His lower body leaned into mine, and my breath came into short inhales as I felt him against my belly, thick and hard. Holy crap, there was no denying that, no hiding his reaction. Sharp arousal loosened and tightened my muscles all at once. Our mouths were now lined up perfectly, his lips so close to mine.
I’d never felt anything like this before.
Never.
Brock was going to kiss me, and this time, it would count.
And I wasn’t going to turn my head away.
I was thinking Brock wanted to do a hell of a lot more than kissing.
Realizing that, knowing I would let him kiss me and I would ultimately let him do whatever ever he wanted to me, cleared some of the fog from my thoughts.
What was happening here?
It had only been, what, almost two months since we’d reentered each other’s lives? Two months after years of no contact—years of my life falling apart and his living something like a Forbes success story? He’d even gotten engaged and broken up, and he . . . had broken my heart. But now he was back in my life as my boss, my freaking boss, and I was barely beginning to figure out who I was.
My fingers flattened against his chest. “What . . . what are we doing?”
Brock stilled, and for a moment I wasn’t even sure he was breathing or not. Then he shifted slightly, resting his forehead against mine. “I . . . I really don’t know.”
That bitter mixture of disappointment and relief swelled once more. Swallowing hard, I pushed against his chest even though I wanted to say screw it and climb him like a damn spider monkey.
“But,” he rasped, and then the hand at my back slid to my hip, gripping it. “But I do know, Jillian, that I want you.”
Chapter 21
Brock wanted me.
He’d actually said those words. It wasn’t my imagination or wishful thinking. Nor was it something I made up in my head after reading between the lines. He’d just said it, and I could feel that he wanted me, and that alone did funny things to my body.
The hand at my hip tightened and the one under my breast stilled. His forehead was against mine, and when he made this raw, masculine sound of need, a shiver worked its way through my body. He pressed in, forcing my back flush against the wall.
He wanted me, but was it six years too late?
Based on the way my body had responded to his with him barely touching me, I was going to say no, it wasn’t too late.
But was it wise to even indulge the idea? That was the question.
He shuddered and then I felt his lips press against the corner of mine, the side that didn’t move right due to the nerve damage, and I gasped at the contact, my body flashing cold and then hot.
I blindly turned my head toward his and his lips brushed over mine, a soft sweep as gentle as a breeze. There was no pressure behind it, and the kiss we’d shared in the middle of the night had been a whole lot deeper than this, but this soft touch of his mouth undid me in a way no other kiss had ever done before.
Brock pulled away just an inch and our gazes connected and held. He then took my hand and pulled me away from the wall. He led me to the couch, and when he sat, he pulled me down so I was in his lap and my legs draped over his. Feet dangling, my heels slipped off and fell to the floor.
Startled by the sound, Rhage dove off the arm of the couch and scurried down the hall toward one of the bedrooms. Or maybe he was heading for the hallway bathroom. Rhage had lately taken to sleeping in the sink in there for some reason.
But I quickly stopped thinking about the weird cat.
My heart was pounding erratically as Brock kept one arm around my waist, securing me in place as he lifted his other hand, catching my hair and tucking it back behind my ear. He tipped my chin up, and his gaze searched mine and every inch of my face.
“I don’t know what is happening,” I blurted out.
“Me neither.” He cupped my jaw, moving his thumb just below the scar.
“That’s reassuring.” I placed a hand on his chest, needing a bit of space between us. He dropped his hand, but he didn’t let me out of his lap. “This is . . . this is crazy.”
“Crazy can be good,” he replied, one side of his lips kicking up.
“Or crazy can be the kind of crazy that ends really badly,” I reasoned, trying to grasp onto sanity. “We just can’t do this.”
“And why not?” His other hand fell to my bare knee. The contact caused me to jerk in his arms.
I thought there were plenty of reasons why. “We . . . we work together, Brock. If we do this and it blows up in our faces, we have to keep working together. I can’t let my dad down,” I said. “I . . . I can’t let myself down.”
“Why do you think it will blow up in our faces?” His question sounded genuine. “Do you think that I would be here if I thought it would hurt you in the end?”
I stared at him, wanting so badly to believe his words, but I never thought he’d hurt me as badly as I’d allowed him to before. “Why?” I asked. “Why now, after all this time?”
“It . . . it just changed. I don’t know exactly when it happened,” he said, voice rough as sandpaper. “If it was the night I saw you at the restaurant, or your first day at work, when you cocked major attitude at me. That wasn’t the Jilly I knew, and it threw me through the damn loop, because it was fucking hot. I don’t know if it was when you hugged me after that dinner, because that was the Jilly I knew, but you didn’t feel like her in my arms.”
I couldn’t think, could barely breathe, as his words washed over me and his eyes closed. The hand on my thigh slid all the way up, over my stomach and then my breast, and a ragged sound left me as his palm grazed the aching tip, but kept moving until his fingers circled the base of my neck, his thumb resting against my wildly beating pulse.