If there's one thing in my life I've always been, it's appropriate. I studied hard, got good grades, went to the right schools. I married the right man, the one who looked good on paper, the one I thought would be an asset to my father's company. So what if the chemistry was non-existent, I told myself. It was something that would develop over time.
Except that I got absolutely everything wrong with Edward. He was the wrong man in every way.
"Why are you running, Red?" Luke asks. His voice rumbles low under his breath.
I don't turn around. Instead, I lie. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm going into my house because I have work to do. No one's running anywhere."
When he steps closer to me, the air changes between us, causing goose bumps to flit over my skin, up my arms and shoulders, across my back. "Why are you lying, Red?" he asks. "Are you really going to tell me you felt nothing back there?"
"It was just a kiss, Luke," I whisper. "One that shouldn't have happened at all."
"Just a kiss," he says softly. His breath wafts over the back of my neck, and I close my eyes. I want him to touch me. I want to feel the weight of his hands on my shoulders, sliding down my arms, over my breasts, to my waist. And lower.
"Yes." The word comes out, more like a gasp. "It was just a kiss. That's all."
"That's why you can't turn around and look at me right now, Red. Because that kiss was no big deal."
My hand is on the doorknob, and I stare at it, trying desperately to communicate the message to my muscles that my brain seems intent on not sending. Open the damn door, let yourself into the house, and shut him out. Go back to burying yourself in work, to being a mother and nothing more.
But my hand doesn't move. Instead, Luke's hand covers mine, his lips on my ear. "That's why you're standing here with your hand on the door, not moving," he whispers. "Because you didn't feel a damn thing when I kissed you."
"Luke," I begin to protest, but the sensation of his breath on my neck makes me practically writhe with anticipation. Heat pools between my legs, and I want to give in. I want to do something wild and reckless and uncharacteristically out of control.
"Where's Olivia?" Luke asks softly.
"Toddler music class," I say. "She goes to class with Greta, and then they go to the park."
"Toddler music class," Luke says, his hand unmoving. His lips brush the side of my neck, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning. It's been so long since I've been with anyone, and Luke's touch feels so good it's almost painful. "That's a real thing?"
"It's a real thing," I say, barely able to focus. "I mean, they basically run around and listen to kids' songs and…" My voice trails off. I know I'm babbling, the most nervous I've been in years, more nervous than any business meeting has ever made me. Why does Luke make me so nervous?
"Open the door," Luke whispers, his voice low. "Now."
"I'm not sure we should – "
He moves his hand from mine, places his hands on my waist, and presses his hardness against my ass, and I can't think of anything except what he would feel like inside me. "Open the door, because we both know that you want me," he says.
I choke out a laugh. "Shit, you're full of yourself."
But I open the door. And the second we step inside, Luke shuts the door, slamming me hard against it before reaching up to turn the lock. He slides his hand under my shirt, the movement furious, cupping my breast, his finger finding its way under the fabric of my bra. My nipple hardens immediately to his touch, and he smiles as he watches me writhe under him. It's exquisite pleasure when he touches me, and he knows it.
"Full of myself?" he asks, his lips so close to mine they're nearly touching. I want to feel his lips again. I ache for him to kiss me.
"Full of yourself," I say, my words catching in my throat. "Yes. Exactly. Definitely full of yourself."
"You'd love to be full of me," he says, grinning as he thumbs my nipple, and I think I might come from the sensation alone.
"You're juvenile," I say, and he slides his hand from my shirt. For a second, I think he's taken it away, a reaction to me insulting him, but he reaches lower to my waistband, flicking open the button of my pants with a single, obviously well-practiced motion. He yanks my jeans over my hips and slips his hand down the front of my panties before I can even register what he's doing.
When I do realize, I put my hand against his chest, half-heartedly intending to push him away, to tell him I can't possibly do something like this, up against the front door of my house, no less. But then he's sliding his fingers over my clit, the sensation that ricochets through my body nearly making my knees buckle, and I have to cling to the fabric of his shirt to even stay upright.
"Juvenile," he says, his mouth close to mine. "Tell me you still think I'm fucking juvenile now, Red."
He rolls his fingers over my clit, stroking me until my brain is entirely enveloped in a fog of need and desire, until I can't possibly think clearly.
"I – " I start, but I stop myself. I can't remember why I was objecting before.