He growls, literally growls at me like an animal. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard, and on some primitive level, I’m scared and know I should run for cover from the apex predator with his sights on me. But on a deeper, instinctive level, my blood just started singing through my body, pulsing at a focal point behind my clit.
Holy shit. Maybe it’s a little caveman-ish, but it’s fucking sexy as hell too. Unconsciously, I squeeze my crossed legs tighter, needing some pressure for relief. But he notices. I expect him to start yelling, but instead he just smirks and leans forward again.
His voice is quiet, gravel as he answers, seemingly puzzled by me. “You’re forward, aren’t you? No finesse or foreplay. Just jumping into the question you know is most likely to set me off. No, I’m not dating anyone, nor am I looking to. Maybe the supplies were just so I can be a gracious host. Need a tampon, Elise?”
I can’t help but defend myself a bit. He’s somehow getting to me despite my best attempts to get under his skin. The score is definitely in his favor right now. Needing to get back in the battle for control, I fume. “No, fuck you very much. It’s the reason this all started, that speculation, so why not address it from the start? Besides, foreplay is for people who don’t know what they want, who need to warm up to the idea. I get the feeling that neither of us is like that. I know what I want . . . your secrets. And you know what you want . . . to not tell me. I’m not going to trick them out of you. Just bold honesty.”
He tilts his head, searching my face for something. “Okay. But there’s one thing you’re wrong about.”
I raise an eyebrow in question. “What’s that?”
Keith smiles, but it’s a predatory full baring of his teeth, more threatening and conquering than humorous. “Foreplay isn’t for people who need a warm-up. Foreplay can be the best part if it’s done right.”
He pauses, and I know I’m breathing faster than I should be, considering I’m just sitting on a couch talking, but damn, can he talk. Every word is measured for effect, and I feel more bare than if I’d even answered a question.
The answer is written all over my face, my body. “And are you good at foreplay?”
Keith nods, his smile changing slightly, becoming as seductive as it is confrontational. “Bold honesty, huh? Very. Okay, Elise . . . tell me about your dating life.”
It’s not a question, it’s an order.
I want to be bratty back, call him on his bossiness, but I realize that would be counter to my mission here, so I give in and willingly share. “No, I’m not dating either. I work too damn much, and my last boyfriend was an ass. I’m not hung up on him or anything. It’s been months ago and was casual at best, more like fuck buddies than a real relationship. But I’m just . . . no, not dating.”
He grins, a real one this time. “Point proven. Fuck buddies don’t need foreplay. Just get in, get off, and get out. You’re just not used to getting more. So much more that it becomes a necessity, an integral piece of the bigger action, not something to be rushed through or skipped.” Every word he says is seduction, meant to make me squirm for him and I’m fighting the urge, forcing myself to be still.
I bite my lip, considering his words, my body screaming that it wants more, too. “Well, you may be right. But tell me, Keith. For someone who’s not dating anyone, you sure do have some insight into the inner workings of the human mind and body. How’d you get so . . . smart?”
I stumble at the last second because I almost said sexy, and I’ll be damned if I’m giving him that kind of ammunition, but he seems to know that ‘smart’ wasn’t my first word choice judging by his cocked eyebrow. “I said I’m not dating. Never said I was a saint.”
Before I can ask a follow-up question, the doorbell rings and Keith rises from his seat to go answer it. I can’t help but watch him as he moves with graceful power toward the hallway, returning a moment later leading a guy wearing black pants and a white chef jacket toward what I can only assume is the kitchen. I follow, drawn by both professional and personal curiosity.
As the cook tells Keith about the menu and warming times, I hang in the doorway, taking in Keith’s no-muss appearance. His jeans have ridden down low on his lean hips, showing the waistband of his underwear as he reaches up and his shirt hem raises with his arms.
Wondering if he’s a boxer brief kind of guy, I let my eyes dip down to his crotch and see a nice bulge that makes me picture him dropping those pants and taking his cock out for me. As my eyes drift back up, I see that his arms are crossed over his chest, showing off biceps that strain against the white cotton of his shirt and make his shirt ride up to expose a tiny sliver of his stomach. I have to admit to myself that want to run my hands over his abs, feel and caress each ridge.
When the cook takes his leave, Keith turns to meet my eyes. “Hungry?”
There’s an undertone to his voice, an awareness of the fact that I was just checking him out. But I see a gleam in his eyes. He’s checking me out too, which just increases my desire. Before I can tell myself not to say it, I answer him honestly. “Starving.”
There’s a rumble in his chest, but he seems to remember his game plan before I remember mine, still lost in some fantasy of him bending me over the kitchen counter and licking his dessert out of my soaking wet pussy. He opens a cabinet door, grabbing plates, then glasses and silverware. “Follow me.”
After serving up healthy portions onto the plates and a quick warming in the microwave, we sit at the table in the kitchen nook. There’s tension between us now, but it’s not awkward. If anything, it feels good, flavored with the little intimate touches like using a microwave. It’s like Keith’s saying I know you find me sexy. I don’t need to bend over backward to impress you more than I do naturally.
It’s natural and heady, like I’m a stick of dynamite and he’s waving a lit match around, and I’m dangerously close to begging him to light me up because everything in me says that he damn sure could.
I try to get my head back in the game, reminding myself that no matter how fucking sexy Keith may be or how horny I am, that’s not happening. I’m a reporter, and my name isn’t Francesca, goddammit!
I need to be professional, get him to answer some fresh questions, dig a little deeper into who he is. Discovering his secrets, writing a great article series . . . that’s the goal here. Not getting my pussy licked before getting a creamy ending to my fantasies.
Keith seems to read all of my dirty, naughty thoughts, but he chooses to let me simmer in my need and goes over to the fridge. “Wine?”
I nod, curious that he didn’t offer me a beer. “Just a half glass. Still on the clock, you know.”
I wish I hadn’t said it the moment it leaves my mouth. It’s a reminder that regardless of any flirting we might have been doing, and how fucking hot Keith makes me, being here is my job. My job to tell all the things he’d rather keep private.
It’s like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on our whole interaction, and I can see it in the sudden increased tension across Keith’s jawline.
Dinner and the rest of our evening proceed with conversational questions and answers, but not nearly as personal and telling as our earlier talk. There’s none of the burning taunting now, just a polite aloofness.
It feels colder, robotic even as he answers in what amounts to one word, sometimes one-syllable answers. And though I could write a whole book about how hot Keith is in person, how commanding his presence is, I’m not sure that’s exactly where this all-access story needs to go.
That fact feels like . . . my secret.
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Prologue (unedited and subject to change)
Madison
Love. From the dawn of time it’s been with us, our silent companion down through the millennia.
It seems strange that such a simple word, four simple letters, play such a role in our lives; our history.