Misadventures with My Ex Page 3

  “All right.” He nods abruptly. “The contractor originally hired to complete the seismic retrofit the city insists on had a heart attack before he could finish the job. He’s shut down his business until he makes a full recovery. No time frame for that. In the meantime, the city came to inspect the work he already completed. Their structural engineer is insisting on changes that will force us to tear down some walls and reinforce both interior beams and footings. Because the city’s deadline is looming, we’ve hired someone else, but he needs us to close down every unit in the building for the next six weeks in order to complete the work.”

  I feel the blood leave my face. “Six weeks? How the hell do you expect me to make money to live? I have bills to pay. Responsibilities. Some of us weren’t born into a family fortune, you know.”

  “I won’t be charging rent for the remainder of the construction.”

  “Okay, but I will literally have no money coming in. How do you expect me to eat? Pay the rent on my apartment?” I think through the bills in my drawer. “Shit. I have to help my sister with her upcoming spring tuition.”

  “Believe me, shutting tenants down isn’t my first choice. I tried hard to argue with the city to extend the deadline, but they refused. Earthquake safety is nothing to wait on, in their estimation.”

  I want to be angry. Furious, even. But I’ve lived here my whole life. Usually, the ground shaking is merely a tremor—the price you pay for living in SoCal. But when it’s not… Well, buildings not up to code can sustain major damage and seriously endanger lives. West is merely complying with the city council’s ordinance that requires all buildings to bring their construction up to current standards. I know I can’t throttle the messenger…but I can certainly blame him for lots of other things.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “How long have you known I’m your tenant?”

  “Since you bought the restaurant.”

  Of course. Very little gets past West. I can’t decide whether I’m glad he didn’t approach me before now or hurt that he didn’t. “When does the new crew start?”

  “Monday.”

  “So I have almost no time to stop shipments or find other ways to save money so I can survive while my place of business is shut down? And how will I pay my employees? Or even keep them? You may not understand that some people live paycheck-to-paycheck, but if they can’t make any money for six weeks, then Jenna and all the others will find another job. And when I open my doors again, no one will be around to cook or serve the food. But I guess that’s okay because I won’t have any customers left, either. They will all have found somewhere else to have their morning coffee and meet with friends or business associates over a short stack. What will you do to me when I can’t pay January’s rent?”

  Regret tightens the strong angles of his face. For a minute, I’d been so angry that I forgot how hot West is or how much I once loved him. It’s really unfair that all he has to do is glance my way for me to remember.

  “Like I said, I’m sorry. If I had all the answers or a better solution…”

  But he doesn’t. Honestly, I don’t expect him to solve my problems. Hell, I don’t expect anyone to do that except me. But it sure would have been nice if he wasn’t throwing more challenges in my face. I’m already barely scraping by. The previous owners were an older couple, and once their children started their own lives and stopped helping with Java and Jacks, the place began to run down. I’ve put every dime I could spare since I took ownership into improvements. I plan to be here for a good, long while. But that means my savings are shot. West’s announcement couldn’t have come at a worse possible time.

  I stand. I want him gone now. I have a lot of problems to solve, and I don’t think very well when I’m sharing a four-by-four space with my ex and his manly scent is clouding my head. “There was a time I trusted you to help me with my problems, but that’s long over. Just go.”

  This new, more stubborn version of West doesn’t leave. In fact, he leans against the door and slants a glance my way. “I regret us meeting again under these circumstances. I regret even more the way I left you three years ago. As long as I’m here, I think we should talk about it.”

  “Pass.” There’s nothing I need less than to dissect the most painful period of my life with the man who caused my misery when I’ve already got a mountain of other shit to deal with, thanks to his bombshell.

  “Aren’t you even curious to know why I didn’t come back?”

  Is he kidding? “I can fill in the blanks. Your family found out about our intimate little wedding, and since your grandfather was ailing, you decided that was a good excuse to ditch the poor, uneducated girl, move back home, and take control of Quaid Enterprises. You picked tradition and a few billion dollars over me. I get it.”

  “You don’t,” he insists. “That’s not what happened at all.”

  “At the end of the day, you left me hours before our wedding, flew back to New York, and I never heard from you again until last night. Since it was all over the news, the world knew when you officially became head of Quaid Enterprises a few months back. But let’s be real; you’ve been helming the company since not long after you left me. All the hoopla and press coverage was just about you officially getting those three little CEO letters on your business card. Oh, and I especially loved seeing you on TMZ the week after our breakup with that vapid blonde while you two were on your ‘exciting’ date to the theater. Did she bang you on the first night, like me? I’ll bet she did. After all, you have a way of persuading women out of their clothes.”

  “I’m sorry for everything. I want to explain—”

  “Why? It won’t change anything.”

  “What will it take to get past your anger?”

  His question crawls up my back. As if this resentment is somehow my fault? “For you to leave.”

  “Besides that. Do you want to know that I still have feelings for you?”

  “No.”

  But if he doesn’t…why is he all but admitting that he does? Worse, why does his confession melt me even a little?

  “Yes, you do. So I’ll confess… I still care. After seeing you, I can’t deny it.”

  To my horror, he rounds my desk and invades my personal space. I jump from my chair and try to retreat, but I’ve got nowhere to go. My office is tiny, and my back hits the shelves. I’m stuck.

  “What do you want? Get away.” I try to glare, but he studies me as if he can see through my bluster. As if he’s well aware he makes me jittery and hot.

  The bastard leans closer, so I have to tilt my head back to meet his stare. Then he grabs the shelf above my head with one hand. The other grips the edge of my desk, inches from my hip.

  Oh, god. He’s surrounding me. This is dangerous.

  “I think that’s the last thing I should do,” he murmurs.

  “If you’re under the mistaken impression that I’ll be an easy lay because I stroked your sexual ego while I was drunk, I won’t.”

  “I never thought that, Eryn.”

  “Then why are you still here? Are you hard up or just bored?”

  “Stop trying to pick a fight. I won’t go away until we’ve cleared the air.”

  “You already screwed me over romantically, and now you’re on your way to ruining me financially. Regardless of whatever feelings you claim to have, there’s nothing left between us except regret and loathing.”

  “There’s a lot of regret, I agree. But loathing? Not buying it, honey.”

  “Don’t call me that.” It reminds me too much of lying in his arms while he stroked my skin lazily after we reached mutual screaming satisfaction.

  West goes on as if I didn’t speak. “Loathing doesn’t make your eyes dilate, your breath quicken, or your nipples harden. Are you wet for me, too? I’d bet money you are.”

  No way am I answering that question. “You aren’t trying to nail me, I hope.”

  “That’s not my intention…”

  But if I offered, he wouldn’t tur
n me down.

  “What do you want, West?”

  “Honestly? You.”

  Resistance and desire tangle up inside me. How can I want someone I know is so bad for me? “It’s not mutual.”

  “You’re lying. You want to hate me every bit as much as I’m telling myself I should stay away. But this”—he gestures between us—“our chemistry, it’s crazy strong. It’s not going away simply because we find it inconvenient.”

  He’s right, and my denials only make me sound ridiculous. And terrified. “That doesn’t mean we should act on it. We crashed and burned once. Let’s not risk it again.”

  West leans even closer. My breath catches.

  “It might turn out differently this time.” His voice sounds low and intimate in the small space. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Does he not know how horribly he broke my heart? How badly it’s still broken? Maybe not. It didn’t truly register with me until I attended Ella’s wedding six weeks ago. I cried tears of happiness for her sudden marriage to Carson Frost…and afterward, I sobbed for myself, so full of what-might-have-beens with West.

  “What’s the best that could happen?” I counter. “A few orgasms, sure. But then?” A lot of pain and tears. “Nothing good. I’m not interested.”

  He caresses the hair from my face like he can soothe away my protests. “Or maybe something far better than either of us expects. And if not, after the dry spell you’ve had, are you really so eager to turn down those orgasms?”

  My answer doesn’t come as swiftly or as confidently as I’d like. “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Suddenly, his thighs bracket mine. One of his palms envelops my hip. The other cups my nape. God, he’s everywhere. My heart slams against my ribs. My breaths turn shallow and harsh. I don’t know what to do with my hands, and somehow my fingers find their way to his steely biceps. When he tilts his head down, my eyes slide shut. I should be screaming in protest. Instead, I tremble for the kiss of the only man I’ve ever loved.

  He doesn’t swoop in and take my mouth in a heated rush. No, he’s patient as he inches his lips toward mine, giving me a hundred opportunities to stop him. But my entire body is suddenly focused on him like a divining rod. I can’t stand Weston Quaid. I definitely shouldn’t want him. And yet I need to feel him now.

  Over the last three years, every time I dug my nails into another man’s back, I willed myself to feel even half the pleasure West gave me. I never did because I was still hung up on the man I almost married.

  If I peel back all the bluster and BS I’ve buried myself under, I’m still hung up on him.

  There, I admitted it. Maybe I needed to do that in order to move on. Maybe that’s part of getting him out of my system. Letting him kiss me might be, too.

  Yes, I’m rationalizing, but I still tilt my chin up to him, purse my lips, sink my fingers into his arms.

  “Eryn…” he murmurs an inch above my lips.

  Then he stops, utterly still, his entire body taut. I’m pinging with anticipation for him to kiss me already.

  But he doesn’t.

  A dozen seconds slide by before I realize he’s waiting for me to close the last inch between us. If I want his mouth on mine—and I seriously do—I have to make the last move.

  It’s too late to question the wisdom of this decision. I lift onto my tiptoes and press our lips together.

  Oh, my god. I’m kissing Weston Quaid again.

  It’s hesitant at first. Then, suddenly, it’s a wildfire. Feeling his mouth on mine is heaven, homecoming, perfection. It’s like every memory of our passion that’s haunted my dreams. His scent fills the air with the olfactory equivalent of crack. His touch almost makes me weep.

  He tightens his grip on me an instant before he takes command of our kiss, lifting me onto the desk and spreading my legs by wedging his body in between, and holding me there as if he’s determined never to let me go. I’m still trying to catch my breath and process what’s happening when he plunges his tongue into my mouth, scoops my ass in his hands, and presses his erection against my wet ache.

  West used to be a patient and playful lover, often finding clever ways to undo me. The man kissing me now is a possessive demon. He rocks against me in silent demand. The force of his lips and his will tilts my head until he’s able to penetrate my mouth even deeper. He sends my head whirling, my heart thudding, and my sex weeping for more.

  My ex is more than melting me. I’m about to disintegrate. In this moment, nothing matters except wrapping my legs around him. Well, except maybe getting my mouth somewhere on him. Anywhere. I need to taste the combined tang of his salty skin and his male musk I’ve never forgotten.

  I end our kiss and trail my lips across his jaw, then lick my way down to his neck. Yes, that flavor I’ve craved is right here, so strong and potent. It sends my head spinning. But his groan at the feel of my mouth on him soars my arousal to another level. He might be unraveling me, but I’m getting to him, too.

  “Fuck, Eryn.” He tosses his head back and growls in the too-small space. “I need more of you.”

  He drags my shirt down to expose my shoulder. I arch closer, clinging. His mouth caresses my bare skin instantly, tongue laving, teeth dragging. I gasp at the sensations. It’s not anything another man hasn’t done to me, but when West works his magic, it’s somehow totally new.

  “Feel good?” he rasps. “Yeah… I want to do this to your nipples, too. Kiss them, suck them deep, bathe them with my tongue. Then I want to work my way down your body, get my mouth on your pussy, eat at you until you cry out my name as you come.”

  Yes. Now!

  I fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt, kissing my way across his shoulder as I uncover an expanse of his golden, hair-roughened chest. The more I expose, the more I gape. West was always well put together, but he’s clearly developed a hard-core gym habit since I last saw him naked.

  “Oh, my god…” I breathe.

  The man was always my fantasy, but now he’s even hotter. How am I going to resist him?

  Why would I even want to?

  There’s a reason, but I can’t remember it right now. And it doesn’t matter. Only getting my tongue on that flat, male nipple an inch out of my reach is important.

  With frantic hands, I shove his coat off his shoulders, gratified when I hear it fall to the floor. But I’m too busy tugging at the starched white cotton preventing me from seeing his bare torso to celebrate. “I want you naked.”

  “You first,” he moans as he drags my T-shirt up my ribs and over my breasts.

  Reluctantly, I stop touching him long enough to lift my arms. Then he’s tearing the cotton from my body and tossing it across the room. Cool air hits my skin. We breathe hard. Our panting fills my office as he loosens the last few buttons of his shirt and shrugs out of it, losing it somewhere on my cluttered desk behind him.

  And I get my first unobstructed look at him.

  Holy shit.

  West doesn’t pause to let me eye-fuck all the ripples and hard swells of his strong shoulders, defined pecs, or that new six-pack. No, he’s already peeling back the lacy cups of my bra and tucking them under my aching breasts. They bulge up—inches from his waiting mouth.

  “I’ve dreamed of these.” His hot breaths bathe my taut nipples as he cups the swells.

  Mouth open, he draws one of the buds against his tongue and circles it before pulling deep. Friction. Suction. Pressure. The trifecta of nipple Shangri-la.

  My head falls back, giving him more access to the breasts he’s determined to devour. I grip his head, fingers digging into his scalp, silently begging him to never stop.

  Our moans and harsh breaths grow louder. I need him closer. I’m desperate to feel every inch of his naked skin pressed to every inch of mine. This hard surface isn’t comfortable now—and it definitely won’t be if we get horizontal, but that’s hardly my biggest concern. If we lose the rest of our clothes, nothing will matter except t
he pleasure. I’ve needed this kind of undeniable, incendiary passion for years. I’ve craved it. I’ve missed West enough to know.

  But what’s changed between us?

  Absolutely nothing.

  He reaches for the snap of my jeans. If I don’t stop this, in a few short jerks, I’ll be totally naked in front of the only man who’s ever hurt me. The only man I’ve ever given that power to.

  I fear he still has that power.

  Gasping, I give him a mighty shove and right my bra, ignoring my protesting nipples. “Don’t touch me again. Get out.”

  He gapes, looking dazed, like he’s struggling to downshift and understand my sudden refusal. “Eryn, I—”

  “No. This was stupid. I was stupid. You have no business touching me. You gave up that right when you walked out.”

  But I’m painfully aware that I instigated our kiss. I have to blame myself, too.

  Hands on his hips, West breathes hard and stares at me. I force myself not to look at his muscled torso, rippling with even his smallest move. It’s hard not to look, though. Harder still not to ache for him, because even if my head knows better than to let this man touch me, my body doesn’t care. It’s screaming at me to forget both the past and the future and to let West give me a good time right now.

  No, no, no. Why can’t I purge him from my hormones? Or is my heart the traitor here?

  “I regret losing you every single day.”

  I scramble for my shirt and tug the garment over my head. “You had a funny way of showing it. Not that it matters anymore. You came here to tell me about the building construction. Now I know. Thanks so much. There’s the door. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

  With a long sigh, West reaches for his shirt and shrugs it over his shoulders. “Do you think for one instant it’s that simple, Eryn? Do you really think these last five minutes won’t haunt you tonight?”

  I want to insist they won’t, but why lie when we both know the truth?

  Barely able to look in his direction, I jump off the desk and sidestep him. “We’re over, and this is done. Goodbye, West.”