Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down: Making Him Sweat / Taking Him Down. Meg Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ you what? Sip a coffee on a bench?”

      “Nah, I’ll join him. Keep my own game up.”

      Again, she ogled his powerful arm. Bad. Bad eyes.

      She rose and headed to the kitchen to clean up the dinner mess. She heard Mercer’s laptop click closed and the couch creak.

      “Don’t,” he said, walking over. “Let me do all that.”

      She opened the dishwasher and began rinsing the bowls. “I don’t mind. It’s still novel for me to even have a kitchen to clean.”

      He muscled her to the side and she submitted. “Fine.” She turned instead to the items scattered across the counter, finding homes for her spices and new utensils. She nudged Mercer’s unnaturally hard shoulder and he shifted to let her get to the trash can beneath the sink. She shut the cupboard door and stood at the exact moment he reached for her wineglass. Their chests brushed, faces inches apart. She felt her eyes widen, mirroring his.

      “’Scuse me.”

      “Sorry.”

      Neither moved. Their eyes darted and she felt her lips part. His did the same. Unbidden, her chin tilted up, and Mercer’s dipped in response.

      “This is…” She trailed off.

      “Yeah.” They were so close, she felt his breath on her lips.

      They were trapped, stuck in some mutual daze, mouths edging closer. She felt a warm, damp hand on her neck, heard the clink as he set her glass aside to free the other. She shivered at the rasp of his fingertips, then melted as his lips met hers. As she softened, he grew bolder, angling his head, kissing her deeply.

      The hand cupping her neck was just as rough and commanding as she’d imagined. His tongue swept against hers, his kiss aggressive but controlled, and she felt consumed in a way she hadn’t in ages. She grabbed his arm and the hardness there left her reeling. She’d never felt a kiss like this, never connected with a man on such a visceral, physical level, as if their mouths were made for one another, their bodies meant to join this way. Other ways.

      But a voice was screaming in the back of her head, telling her to stop, stop, stop. Lust had slammed its foot on the gas, and if she didn’t find the brake, they were going straight into a tree, a ditch, off the edge of a cliff.

      She pushed firmly at his chest with both hands, and with a final deep taste, Mercer let her go. He licked his lips.

      She took slow breaths, willing the madness to pass.

      This man was too complicated. He was her employee, her roommate. The son her father had wanted, a man whose very livelihood was at odds with hers. He was a dozen things that made this an awful, awful idea. But standing this close, the energy between them felt anything but complicated. It was a question with a single solution, and that solution was to feel his body against hers.

      She grabbed his neck, and he was kissing her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her, guiding her, pushing her lower back against the counter. His leg went between hers, driving her skirt a couple inches higher. He gathered her hair in his hands as she stroked her palms up his shoulders, his neck, cupped the back of his head and felt the soft bristle of his short hair. Between the deep strokes of his tongue and the press and tease of his lips, she heard his sounds—tiny grunts and moans. She imagined how much deeper and louder they’d be if they made a terrible decision and took this to one of the bedrooms…

      No, no, no.

      But as he kissed her, so firm and explicit, she knew this was hotter than any sex she’d had in the past five years. This wasn’t attraction as she’d ever experienced it. It made her feel wild and helpless and electrified. So many things, all of them scary and exhilarating.

      Mercer’s kisses grew graceless and needy, and just as he seemed to be losing control, he broke away. The separation left Jenna aching. He looked drunk, his nose and ears and lips flushed, exactly where Jenna felt the heat. This insanity was mutual, and dangerous.

      For long moments they stood that way, hands slowly slipping from one another’s hair, breaths deepening, eyes locked on each other’s mouths. Jenna cleared her throat, lust fading enough to expose a deep vein of embarrassment. She clasped her hands at her waist and felt blood flooding her cheeks, ashamed to have lost control of herself with a man she barely knew.

      “You know, you’re right.” Mercer ran his tongue over his lower lip. “That’s good wine.”

      She could think of nothing to say—no reprimand or smart remark or even a dumbfounded “Well.” She closed her mouth and looked away. Mercer took a step back, then another.

      The water was still running and he turned to the sink, resuming the dishes. Jenna pursed her tender lips, knowing she ought to say something. As she stowed the cutting board he handed her, she managed a weak “That was very…unexpected.”

      He shot her a teasing look, though a tighter, more cautious one than she’d grown to anticipate. “I suppose you’re going to blame that on me?”

      She mustered a weak laugh. “No. Wish I could, though.” It scared her to know she was capable of such reckless attraction, so much stronger than logic.

      “That was…that was a bad idea,” she murmured.

      “Probably.”

      “Definitely,” she corrected, getting a hold of herself, smoothing her skirt and top.

      “Let’s just call that research or something, for your business.”

      She nodded vigorously. “Yes, good. I was just, um, comparing kissing data on East- versus West-Coast men. To better understand my new market.”

      Finally, another genuinely devious glance. “So how’d Boston measure up?”

      “Bit more aggressive than I’d expected.” Crap, they were flirting again.

      “Aggressive, huh? How do you want to get kissed, then? All gentle, like I just took you to the ballet or a funeral or something?”

      “I never said I didn’t like it.”

      That shut him up a moment. “Well, good. Oh, wait, no. Bad.”

      She nodded. “Really bad.”

      “Really complicated.”

      For a few breaths they looked at each other with matching, perplexed expressions. Then Mercer said, “Sort of complicated. Or when you think about it, actually, it’s really pretty uncomplicated. I mean, you’d never get hung up on me, since I’m like the opposite of your type.”

      “And you wouldn’t get hung up on me, since I doubt you could commit to a sandwich long enough to finish it.”

      Mercer shut off the faucet and dried his hands on a dishtowel. “So really, that was a totally harmless accident.”

      Harmless, yes. Harmless as an alcoholic’s first sip of liquor. She closed the cupboard. “Right… Well, good.”

      “Perfect.”

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