Crossing the Line Page 6

  He didn’t want to think about the night Nellie had been arrested. Or what had happened afterward, in Caite’s apartment. Or why what had happened was making him so angry now.

  “You’re not supposed to be having a good time with...him.”

  Now both her eyebrows lifted, and her lips parted on a huff of surprise. “I wasn’t aware that anything I choose to do when I’m not on the clock is any of your business.”

  “It is when it reflects on the reputation of this company.” Jamison heard the words spitting from his mouth. He even believed them. But at the same time, he knew he was full of shit.

  Caite pushed her chair away from the table and stood. Aside from the slight tremble in her voice when she answered him, she was perfectly calm. “If you don’t like the way I do my job, Mr. Wolfe, then I suggest you find a replacement.”

  Silence swelled between them, sharp as glass, as knives. Hot as a dying star. They stared each other down, neither of them moving. Scarcely a blink. Barely a breath.

  At last, Caite smoothed the front of her skirt and tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. “Is that everything? Are you finished?”

  “Dammit, Caite, just...listen to me.”

  She stabbed at the air between them. “No. You listen. I’ve worked my ass off for this company for eight months, most of those completely under your radar. I’ve done everything you and Elise asked of me plus more. You might not like it, but I started taking on a lot more responsibility even before she got sick. So while you might think you’ve done me some huge favor by letting me take on these clients, the truth is, it’s the other way around. You want to talk to me about the reputation of this company? Really? Why? Because you’re jealous?”

  He was jealous. That was the truth of it. He’d been unable to get the taste of her off his tongue for days, and the thought of another man kissing her...touching her...

  “Do you think just because we fucked around,” Caite said in a low voice, “that you...what? Own me?”

  No. That wasn’t it at all. Jamison owned an expensive watch, a nice car, furniture. A cell phone. He could never own her. Not that he wanted to, he told himself. And he sure as hell didn’t want her to own him.

  “What happened between us was unprofessional at best. Stupid at worst,” he said. “And has nothing to do with anything else.”

  Her chin went up. Her eyes flinty. “I agree.”

  Dammit, that wasn’t what he’d wanted her to say. The problem was, Jamison had no idea what he did want her to say. Or do. She’d had him turned upside down from the moment she’d taken control of him, and he hadn’t been normal since.

  “Like it or not, Ms. Fox, there’s a reason why the name of this company is Wolfe and Baron, and it’s because I’m the one in charge here. Me. Not you. So you should know your place.”

  She hesitated, as though she meant to say something else, then let out a low, soft sound. Her expression softened, a shift in her gaze. A tiny quirk of her mouth that wasn’t a smile but at least was better than a frown or the cold, grim line of her anger.

  “Nothing happened with us,” Caite murmured so softly he almost didn’t hear it.

  In a way he wished he hadn’t, because hearing it meant that somehow she knew it mattered to him. “Just keep your personal life personal, Ms. Fox. Not on company time.”

  For another few seconds, he thought she meant to say more, but whatever words had filtered to her tongue she bit back. He hated the cold flatness in her look, as though they barely knew each other. Well...that was the truth, wasn’t it? They barely did.

  So why, then, he thought as he watched her leave the room without so much as a glance behind her, did he feel as if Caite Fox knew him better than anyone ever had?

  * * *

  Independent.

  Mouthy.

  You’re an aggressive, intimidating bitch.

  The words of not just one but a few of her boyfriends echoed in her memory as Caite at last gave up the pretense of trying to work and shut down her computer. Her phone had been blessedly silent for the past few hours, the updates she’d scheduled getting a sufficient number of shares and comments, but nothing she had to handle. She could give in, call it a day. Go home.

  Nothing waited for her there but a bottle of wine she’d have to drink by herself—never a great idea. And darkness. And quiet. Even the idea of a bubble bath with candles and a good book didn’t really appeal to her. She didn’t want to go home. Not alone, anyway.

  For the first time in years, really, Caite was tired of being alone. Her longest relationship had lasted four years and ended amicably enough a couple years ago when she and Dallas had both agreed that his promotion and consequent transfer to California was as good a time as any for them to either make a permanent commitment or to call it quits. Ending it as friends had seemed the better deal. Since then, she’d dated. Not consistently but a lot. A few, not many, had become “boyfriends.” But most of them had been nothing except a way to pass the time until she’d grown tired of the parade of first dates that had never been good enough to turn into second ones. Getting off the dating carousel had been a relief, and being alone had been a choice.

  Now, though, all she could think about was...well, not the sex. Though it had been amazing. Fantastic. Mind-blowing. But not the sex. The connection.

  She and Jamison had not fucked like strangers getting naked together for the first time. Hell. They hadn’t even fucked, technically. He’d give her pleasure—twice! And left without it being reciprocated. And yet those two times with him had been more erotic, more fulfilling and more meaningful than a double fistful of simultaneous orgasms and the afterglow of pillow talk. They had started from different places and ended the same way, yet during it, had met in the middle and found each other as though they’d clasped hands in a dark room and shown each other the way to the light.

  “Oh, ugh. Gross,” Caite murmured. “Stupid. Fairy tales and firesides, this is not.”

  But...what harm could it do to fantasize about it? All the months she’d worked here, her boss had certainly tantalized her daydreams. The reality of him had been even better. So what if it wasn’t going to happen again, it wasn’t meant to last, it had been shifting, scattering castles of dust. So what if he’d made it beyond clear that kneeling in front of her had been...wrong. Unprofessional, he’d said. And stupid.

  Stupid, all right. Stupid to think a man like Jamison Wolfe would ever be able to give her what she wanted and needed. Still. That didn’t mean she couldn’t remember that just for those brief moments, it had happened.

  He had kneeled for her.

  And he’d loved it.

  With a groan, Caite settled back in her chair and closed her eyes to try and chase away the memory of his mouth on her. His glazed look when he’d stared up at her from between her legs. When he’d turned and left without so much as a hand job, all at her command. She couldn’t stop herself from touching the pulse beating in the base of her throat. Then her wrists, where she pressed against the throbbing flow of her blood, which had gone heated and swift in her veins at the thought of his kiss.

  It could never work. Boss, employee—they were worlds apart even without that impropriety. But Jamison had given her a taste of what Caite had always craved and had been unable to articulate or even admit to herself until he had responded to her commands. And now, having tasted it, the idea of never having it again was enough to make her want to throw something on the floor and break it.

  She’d finished her work hours ago but had not gone home, and why? Hoping to catch a glimpse of Jamison, who’d been so clearly avoiding her. That more than anything had convinced her of his disgust. Jamison Wolfe was not a man to avoid anyone, ever, yet he’d almost made a career of pretending she didn’t exist.

  Now the office was quiet. Bobby gone. Jamison might have left, too, but sh
e didn’t think so. With a shivering sigh, the residual memory of his mouth on her cunt making her breath catch, Caite put both her hands flat on the desk. Thinking about every cruel thing any man had ever said to her.

  You should know your place.

  That last had hurt worse than anything else. Her place? What was her place, exactly? Below, beneath, less than? And why? Because she was a woman?

  “Fuck that,” she said aloud, though the harsh words didn’t chase away the taste of bitterness.

  * * *

  It had been two weeks since Jamison had blown up at her about going out with Tommy. She needed to talk to him. If nothing else, they needed to get some things straight so they could keep working together. Caite had never been the sort of woman to let things like this slide. It had earned her a lot of heat from past lovers who hadn’t appreciated her honesty or forthrightness, but...Jamison was unlike any of them had ever been.

  He was different.

  The thought of that alone was enough to get her moving. Her bare thighs rubbed together above the tops of her stockings, and the click-click of her high heels on the hallway’s tile floor tickled her eardrums. He’d be able to hear her coming.

  She knocked on his door and waited for him to reply before opening it. She didn’t bother with peeking around the doorframe. She walked right in and closed the door firmly behind her, making sure to lock it.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  He looked as wary as she felt but nodded and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Caite took a seat, sitting on the edge. Back straight. Hands folded on her lap. Not sure what she meant to say until the words came out.

  “I’ve had seven lovers in my life,” she began without preamble. “A few one-night stands. Two of them were what I might consider serious, long-term. None of them ever, ever did for me what you’ve done. I’d never asked it of any of them, not outright, though in retrospect I guess there was always that element there. None of them ever responded to me the way you did, Jamison. None of them ever made me feel the way you did. I thought you should know.”

  He said nothing for a few seconds, so long she began to wonder if he meant to say nothing at all. Then he cleared his throat. “I was married at twenty-four. It lasted two years. I haven’t had a girlfriend since that lasted longer than a year. Most less than that. The women I’ve dated, including my ex, all seemed really happy to let someone else do all the work. All the heavy lifting, I guess you could say. And I thought I liked that for a long time. Having things my way. Getting what I wanted.”

  “Most people like getting their own way.”

  He laughed a little shamefacedly and shook his head. “You can’t run a relationship like you run a business deal.”

  “No,” Caite said. “I guess you can’t.”

  There was more silence, less awkward than before. Jamison sat back in his chair. Caite kept her position upright, stiff. Professional. She wasn’t ready to relax, not just yet.

  “What I said to you was wrong,” he said.

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “About knowing your place.” His voice dropped. Regretful. “It was arrogant of me, and it wasn’t what I meant. I just... You... Damn.”

  “I what?” She leaned forward a little bit, her posture softening despite her desire to keep up a cold front.

  Jamison looked at her. “You came at me so hard, Caite. You’re this little bitty thing, and you have this huge presence.”

  “You’re not used to a girl like me,” she said, tilting her head to study him. Her heart thumped a little faster. She couldn’t stop herself from grinning, just a little.

  “No. I’m definitely not.” He paused, his expression hardening. “And I’m sure not used to being...to letting...”

  He trailed off, and she didn’t push him. They shared more silence. Staring at each other.

  “If it helps,” she said finally, “I’m not used to a guy like you, either.”

  “I don’t think workplace relationships are appropriate, especially between a boss and employee.”

  She nodded, not surprised but feeling a pinch in her guts just the same. “I understand.”

  “What if it doesn’t work out?” Jamison continued, stony faced. “Working together could put a whole lot of pressure on things.”

  Her eyebrows rose again, but only for a second or so. “My last boyfriend broke up with me because I wouldn’t do his laundry. He said what use was staying together when he knew he’d never marry me if I couldn’t just do it for him?”

  “Are you asking me if I’ll expect you to do my laundry?”

  “I’m pointing out that relationships end for all sorts of dumb reasons. Working together isn’t necessarily going to make it harder. Or easier.” Caite shrugged. “It just means, maybe, that we’ll have to be extra honest with each other, that’s all. About what we want and expect. And that’s not such a bad thing, is it? To start off being honest?”

  “I do get tired,” Jamison said after a few more beats of silence she timed by the beating of her heart. “What you asked me before...yes. I get tired.”

  Her guts tumbled and twisted inside her, but Caite kept herself calm by breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. In, out, three, four. “You would like to give up once in a while. Let someone else take control.”

  He shuddered, and she thought for sure he was going to deny it. Worse, that his lip would curl, that he’d send her from the room. Instead, after a long, long moment, he nodded.

  An emotion so fierce she didn’t know how to name it leaped inside her. In the next second, at the sight of Jamison’s slow, sexy smile, Caite knew what it was. Joy. He licked his lips, never looking away from her.

  “And I do my own laundry.”

  “Would you do mine?” she asked, meaning to sound light, but her voice dipped low and husky and raw.

  Another hesitation, but something gleamed in his eyes. “Yes. If you wanted me to.”

  “To my specifications? Exactly?” She kept her hands clasped tight, fingers intertwined.

  “Yes.”

  “And what if you didn’t do it the way I wanted it done?”

  “I guess,” Jamison said after a hesitation, “I’d have to make it up to you.”

  Her cunt tightened at the thought of it. She swept her lower lip with her tongue and reveled in watching his eyes track the motion. “This is complicated.”

  “I know.”

  “And you don’t like it,” she added. “I understand why.”

  He nodded.

  She got up from her chair and went around the desk, helpless against the impulse to touch him. To put her hands on him. To make him real to her in a way he hadn’t been for the past eight months, when he’d been nothing more than a shouting voice and a signature on her paycheck.

  “Do you want me to stop?” She cupped his face and tipped it to hers.

  “No.”

  She brushed a kiss against his mouth. “Do you want to make me happy?”

  Something shifted and shone in his gaze again—something facile and slippery and uncertain that she could see him visibly struggle to subdue. “Yes. I don’t know why. But I do.”

  Caite’s laugh snagged in her throat on something suspiciously like a sob. She kissed him, this time harder. Longer. Her tongue quested inside his mouth, and when he at last sucked hers, she moaned against him. Then she pulled away, breathing hard but standing straight. Shoulders squared. She looked him in the eyes.

  “Take me to your place. And show me how much you want to make me happy.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jamison took her to his place, because she’d told him to. If the size of his apartment impressed her, Caite didn’t show it. She shrugged out of her coat inside the front door and tossed it onto a chair, then turned to him.r />
  “Bedroom.”

  “Upstairs,” he said. “The loft.”

  She laughed. “I never guessed you for a man with a...loft.”

  “What’s wrong with a loft?” Jamison asked, not sure why he was laughing, too, only that no woman had ever both aroused and amused him, lifted him and made him lighter, as Caite did.

  “Nothing’s wrong with a loft. It’s just so artistic.”

  But she changed her mind a few minutes later when he showed her his loft, which was not an open space looking over the main living area but an enclosed bedroom and bathroom reached by a curving staircase. The loft part of it was a cozy balcony furnished with a couple of chairs and a good reading lamp, along with a heavy cherry bookcase stuffed with all his favorite titles.

  “I love it,” Caite said, looking at the shelves of books, then at him. “It’s everything I thought of you. A loft that’s not typical but practical. And lovely. And well loved.”

  He snorted soft laughter at that last bit. “You know all of me so well.”

  “Not all of you. Not yet,” Caite said with a glance at him over her shoulder as she went into his bedroom. She looked over the bed. “You have a housekeeper?”

  “No.”

  She smoothed the bed. “You make your bed this neatly yourself?”

  “Yes,” Jamison said, and found another laugh.

  It could’ve made all of this seem silly, that laugh, but when she joined him, all it did was make all of this somehow better. He crossed to her and took her in his arms. He kissed her, wondering if she would pull away or chastise him. If she’d put him in the place of...well, a slave, he guessed, thinking of some of the porn he’d seen but had never really liked.

  Nothing Caite had done so far had made him feel less than a man, though, and she melted into his touch now with a small shivering sigh that made his cock twitch. He’d been half-hard all day long, his balls heavy and aching with arousal. When she slipped her hands up his chest to link behind his neck, Jamison did what felt natural—he lifted her up to carry her to the bed, where he laid her down carefully. He moved over her, their kisses getting harder until she nipped at his lower lip.