Filthy Rage (Second Chance With My Brother's Best Friend, Book Five) (8 page)

No, he doesn’t look horrified or grossed out by what he read. But he’ll never forget what he saw in those pages—or look at me the same again. It’s going to change our relationship.

“Is there anything else?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I dart around him and leave, closing the door behind me. My head suddenly hurts with the weight of everything we didn’t say. All the emotions I’m going to have to bottle down and pretend were never in my heart.

I slip behind my desk and robotically clean up the meeting notes. But I’m thinking about my future—maybe I should start putting out feelers for a new position anyway. No, I’m not going to get fired, but how can I face him every day, knowing I want him—and knowing he knows that—but that he doesn’t want me back? It might eat me alive.

And I don’t think I can torture myself about this for much longer, no matter my responsibilities. Some things are just far too much, far too painful to put myself through. The only way I’m ever going to get over Dane is to move on. Somehow, I have to summon my strength and courage to walk away from the man I’ve wanted more than anyone else in my life. But what choice do I have? I’m not going to beg for him to want me too.

I might desire him, and he might make me blind with hunger, but I do have pride. At least a few scraps of it left, anyway.

“
T
his is far too overcooked
,” Jennifer says, a curl on her upper lip as she pokes the steak with her fork. “I clearly said medium-rare, and they gave me medium, maybe even medium well. Plus my glass of merlot hasn’t been decanted nearly long enough. I’ve never had this poor of service here before.”

Something about the nasally whine in her voice is like nails down a chalkboard for me. Normally Jennifer doesn’t bug me or get on my nerves. Yeah, she’s not the love of my life or anything, but she’s a great date by my side at social events. She’s savvy on world politics, has multiple degrees, and great legs to boot.

She looks good on paper, sure. And dating her has been easy, uncomplicated.

But sitting across from her tonight at Little Swan, a swanky steakhouse in downtown Boston, I can’t help but feel…bored. Listless.

“—listening to me?” she’s saying as she waves her hand in my direction. “It’s like you’re not even here with me.”

I drag my attention back to her face. It’s pretty, but bland. Her blond hair is curled into a soft twist, and her sleeveless dress is pale pink. She’s lovely; more than one man in the place has shot glances at her since we arrived. “Hard day at work. I’m a little tired,” I say, by way of explanation.

Of course, it’s way beyond that now.

I don’t think my dick has gone back to being regular since I read Emme’s journal. Seeing her this morning, the vulnerable fear in her eyes as she bravely stood there in front of me, knowing she’d been caught…it was so fucking difficult to fight the urge to taste her mouth.

I’m proud of my restraint. But I paid for it dearly—my productivity was shit. I finally gave up and left work early, something I never do. This date with Jennifer was supposed to serve as a distraction for me.

Not working. If anything, the contrast somehow makes Emme come even more vividly to life, while Jennifer pales in comparison.

Jennifer gives me a smile that should look sympathetic but doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, you seem a bit off today, not like yourself.” She looks over my shoulder and nods, and our waitress scurries over. “Excuse me, but my steak is overdone. I’d like it prepared medium-rare, as I asked.”

The server says in an apologetic tone, “I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure the chef puts a rush order on your plate. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Jennifer shakes her head, making a noise of annoyance, her disappointment clear on her face, and the waitress leaves. “Please, go ahead and eat,” she tells me with a wave of her hand. “No sense in your food getting cold.”

“What did you do today?” I ask Jennifer to divert myself from thoughts of what I’d rather be doing right now.

Jennifer’s smile is so polished, her teeth flashing as she recites a litany of tasks she did. Jennifer works for a major corporation’s charity branch. Her job is to seek out and interview qualified candidates for the corporation to donate to. Yet another thing that makes her look so perfect. But despite all these positive qualities, I can’t muster one ounce of aroused feelings for her. It’s like I’m eating dinner with my mother.

My mind drifts again to Emme’s curls, how badly I wanted to touch them, smell them. That makes my heart race.

“Here you go,” the waitress says, giving another remorseful smile as she presents the plate to Jennifer. “This should be much better. Sorry again about the mix-up.” She lingers while my date cuts the meat and gives her curt nod of approval, and the waitress beams, then scampers off.

“Finally.” Jennifer cuts off a delicate piece and nibbles it. I already know she’s only going to eat half the food—she never devours her meal. Never seems to savor it.

Maybe that’s part of what’s making me feel this way right now. The certainty that any physical thing that could happen between us would lack genuine chemistry. Jennifer’s too polished, too perfect; there’s nothing raw about her. Nothing that makes me ache to plunge into her—physically, emotionally.

Sure I can make her come—but it’s almost robotic…like scratching an itch at this point.

My fucking brain can’t help but compare her to what I read in Emme’s journal. I know I shouldn’t—they’re two very different people. But those intimate words are burned in my skull, tattooed on my skin in a way I can’t seem to shake off. Jennifer and all her advanced degrees and polished demeanor can’t hold a candle to that.

“Maybe after this, you can come over to my place for a nightcap?” she asks me with a coy smile, putting her fork and knife down across her plate to signal she’s done. Sure enough, half the food’s still there. She’s nothing if not predictable.

But now I know there’s more out there, and predictability doesn’t seem to satisfy me. I’ve seen real passion in the words of an innocent and vibrant young woman, and it’s blown everything else out of the water. Despite my efforts, I can’t go back to pretending all is fine in my little world. Because it isn’t.

And it hasn’t been for a long time.

How long have I been sleepwalking through my days, pretending to have feelings that I don’t have? When’s the last time I’ve felt strongly about anything other than work?

I fight give Jennifer a noncommittal sound. I’m not going to use her or drag this on when I’m not feeling it. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to end it after dinner.

I finish my food out of habit, though I’m no longer hungry, then pay the check and add a good tip to thank the waitress for fixing the meal issue. Jennifer hasn’t noticed that I’m still distracted, or if she has, she’s too polite to bring it up. She’s offering a running commentary on a news article she read earlier this week about Israel. Instead of sounding educated, as she normally does, it’s striking me as more bragging, the way she keeps pointing out what insider information she knows, due to contacts overseas.

I can’t tell if my new perspective of her is my fault or hers. Or perhaps I always knew this about her, but now I have someone real and vibrant to compare her to, and it’s making her company unbearable as a result.

We get in my car, and I drive her home. When I pull up in front of her large house, with its perfect lawn and pristine brick façade and pristine BMW parked in the driveway, she turns and gives me an expectant look.

“So, Dane…about that nightcap…” There’s almost a purr in her voice, one I haven’t heard before. She offers me a toothy grin. “I have a twenty-year-old bottle of scotch that I haven’t opened yet. I know how much you love it.” She says this like she’s noticed something intimately personal about me.

I reach over and take her hand. The touch doesn’t stir anything in my body. “I’ve enjoyed our dinners together, and your company.”

“Me too.” Her voice is soft, and her grin gets bigger.

“I’m going to have to decline your invitation. I’m afraid I’m not the best company right now. Thank you for spending this evening with me though.”

She blinks twice, staring at me, and her body stiffens. “Wait, what? So…you’re not coming in?”

“No.”

Suddenly, my words register with her. “Are you dumping me?” she asks, like it’s the most absurd thing she could possibly imagine.

I fight back the irritation that bleeds into my voice. “No, I’m not dumping you. We’re not in a committed relationship.”

Her eyes narrow. “I thought we were moving in that direction. It sure seemed that way.” She doesn’t sound hurt though. Merely irritated, a little put out and confused. It makes me wonder if I’m the first guy who’s ever not wanted to pursue more with her. She removes her hand from mine and squares her shoulders, her face smoothing into a polite mask once more.

“I understand you’re frustrated,” I say smoothly. “But it’s better to make things clear between us now, I’m sure you’d agree.”

She tightens her coat, grabs her purse from between her feet, and glides out of the car. Before she closes the door, she leans down and says in a fake chipper tone, “Well. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

“I hope so,” I reply, even though nothing could be further from the truth. Our families do run in similar circles, however. Plus the habit of politeness is a hard one to break.

I wait until she gets inside before pulling away. The drive to my condo is filled with silence—I leave the radio off and let my thoughts run wherever they want, not trying to rein them in anymore.

And they want to run to Emme.

Two days ago, I never would have guessed that my personal assistant would be stuck in my head this much. But two days ago, I also never would have guessed that beneath that quiet persona of hers, existed a volcano of emotions. I feel like a veil has been ripped from my eyes, and I see everything around me so much clearer now.

It’s harder for me to maintain my indifference toward her now. Especially when this primal, hungry part of me has been tapped in such a shocking way. For the first time in my life, I wonder if I could possibly lose control and actually indulge my fantasies about this woman.

I should be pissed. My life has been good, and that’s in no small part due to the role I’ve been playing for so many years. I should be pissed that one errant diary has made me question it all.

I should be, but I’m not.

No, what I am is fucking horny. Horny and craving Emme in a way that has thrown everything out of joint. I just broke up with a lovely woman because I wanted to be free.

Free to do what, though?

All I know is that I want to know more of her amazingly sharp and sexy mind, to understand her, to hear her speak her thoughts aloud to me, the same way she writes them in that damn book of hers.

And even though I sure as fuck don’t want to admit it to myself, I need to feel her skin, to know what she smells and tastes like, to hear her scream in ecstasy as I fuck her the way she wrote about being fucked.

I pull into my driveway and sit there with the car idling. And I know I can’t deny myself what I really crave. In that moment, I don’t care if it’s a damn cliché to want her, to want the woman who’s working for me, but I do.

And there’s no way I can keep walking into that office every day and not think about what she wrote. No way I’m going to be able to resist tasting her. I know myself; she’s stoked something long dormant and now there’s no turning back.

She woke the beast.

If she didn’t want this, she should have kept that journal out of the office, out of my sight, as far away from me as humanly possible.

I get out of the car and feel the biting wind that whips alongside the vehicle. Hustling to the door, I rip off my scarf and coat and hang them in the hallway.

This condo is so damn quiet. Quiet and perfect, like everything else in my life. The silence, the emptiness, echo.

I know what I want now, what’s had me so aroused and unsatisfied for the last two nights. It’s Emme, spread out in front of me, wet and hungry. She and I can help each other—I want…no, I
need
to unlock that dark sexuality that lies beneath her surface. I need to be the one to do that—I may in fact be the only man alive who could do it the way she needs it to be done.

My hands will make her come. My mouth. My words.
I
will show her how blissful it is to satisfy those needs of hers.

I’m raging hard again.

Now the question is, can Emme handle the reality of what she’s been writing about for so long? Those words are pretty telling in her journal, but it’s one thing to write something and fantasize about it. Another thing to take real action to make it come true.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

“
I
’m so
nervous about this quiz,” Sidney, the student on my right, confesses. “I studied all night but I’m not sure it sank in.”

I offer her a smile. “You’re gonna do fine. You already know this material inside and out. Every time the prof calls on you, you have an answer.”

Sidney is thirty, returning to college after more than a decade-long break. She got pregnant as a freshman at eighteen and then married shortly thereafter, but now that her son’s in middle school and she’s freshly divorced, she’s finally able to pursue her dreams.

I’m a bit surprised she and I have clicked the way we have, given the vast differences in our lives, but she’s so open and sweet that it’s hard not to like her. From the first day of class, she’s been someone I enjoy seeing on campus. Always has a friendly wave when she spots me out and about.

Sidney shrugs, but I can tell my compliments warm her. The tiny crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkle. “Oh, you. Thanks for the ego boost.”

Our economics prof strolls in, his salt-and-pepper hair coiffed to perfection, his shirt freshly pressed and gray dress pants creased down the fronts. Professor McDoogle is nothing if not dapper, and I’ve seen the way Sidney checks him out when she thinks I’m not looking. Can’t blame her—he’s a good-looking older gentleman. “Who’s ready for the quiz?” There are a few quiet groans scattered in the room, and he laughs at us. “Come on, get it done early so you can enjoy the rest of your Friday.”

“Easy for him to say,” I mutter, earning a soft chuckle from Sidney. “He already finished all his schooling, and his job is to torture us now.” It’s actually not that bad of a class though. And after each class session, I head right to work, where I’ll sit at my desk and try not to think about Dane all day.

The quiz isn’t terrible; at least, I don’t feel like I’ve bombed it. I’m glad I spent last night studying—having this to focus on helped me not dissect yesterday’s scandals, gave me a reason to shake off my emotions and crawl outside of my own head. Hard to believe that school is working as a distraction from my pathetic life.

We finish the quiz, and McDoogle dismisses us, telling us we’ll have them back on Monday. Sidney and I slip out of the building and step onto the frozen crunchy grass, sunshine pouring through thin smudges of gray clouds. The business administration department is located on the fringe of campus, just a mile or so from the water.

“Want to grab a coffee?” Sidney says. “We can go over our answers.”

Tempting.

“I would, but I need to hustle to work,” I tell her with a regretful smile. “Maybe we can try to get together some evening, when we have enough free time to really hang out.”

“I’d like that a lot,” she says softly. “I don’t really socialize much.”

“Me either,” I admit.

Her eyes narrow, and her breath comes out in little puffs. “I find that odd, actually—you’re still really young. Too young to be so serious.”

I tighten my scarf around my neck as a blast of wind pulls at my hair. “Sometimes life makes you that way, no matter how old you are.”

“I understand that. Getting pregnant when I was barely an adult changed me. Your whole life ends up slipping away as you dwell in Mom mode.” She sighs and shrugs, giving a small smile. “But I wouldn’t undo it. My life has gone the way it’s supposed to, and that’s okay.”

I shift my book on my hip, and we continue walking toward the middle of campus. “So how do you balance everything? Your needs versus your responsibilities?” I kind of long to be more specific, about my brother and how the burden of being responsible for him is starting to weigh on me far heavier than I’d like, but I’m a bit nervous to give away such personal details. I don’t want to alienate my new friend by looking too needy, or make her pity me.

Or even worse, possibly judge me for not being everything I need to be.

“You’re not always going to find balance. Sometimes, things take precedence in your life,” she admits, casting a sideways glance at me. Her dark brown hair shines in the sunlight escaping the thin cloud cover. “You just have to prioritize. And you need to nurture yourself. There would be days where I didn’t shower because I was too caught up in my son’s life, in cleaning the house, in making dinner and finishing all those tasks on my list. Don’t let those things consume you though. Make time to pamper yourself. The people who truly care about you want you to be happy, too, not just absorbed in them.” Her lips thin for a brief moment, and I get the feeling she’s thinking about her ex. “My son grew older and realized that Mom’s a better person to be around when I get space to be myself. I’m always more well-rounded and more caring toward him, paradoxically, when I take time to do things that make me happy.”

Her words make me think. Is me focusing so hard on Robert’s needs making me not be the best person I can be, to him and to myself? I hadn’t thought about that before. Maybe it isn’t selfish to want more personal time, even just a little bit. I can’t do it all, and I need to be less hard on myself.

A fraction of the weight on my chest eases. “That’s true. I can do that. Thank you for your thoughts.”

She nudges me with her shoulder. “Anytime. Okay, going to grab a coffee so I can stay awake for my next class. Have a good weekend!”

I beam. “I will. You too!”

We part ways; I head to the parking lot, while she trots to the massive, glass-walled student center, teeming with people. By the time I get into my car, my cheeks are frozen and my fingers are blocks of ice, but my spirit feels better. Less guilty.

Robert doesn’t want me to be unhappy. I know that much about him, despite the changes in his personality. Yes, he’s caught up in his pain and emotions right now as he heals, but deep down he cares about me and wants the best for me. We’ve always been close, even before everything happened to put our lives on this track.

Physical rehab and therapy have been good for him. He’s making progress, and he hasn’t had one drink since the car accident. Losing part of his arm, his independence, has been difficult on him, but it was a good wakeup call.

I dealt with Mom’s death by burying myself in school. Robert dealt with it by drinking. But he’s working hard on finding himself again.

Perhaps I can stop bearing the burden of his physical and emotional healing a little bit. Focus more on my own. Reach out to people and have a social life outside of work and school, start a study group.

The possibilities have me happy, really happy. Maybe networking with new people will also help me find a new job and get over Dane. Because God knows I can’t keep putting myself through all of this, can’t hang on to these feelings for my boss. I won’t be that girl who longs forever for someone she can never have. How can I respect myself if I don’t even try to get over him?

The thought of not seeing him every day splinters me, but I’ll have to learn how to embrace the pain.

I find a spot near the back of the parking lot and pull in. Close my eyes and steady my nerves to see him again.

Stupid shaking hands. I go to the building, ride the elevator to our floor, offer greetings to people as I pass them on the way to my desk.

Dane’s door is closed. I release a nervous sigh and head to my chair.

Pause just as my butt hits the cushion.

There’s a folded piece of paper on my desk. I open it and see a note from Dane, brief as usual.

C
ome see
me when you get in.

~D

S
hit
. A printed note, not even an email? Why? Dread slides beneath my skin and squeezes my lungs. Perhaps he’s changed his mind about keeping me on.

And could I fault him? Look how much I’ve struggled with how to deal with the situation. It has to be just as awkward for him.

You will survive this,
I remind myself. I’ve survived much worse. My dad’s abandonment of us. Watching my mom die. My brother’s almost deadly car accident. So getting fired, if that’s what’s going to happen, isn’t the end of the world. At least, I tell myself it isn’t. Because right now, it feels like my gut’s being ripped out. I wanted to be able to quit on my own terms, and it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.

I rise and stand there for a minute, willing my galloping heart to slow down. I’m not going to reveal my weaknesses to Dane, not anymore. I will be professional and dignified to the end.

Notebook and pen in hand, I go to his door, knock. My knees feel weak. I hope I don’t pass out.

“Come in,” comes the muffled reply.

When I enter, I close the door behind me and turn to face him. My heart is practically in my throat at this point, and I swallow several times. After all, I don’t know yet what is going to happen. Maybe I’m just jumping to conclusions.

With him, it’s easy to get caught up in a whirlwind of feelings.

Dane gets out of his chair and steps to the front of his desk. Leans back against it, arms crossed and ankles locked, dark eyes bearing down on me. His body is one long line, and his face is unreadable, a perfect mask. In a way, I envy that talent.

“Is there something I can do for you, Dane?” I ask quietly.

He sighs, and the mask drops for a moment, allowing me to see the conflict in his eyes. Shit, this
is
about me and that stupid journal. I was right. “Emme,” he starts, then pauses, seeming to weigh his next words. “It’s not possible for me to ignore what you wrote in that book.” He sounds clipped and a little angry.

My stomach sinks, and I fight back a sting of tears. I give a miserable nod and turn my attention to my feet. “I understand. I’ll go type up my resignation. I’m truly sorry for the discomfort I’ve caused you, and I want you to know that I appreciate—”

Before I can finish my sentence, his hands are on my arms, tugging me to his hard body, and his mouth is touching mine. I’m so shocked that I can scarcely accept what’s happening. His warm scent wraps around me, and my arms instinctively curl around his neck, my mouth opening against his lips.

His lips are like velvet.

I am in shock, but my body isn’t—my body has been waiting for this moment, and it responds forcefully to his touch.

“You must be trying to drive me fucking crazy,” he growls, right before he plunges his tongue into my mouth, tasting me.

The words release a coiled tension in my chest. My fingers seem to move on their own, sliding up to his neckline and stroking his soft hair. I touch his tongue with mine, and his grip tightens, then his arms wrap around my waist. My breasts swell and tighten against Dane’s firm chest.

I’m almost dizzy from the emotions and sensations battering through my body.

I cling to him like he’s the only source of warmth on earth. He kisses the way I thought he would, expertly and deftly, plunging into me and taking everything I have. That only stokes my own fires, makes me hotter for him.

This isn’t a controlled kiss. I’m seeing, tasting, touching, smelling, the real Dane. The one I only saw glimpses of before but crave with every fiber of my body.

My sex is tight, throbbing, sending out a rush of ripples to my limbs. Right now, all I can think about is how I want to strip his shirt off, lick him all over, rub my wet pussy against his masculine bare thigh and ride that friction close to orgasm. My need for him has made me hungrier than I’ve ever been in my life.

One of his hands caresses up my back, stroking the sensitive flesh along my spine as it travels, and I shiver. The fingers settle against my scalp and he pulls my hair, oh so slightly, making my nipples strain against my bra and my scalp tingle. His mouth pops off mine and he pants, eyes pinned hard on mine, chest rising and falling.

“What do you want, Emme?” he asks me in a guttural tone.

At first I’m confused by the question. Isn’t it clear what I want? Despite the fact that we just crossed a deadly line here, I can’t seem to regret what happened, and my body is screaming at me for us to continue kissing…and to do more. My fingers move down to his shoulders to grip him.

“Um,” I say, blinking the haze away. Sudden shyness has me stuttering. “I’m not sure… I…” The things I feel right now are blocked in my throat and won’t come out.

His brow becomes a deep groove, and I can feel the disappointment pouring off him. It dampens my arousal, makes my skin itch with embarrassment. I feel like I’ve let him down. I pull away from his embrace and step back, smoothing my clothes, my hair. Trying to gather my composure.

We’re in the office in the middle of the morning. Reality floods me with other sensory details, a cacophony of voices outside the room, the clacking of people typing, phones ringing, photocopiers humming.

What the hell am I doing? This is insane.

“No.” Dane’s softly spoken word jerks my attention back to him. “Don’t think right now. Just feel. Talk. Tell me what you want, Emme. You were completely open in your diary, but I need to hear it from your own mouth.”

“Why?” A hot flush burns my skin. I feel put on the spot. He read all my words—why does he need to hear me speak them, too? What kind of game is he playing here? Is this how he gets off, stripping women of all their guards and making them vulnerable to him? He never struck me as that type.

He growls with frustration and rakes a hand through his hair, then steps away from me until he backs up against his desk once more. I can see the moment the cool mask snaps into place, and a hot bubble of anger wells in my chest at the sight.

“You already know what I want, and it’s you,” I blurt out without thinking, the memory of our passionate kiss driving me to speak. “I want everything that I wrote in that journal, and you saw all the details, so I don’t know why you’re pressing me like this. You know I want you any way I can have you—inside me…everything I wrote was the truth.” The speech has wound me up, and I find myself panting, trying to make my lungs larger than the size of grapes. “But what do
you
want?” I desperately need to know I’m not the only one vulnerable here.

What was that kiss all about? Does it mean something?