Make Me Forget (6 page)
“God you’re gorgeous,” he growled, and again, he sounded tense. Angry? Harper realized he
was
a little angry at that moment. Not at her, any more than she was at him. Angry that he couldn’t control himself.
Any more than she could.
He grasped her buttocks, grinding her sex against his thigh for a thrilling moment. Then he muttered a curse, and bent, yanking down her pants all the way. She’d barely acknowledged him throwing the garments aside, then he was lifting her in his arms. Harper gasped in surprise at his abrupt move. He held her beneath her ass. Her clutching hands coasted up rock-hard, bulging biceps. Her arms instinctively circled his neck, her legs tightening around his waist.
He took several steps, and hot water was coursing down her back. She
had
been cold, and just didn’t realize it while under the spell of Latimer’s hands and mouth. Her skin roughened at the contrast of the hot water against her chilled skin. Her throat vibrated in pleasure. Latimer caught her open mouth with his, capturing her cry. And again, she was drowning in him.
A moment later, he set her feet on the ground.
“I can’t think straight when you kiss me,” she mumbled distractedly, because he was still doing it, his mouth moving hungrily along her neck.
“I can’t think straight when I kiss you, either.”
“Why did you really ask me here tonight?” Her fingers delved into his damp, thick hair in a clawing gesture when he planted a hot kiss on her shoulder.
“I didn’t ask you,” he mumbled. “You came, like some kind of dream.”
“No, I mean to the party.”
“I don’t know,” he said against her skin. He gently bit at her shoulder muscle. She gasped and moved closer to him, pressing her breasts against his ribs. Water coursed around their bodies. His cockhead prodded her hip bone. He opened one hand at her back and stroked the length of her spine at the same moment he cradled a breast. His thumb found her nipple. She shivered. He rubbed her with the lubrication of the hot water. “Because of this,” he said gruffly. He swept his open hand from neck to upper thigh, pausing to cup her ass. “This,” he breathed against her upturned mouth.
She moved back slightly and found his cock with her hand. She closed around the rigid shaft. “This,” she agreed, stroking his length. He didn’t reply, but she’d felt the tension that leapt into his body at her touch. His face was shadowed as she stared up at him. Her lungs burned as her hand moved up and down on his wet cock. He felt wonderful in her hand, so hard. So vital. Maybe he was right.
Here
was a comprehensible truth, an amazing one: stark desire pulsing right in her hand. She slid down his rigid shaft and cupped his firm, shaved balls. She whimpered softly.
Jesus.
His masculinity was flagrant, even while the man himself was a shrouded enigma.
“Who
are
you?” she whispered dazedly, stroking his shaft to the succulent cockhead again, squeezing him firmly.
“Jacob Latimer. And that’s all you need to know,” he growled, and then was grabbing her wrist, pulling her hand off his cock. His demanding mouth silenced her sound of protest. He pushed his hand against her tailbone and kissed her deep, leaning over her so that her back bowed to accommodate his tall frame. He slid his hand over her ass, swooshing rivulets of water from her skin. He molded a cheek to his palm. Long fingers delved between her thighs. She started and moaned into his mouth when he surely found her slit and penetrated her with his forefinger. His rough groan twined with hers as he plunged in and out of her body. All the while, his kiss was deep, his taste delicious and dark.
Like she had earlier that evening when he kissed her, Harper recognized she was spinning. Slipping. Now . . .
. . . Free-falling.
This time, she was too far gone to save herself.
* * *
He hated to be out of control of himself. Despised it, in fact. But as he sunk his tongue into the taste of Harper McFadden and his finger into her warm, creamy clasp, he acknowledged that he
was
. Possessing her meant more than remaining safe.
His mind went blank with lust. His need rode him, goaded him, lashing at him. He’d almost come with her hand pumping and squeezing him. It was embarrassing. Humiliating.
It was like he was a stupid, fumbling teenage boy all over again.
He growled at the thought, angrily breaking the addictive kiss. He shifted his hand between their wet bodies, his fingers finding her cleft and her clit unerringly. She was gratifyingly creamy. At least he aroused her, even if she couldn’t possibly be as worked up as he was. She cried out shakily, and he felt her muscles tense. His hand pressed; his fingertips circled and tapped out a demand into her flesh.
“You’re going to have to come for me,” he said.
“I . . . what? Why do you say it like that?”
“Because I’m about to come,” he said, grim and bitter in his acceptance of the truth. She made a choking sound, and he knew that he’d confused her. But what else could he do, when he was as bewildered as she was? Despite it all, her hips gyrated firmly against his hand and she gasped in pleasure. There was so much to discover about her, so many things to relish. Yet here he was, bulldozing her into climax. As much as he hated the idea, he tensed with excitement at the prospect of feeling her shaking against him.
He lowered his head and brushed his mouth against her parted lips. Her soft moan enraptured him. Enraged him.
“You’re as wet and warm and sweet as I imagined you’d be while I was jacking off a minute ago.”
Her body trembled against him. Her hard, wet nipples poking against his ribs were a cruel reminder of all he was missing.
“You’re not going to try and convince me you thought of me,” she insisted shakily. He continued to agitate her clit while he plunged his middle finger into her pussy. She cried out sharply. He grasped a taut ass cheek and used it to apply a firm pressure for a counterstroke against his finger. “Oh God. Oh God, that feels good,” she moaned, sounding incredulous.
He snarled in triumph when he felt the tension in her break. Warmth rushed around his finger. She tightened around him, shuddering against him. It was too much. He released her ass and clutched at his cock, stepping back to give himself room.
Everything went black as he pumped himself. Pleasure ripped through him, trumping everything else for a blessed moment: Logic. Mastery.
Shame.
When he came back to himself, it was to the sound of the water beating on the stone terrace and her soft gasps. One of his hands was buried between her thighs, his finger still high inside her. His other squeezed his cock furiously.
Moonlight and distant outdoor lighting allowed him to see her upturned face and her dawning expression of disbelief. Wonder? He jerked viciously at his cock one more time. More semen streamed onto her smooth, glistening belly.
This is what it all had come to. Jacob Latimer was back to the beginning, once again no better than that helpless boy, bewildered and laid bare with a need he couldn’t comprehend, but which owned him, nevertheless.
He’d been taken back against his will, back to those days and nights in the West Virginia wilderness, of moments of innocence and sweetness, of camaraderie and abiding trust, of the first knowledge of sexual hunger and jarring betrayal . . .
Of Emmitt Tharp. Of casual cruelty, and blinding fear.
Now he was going to have to make sure Harper continued to forget, even while he remembered with painful clarity.
Keep reading for a preview from Beth Kery’s scorching new novel about forbidden desire, GLIMMER. Available now from Berkley.
Alice Reed was used to hiding her nerves. She was used to hiding almost everything. Today was different though. She could have disguised her anxiety about her upcoming interview as easily as she could have ignored a provocative mathematical challenge.
“Don’t worry about it. It’ll be a piece of cake. Just focus on what you know. You’re pretty damn awesome when you do that,” Maggie Lopez said soothingly as she stood over Alice and gave her a friendly, but critical once-over. Maggie was her graduate advisor at Arlington College’s executive MBA program. After a series of initial screwups that now looked like serendipity, Alice rented the apartment above Maggie’s garage. Most importantly, Maggie and Alice had become friends. She respected Maggie’s opinion, so her anxiety ratcheted up even higher when she saw her mentor’s slight frown as she stared down at her. A horrible thought hit her. She plopped her hand palm down on the top of her head.
“
Shit
. My roots. They’re showing, aren’t they? I forgot to color them. I got so caught up in running those numbers last night, I forgot about everything,” she moaned as she flung herself out of her chair and rushed to the mirror mounted on the wall in Maggie’s office. She was a decent athlete, but unaccustomed to wearing anything but combat boots, flip-flops, or tennis shoes. She nearly took a header in her new interview pumps.
Maggie sighed in amused exasperation behind her. “Only you would forget an interview for a chance at the most coveted executive training program in the United States—the
world
—because of some inconsequential calculations.”
Alice stared wide-eyed into the mirror. Her face looked especially pale due to her anxiety and the contrast between her short, near-black hair, navy suit, and lined dark blue eyes.
“You were the one who asked me to run those inconsequential numbers,” Alice mumbled distractedly. She flattened the hair next to her part and peered furiously into the mirror, as if she held her reflection responsible for all her many shortcomings. Sure enough, there were the telltale glimmering, reddish-gold roots. “Fuck it,” she muttered through her teeth. “This is a joke anyway. Durand has never sent a recruiter to Arlington College’s MBA program before. Is this another example of famous Durand
charity
?” she demanded, rounding on Maggie.
Maggie had grown immune to her frowns and sharp tongue in the past two years, however. She knew damn well that Alice’s bark was much worse than her bite.
Usually, anyway.
“Don’t you dare put down this program,” Maggie warned with a pointed finger and an ominous expression. “I happen to be extremely proud of it and everything we’ve accomplished in the past few years, thanks in large part to
your
brilliance, hard work, and groundbreaking research. Am I surprised Durand asked to recruit from our graduating class?
No
. I’m
not
,” Maggie added with finality, when Alice gave her a half-hopeful, half-doubtful look. “The philanthropy and profit article sent shockwaves through the business community. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said as she dropped into her desk chair, making the springs protest loudly.
Alice’s pique deflated.
“I
am
proud of the P and P study,” she said honestly, referring to the groundbreaking business article she and a few other grad students had published with Maggie as the lead researcher several months ago. “Did Sebastian Kehoe tell you he was coming to Arlington because of the study?” she asked. Kehoe was the vice president of human resources for Durand.
“No.”
“Then why
is
he?” she grumbled.
Alice halfway wished Sebastian Kehoe had continued to ignore her little college. She performed best in solitude. It grated to have to sell herself to interviewers as if she were both a commodity
and
the pitchman for that commodity. To say she didn’t interview well was a gargantuan understatement.
“Durand is coming because they’re searching for talented, top-notch executives, I expect.”
Alice snorted. “You told me to look at this interview as good experience for future interviews. Even
you
don’t actually believe anyone at Arlington stands a chance with Durand.”
“I don’t know what I think, to be honest,” Maggie said stiffly. She snapped several tissues out of a box and held them up for Alice to take. “Now wipe off some of that crap you insist on putting on your eyes. Comb your hair back from the part to hide the roots. Put on a little lipstick for once. And for God’s sake, stiffen up the spine, Reed. I expect you to rise to the challenge, not wilt in the face of it.”
Alice’s spine
did
stiffen in reactionary anger for a few seconds before the truth of Maggie’s words penetrated. Her mentor was right. As usual.
“I’ll go to the bathroom to wash up a bit,” Alice agreed in a subdued tone. “I have ten minutes before the interview starts.”
“Good girl,” Maggie said bracingly.
“Alice,”
Maggie called sharply as Alice reached for her office door.
“Yeah?” Alice asked, looking over her shoulder. She went still when she saw the unusually somber expression on Maggie’s face.
“There’s been a little change of circumstances as far as your interview. Sebastian Kehoe became ill a few days ago and had to send someone else in his place.”
A perverse, savage combination of disappointment, triumph, and relief swept through Alice.
So
. They’d sent some low-level stooge in Kehoe’s place? Figured. She knew Durand would never take anyone in her graduating class as a serious contender for “Camp Durand.” The four-week-long program on the shores of Lake Michigan was where the brightest and best business school graduates went every summer to show their stuff. Sixty percent of the Camp Durand counselors were chosen to become the highest-paid, most elite young executives in the world. Through a combination of team-building exercises, intense observation, and a highly reputable children’s camp held on the lake, Durand culled the chosen few, ending up with the best of the best.
Those selected for Camp Durand were paid a hefty sum for their weeks of service, whether they went on to become permanently employed or not. Alice coveted that chunk of money, even if she didn’t dare to hope she’d ever be offered a regular corporate position at the highly successful international company. She had student loans that would come due soon, and no solid job leads. Still . . . she was torn about being forced to prove herself to the slick, influential company.
“I
knew
Durand couldn’t be serious about Arlington,” Alice said.
Or me
.
Maggie must have noticed the smirk Alice strained to hide. “They’re so
unserious
about Arlington College that their chief executive officer is coming in place of Sebastian Kehoe,” Maggie said.
Alice’s hand fell from the knob of the door and thumped on her thigh.
“What?”
Suddenly, Maggie seemed to be having difficulty meeting her stare. “Several Durand executives were on a business trip here in Chicago recently. When Kehoe got ill, Dylan Fall agreed to fill in for his remaining appointments.” Maggie glanced at her warily. Or was it
worriedly
? “I . . . I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you’d get more nervous, but I didn’t want you to walk in unprepared, either,” she said miserably.
A wave of queasiness hit her.
“Dylan Fall,” Alice stated in a flat, incredulous tone. “You’re telling me that in nine minutes, I’m going to be interviewed by the chief executive officer of Durand Enterprises?”
“That’s right.” Maggie’s expression of stark compassion faded and was replaced by her game face. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I don’t expect you to get a spot at Camp Durand, necessarily—that might be too much to hope for, all things considered. But you’re a unique, smart girl, and you’re kick-ass with numbers, and . . . well, you’re the
best
Arlington has got. You’re the best I’ve ever known,” she added with a defiant look. “At the very least, you had
better
walk in there, hold your head up, and do Arlington College proud.”
* * *
Maggie’s proclamation still rang in her head while Alice waited on hot coals in the waiting room of the dean of business’s offices. The dean had apparently cheerfully vacated his office for Dylan Fall.
Of course.
Fall probably had people regularly lying across mud puddles so he could cross without soiling his designer shoes.
Maggie had been right to call her out earlier. Alice didn’t stand a chance of getting into Camp Durand—let alone getting hired as an elite Durand executive. But that didn’t mean she would cower. Alice had stood up to bastards and lowlifes that were a hundred times scarier than a suit like Dylan Fall.
She’d stood up and walked away, pride intact.
“He’s ready for you,” Nancy Jorgensen, the business department secretary twittered as she stuck her head around the corner of the door leading to a hallway. Alice stood, clutching her new vinyl portfolio and trying not to sway in her heels. She cast Nancy Jorgensen a dark glance. The middle-aged, typically gray little woman looked suspiciously flushed with color and excitement. She suspected she knew why: Dylan Fall.
Traitor,
Alice thought bitterly as she stalked past Nancy.
Just get this damn thing over with
.
Instead of walking into the office Nancy specified, Alice charged. The door was lighter than she’d imagined from its formidable, oak-paneled appearance. She pushed at it too aggressively and it thumped against the wall inside the office. Alice started at the loud noise and froze on the threshold. The man sitting behind the large oak desk looked up and blinked.
“Is there a fire?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Alice said, frowning, wary because she wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not. Funny he had mentioned fire. She hadn’t been this nervous since she’d locked herself in her bedroom and her Uncle Tim had ignited some of her mother’s meth-cooking chemicals in order to smoke her out of it. He hadn’t succeeded, but he’d very nearly killed Alice—and himself—in the process.
Nancy closed the door behind her with a hushed click. Dylan Fall studied her while Alice’s lungs burned for air.
He suddenly whipped off the glasses he wore and stood. Alice willed her ungainly limbs to move. He reached out his hand.
“Alice. Dylan Fall. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you,” he said, his voice low with just a hint of gravel to it. Her spine flickered with heightened awareness at the sound.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me,” she said, gripping his hand firmly and giving it a perfunctory pump. He held out his other hand in an elegant “please, sit” gesture and lowered into his seat. She sat in the leather chair before the large desk, feeling like her arms and legs were glaringly out of sync with her brain . . . worse, like she were a beggar supplicant at the polished altar of the god of wealth and power. She absolutely refused to be impressed or cowed by Dylan Fall.
You can refuse all you want. You
are.
“I’m glad to have the opportunity to meet with you. From what I’ve gathered, much of the statistical brilliance from the philanthropy and profit article in the
Journal of Finance and Business
is owed to you,” he said, picking up a pen and tapping it on the desk. He moved the pen in an absentminded fashion, running long fingers over the smooth metal cylinder, flipping it, and repeating the process.
Alice ripped her stare off the vision and focused on his face. Her heart had started to beat uncomfortably fast. He played with the pen in a distracted way, but his gaze on her was razor sharp. The thick drapes were drawn, blocking out the spring sunlight. The contrast of shadow and glowing lamplight made his strong jawline and near-black eyes appear even more dramatic. Enigmatic. She’d already known what to expect from his looks, or at least that’s what she’d told herself. He had dark brown hair that was smooth, despite its thickness. It was longer in the front than in the back. He wore it combed back, the style suiting his business attire, even if it did look like it could be sexily disheveled in a heartbeat by a woman’s delving fingers. A pair of lustrous, drilling eyes advertised loud and clear you better give Fall exactly what he wanted, or he’d freeze you to the spot. Dark lashes and slanting brows added to a sort of sexy gypsy-gone-corporate-pirate aura about him. His face was handsome, but in a rugged fashion—full of character and strength. He was far from being a pretty boy. There was something rough about him, despite the expensive suit and epic composure. The cleft in his chin only added to the sense of hard, chiseled male beauty.
The media loved him. She’d seen photos of him clean-shaven, sexily scruffy, and even once with a beard and mustache. Currently, he wore a very thin, well-trimmed goatee. His skin wasn’t pale, but he didn’t look like the type of man who tanned as a matter of course, either. Alice imagined that, like her, he spent a lot of his time reading reports and squinting at numbers on a computer screen, or else sitting at the head of a boardroom table.
Durand Enterprises was well known for not only its strong philanthropic practices, but its financial robustness. Alice herself had suggested it right off the bat for their multifactorial, longitudinal study about the correlation between company philanthropy and profit. Alice had poured through journal and magazine articles, collecting relevant data on Durand, so she’d seen photos of Fall.
She’d stared at those photos a lot. So much so, in fact, that she’d started to think she was getting a little obsessed with the business mogul.
She was pretty unimpressed by men as a rule. She’d had to deal with her share of strutting, bullshitting, worthless, and dangerous males in her life. Good-looking men usually had even fewer redeeming qualities than the plain or ugly ones, in her opinion. The ugly ones had to compensate somehow in order to compete for women. She didn’t usually blink twice when she met a hot guy, but Dylan Fall was the kind of rough-and-tumble gorgeous that had all sorts of involuntary chemical reactions sparking in her body.
