prefer sparkling or still.
“Because I’m not kissing you while you’re dating another man.”
He reaches for the intercom button on the desk behind me and his chest brushes against mine. My back arches instinctively. My nipples are mutinous. If you won’t touch him, we will.
He asks his receptionist to call my dad’s design firm.
“Ask to be connected with Preston Westcott.”
I sit stunned.
This is inappropriate, and yet, I don’t budge.
His receptionist says it’ll only take a minute. True to her word, it’s even less.
“I’ve got Mr. Westcott for you on line 2.”
Beau reaches to press the blinking light and then he holds the phone out for me.
“Hello?” Preston asks. His voice is faint since I refuse to bring the receiver up to my ear.
Beau—impatient jerk that he is—wraps his hand around mine and forces the phone higher.
“Talk,” he says, not even bothering to lower his voice.
I scowl.
“Hello?” Preston asks again. “I didn’t catch that.”
Beau squeezes my waist. His fingers brush up underneath my tank top, and I’m compelled to speak.
“Preston. Hi!”
“Lauren?”
I clear my throat and glance away, scared to look at Beau while I’m on the phone with Preston. Beau doesn’t let me get away with that though. His hand grips my chin lightly and he tugs me back. Now our eyes are level and his mouth is half a foot away from mine. I’m staring there, desperate to feel his lips.
“Tell him.”
I swallow and wet my lips.
“Umm…we can’t see each other anymore.”
Beau’s lips turn into a satisfied smirk and he rewards me by tugging me up higher on his thighs. I can feel him there between my legs. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
“What? What are you talking about?” Preston asks. “Why do you sound so weird?”
Um, because I’m seconds away from an orgasm and Beau isn’t even really touching me. My panties brush across my sensitive skin and I tremble.
“Yup. Yeah, it’s just not going to work out.”
“Is someone there with you? I thought I heard a voice a second ago.”
“Yes, sorry.” Then I realize what I’ve just said, and I backtrack. “No. No, it’s just me. I just wanted to call and say thank you for everything, but we can’t see each other anymore.”
“Why?”
Oh, because I’m currently dry-humping another man at this very moment?
Because I’m half in love and he hasn’t even kissed me?
Because my panties are wet and my skin feels tingly and Beau is drawing little circles on my stomach beneath my shirt and if he goes any lower I will make a little noise in the back of my throat, a soft cry that will sound an awful lot like a plea.
“Lauren? What’s wrong?” Preston asks impatiently.
Beau growls, reaches forward, and ends the call.
The line goes dead. The phone gets yanked out of my hand and then Beau is cradling my face and bringing his lips to mine.
My heart leaps in my throat and I open my mouth to protest. I’m scared. Maybe I don’t want this after all. I’m supposed to guard my heart! But it’s my lips he’s after, softly brushing mine against his. Light. Gentle. Soft. It’s the beginning of a fireworks show. He isn’t bringing out the big guns right away. He doesn’t sweep his tongue into my mouth and shove it down my throat. This is a dance, and just like with everything else, Beau’s a perfect leader.
He applies just enough pressure that I want a little more. I fist my hands in his shirt and wrinkle the material without a care in the world. For the rest of the afternoon, he’ll have to deal with the aftermath of this kiss. I wish I were wearing red lipstick so I could brush a little bit on his collar. At least my perfume is there, marking him. Later, in the break room, someone will make a little joke about the floral scent and Beau will be reminded of what it felt like to have me on his lap, rolling my hips, kissing him back.
This is the kiss I wanted 10 years ago. This is what I begged him for, and now that I have it, I don’t want to let it go.
He makes a move like he’s going to lean back, but I pounce and drag him closer, tilting my head and opening my mouth. He takes the hint and our kiss ratchets up another 20 degrees until the top of the thermometer breaks and mercury shoots out. We’re panting. Groaning. Lips are clashing and tongues are dancing, and I think I’m asking him to bend me over his desk—but then, of course, lunch arrives.
“Mr. Fortier? Your lunch is here!”
His receptionist tap-tap-taps on the door and I yell at her to go away.
Beau clamps a hand over my mouth and laughs.
“Yes, Michelle. Thank you. Just leave it out there.”
“But Ms. LeBlanc’s lemonade is getting warm.”
Ms. LeBlanc’s EVERYTHING is getting warm.
Beau’s more in control than I am, on the inside at least. Outwardly, he looks like he just got thoroughly fucked. His hair is tousled from my hands. His shirt is askew, and I managed to pop a few buttons so I now get a peek at his chest. There’s a sprinkling of dark hair and tan skin calling my name. I press my hand into the gap of his shirt and it’s the surface of the sun. I want to lick it.
He lets me sit there on him, feeling his chest for one…two…three seconds, and then he rolls his chair back and deposits me on the floor. My legs are jelly. I lean forward to hold myself up on his desk.
“I’m afraid I have to get back to work now,” he says, dropping a kiss to my head like I’m a dainty little bird.
He’s thinking about work at a time like this?! Should I be thinking about work?
I straighten and clear my throat. “Yes. Me too. Lots of business things to do.”
“How late do you work tonight?”
He’s checking papers on his desk as he asks me this. I was just giving him a lap dance and now he’s looking at papers on his desk (!!!). Unless they contain the nuclear codes, he should not be looking at them.
I take offense.
“I’m leaving early actually. Family dinner.”
My mom is making my favorite meal: Chinese takeout. I know if I try to cancel she’ll twist my arm and drone on about how I’m her only child.
I round the desk as he watches me with those blue eyes.
“What about tomorrow evening?”
“Busy.”
It’s the truth: I’m going out with a few friends, old McGehee girls, getting into the Carnival spirit and all that.
He smiles knowingly and glances back down at his very important documents. “That’s fine. You can keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Playing like you don’t want me to sweep everything off my desk and fulfill 10 years’ worth of your backlogged wishes.”
HOLY SMOKES.
My brain works overtime imagining that exact scenario. Pens flying. Coffee cups tipping over. Papers fluttering to the ground. It would be chaos—sweet, delicious chaos.