Due South (The Compass series Book 5) Read online

  Planting my elbows on my desk, I drop my head into my waiting palms and make an utterly pitiable noise. And then I shake myself out of it. I owe Evans an apology. It’s my fault for not knocking louder and for opening the door even though I didn’t hear a reply, and I can only imagine he must be dying of embarrassment. I mean, I am too, but I need to take responsibility because it’s the right thing to do.

  Coffee. That would be a good apology, and I was going to show him how to make a cup anyhow. The jangly nerves of mortified adrenaline will probably wear off soon, and he’ll crash when he has more work to do. I can help with that.

  I head to the kitchen, my cheeks feeling flushed when I step over the threshold, and start the process where I’d been interrupted. I’m about to press the start button when someone looming in the doorway clears their throat.

  “Lucy, I wanted to offer you my most sincere apologies for my behavior. I am completely ashamed and should you want me to leave so that you won’t have to look at your harasser ever again, I’ll type out a letter of resignation and leave it on India’s desk right now. I am so, so—”

  I do a quarter-spin to face him. “You think I’m mad at you?”

  Evans’s face pinches in a frown. “You should be. I kissed you without your consent and then you saw me…well, I was…I can’t… Please don’t make me say it, Lucy. So I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.”

  I get the urge to laugh because his hangdog face is the definition of remorse. “I’m not mad at you. Embarrassed as all get out, yes, but not mad. And I was going to apologize to you for walking in and seeing you—”

  Yeah, I can’t say it either.

  “Oh.” Now his expression is closer to befuddled, as though I’ve thrown him for a loop. His brow furrows, and his mouth and nose wrinkle up as his gaze darts around the pattern on the kitchen floor before he looks up at me, dazed. “Maybe we could call it even?”

  Then I do laugh. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

  I’d like to call it more than even. I’d kind of like to call it an invitation. A prelude. A hint of coming attractions. When I’d been sitting out here after he’d run off, it had been all I could do not to slide my hand into my underwear. So Evans gave into temptation where I’d resisted it. If he was as turned on as I was—fine, am—I can’t say I blame him. Which is what makes me say, “Or…”

  Evans has the best surprised face. It makes me want to rub him behind the ears. “Or what?”

  “Well…”

  Oh god, oh god. Now what? Way to go, Lucy, biting off so much more than you can chew. But I can do this. If I can do this with anyone, it would be Evans, because he’s not going to laugh at me if I mess it up, and who knows, he may even be game. I blame some of it on sleep-deprivation-induced lunacy, but I get up my nerve to say it.

  “Or maybe we could do it again. But, you know, better. More.”

  “I don’t know if I could—” Evans’s mouth snaps shut, and this look of incredible concentration comes over his face. I know I shouldn’t interrupt when he looks like that, but I desperately want to encourage him not to think too hard about this.

  “What if you…weren’t you?”

  He starts, but then it seems as though the sun comes up and shines on his face. “You mean like pretend?”

  “Yeah. Pretend. Like we could still be Lucy and Evans, but braver.”

  “Bolder.”

  My breath speeds up, and I bite my lip. “Yeah. Sexier.”

  His mouth drops open, and I want him to kiss me again. Badly. I take a step forward and he doesn’t back up. So I take another step and then another until I’m so close I could touch him, kiss him. And since we made a pact, I go for it. Slowly, in case he changes his mind between now and when I can get on tiptoe and press my lips against his, but he still doesn’t move and then I do it. Place my hands on his chest, feel his pecs under the soft cotton of his button-down shirt, clutch the fabric between my fingers before I lean forward and kiss him.

  I didn’t get to enjoy it before. His lips are soft but firm, and the way they move against mine—gentle but insistent and then more aggressively—it’s amazing and I want to do it forever.

  When I’m about to moan into his mouth, he grips my biceps and pushes me away slightly, but doesn’t let go.

  “You said more. Like more kissing or more other stuff? What else can I do, Lucy?”

  Oh. My mind races with the possibilities. Everything. He could do everything.

  “Anything.”

  He raises a challenging eyebrow, and the amorphous desire that’s been filling me finds an object to attach itself to. How have I never noticed Evans is kind of handsome? He is. Dark brown eyes I could get lost in, the shadow of stubble defining his jaw, and short reddish-brown hair that should look messy but reads as boyishly mussed.

  “Anything?”

  “Well, don’t hit me. I don’t think I’d like that.” I wouldn’t usually feel as though I’d have to make that particular disclaimer, but after what we watched, it seems like a good idea.

  He shakes his head. “I won’t hit you, Lucy.”

  “But you liked…you liked watching India get hit.”

  He flushes beet red again, but then his face screws up as though he’s considering. “I think I liked the watching. And how much she liked it. You know—you know she liked it, right? He wasn’t hurting her. Well, he was but she—”

  “Yeah.” I’ve heard about people who enjoy pain, and now I’ve seen it for myself: my boss, the masochist.

  “So I wouldn’t do it. If you didn’t want me to. It’s not hot if you’re not into it. But I think you liked the watching too. Didn’t you?”

  His brows draw together and inch up his forehead before he looks pointedly to where my chest is heaving, and it ratchets the burn in my cheeks higher. Yes, I’d liked the watching.

  I nod tightly, wanting to tell him, but too embarrassed by it to say it out loud.

  “What did you like the most?” he asks, moving his hands to my waist. The simple touch weakens my knees to the extent that I think I might swoon. “Did you like it when he pulled her hair?”

  I lick my lips and nod again, because yes… I’d wondered what it might be like to have someone thread their fingers through my hair and hold. Not pull hard enough to hurt, but exert some force? I think so. And even if not, the expression on her face… I want someone to make me feel that way. If hair pulling could do that, then yes, I’d be willing to give it a shot.

  “Put her on her knees?”

  The word yes sings in my head, because yes, I had. But I can’t quite get the words from my brain to my mouth. They keep getting hung up on everything I’ve been told my whole life. That sex is only appropriate inside the bonds of marriage and I needed to set a good example because girls have more self-control than boys. How my pastor told me, “I know you don’t mean it, but boys have urges when it comes to girls like you. If you want to be spreading the message of God, you need to help these men by covering up any temptation. They’re not trustworthy.”

  It had been confusing to be told that it was my responsibility for what boys thought about; that they shouldn’t admire my body, shouldn’t want me; that it was my fault if they did. The way my mom had clucked while she took my measurements to make me a dress for a school dance.

  “We’ll have to try to hide this bust of yours a bit, Lulu. I don’t know where that came from anyway. My side tends to be slight. You’ll just have to be extra careful to hold onto your virtue because you’re going to give boys ideas.”

  It seemed like a compliment and damnation all at once. Those mixed messages were probably why I’d given up my junior year in high school. I may have gone a little wild, drinking and sleeping around. And why shouldn’t I have? I may as well have had some fun if people were going to treat me as though I was going to lead boys into temptation no matter what I did. But the truth is, I hadn’t enjoyed it. Getting drunk hadn’t felt all that good, and I wanted to date boys, not just screw them.

  Now tha
t I have the words for it, I know the church I grew up in was misogynistic, but they’d cloaked it in what had sounded like perfectly reasonable arguments. Of course I wanted to do God’s will, of course I wanted to walk the righteous path. But somehow it always came down to shaming my body and the urges I felt and never holding the men accountable for any of those things.

  That’s another reason I hadn’t been looking forward to going home: Christmas services where, no doubt, Pastor Elijah would ask me how I was faring in California. I’d have to listen to him praise me for surely being a beacon of God’s plan and a virtuous woman among the hypocrites who would wear their short skirts along with their gold crosses.

  I need to shove these things out of my head because there’s a man in front of me who maybe wants what I want, who might make me feel good about it. Or, at least, not bad.

  “Tell me, Lucy. Did you like that?” Evans’s tone is half-order, half-begging. “It’s okay if you did.”

  His encouraging words trip something inside me, make me fully shrug off the uncomfortable memories. Instead, I let myself believe it. It’s okay. That’s what I’ve been convincing myself of since I left home. It’s okay to want sex, to like it, to enjoy my body and be proud that men find me attractive. It’s okay to be a sexual creature. And Evans…well, he’s easy to believe.

  “I did.” It’s easier to say than yes or I liked it. I don’t know that I’d take it as seriously as India seemed to, but I can see how playing that way might be fun. Exciting.

  If it’s possible, his eyes get darker. “And did you like it when he fucked her?”

  I swallow hard. Yes, yes. But getting fucked isn’t what I’m supposed to be interested in. I’m supposed to lie on my back, take my husband between my thighs, and think of England until he’s finished. I’ve been out in the world long enough to have been told it’s okay to enjoy sex, to seek pleasure from it, but never has it looked to me so full of passion and…joy. There wasn’t the grim satisfaction I’ve been led to believe is the reward for doing your marital duty. And despite what they were doing, it didn’t seem demeaning or exploitive.

  If I could get fucked like that, then… “I’d like to get fucked.”

  “Then we may both be in luck because I’d very much like to fuck you.”

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  December 18th

  Lucy

  Evans said fuck. Twice! I’ve never heard him say a stronger word than crap and he’d apologized for that. To the desk he’d stubbed his toe on.

  “Here?”

  He nods slowly, thoughtfully, as though he’s picturing it in his head. “Yeah. Right here on the floor.”

  “In the kitchen?” My voice squeaks on the last syllable.

  “Yeah. I’m going to fuck the living daylights out of you right here on the kitchen floor. And every time you come in here to make coffee—” He grins and I know what he’s thinking. That’s a good chunk of my day, caffeine-procurement. I’ll be thinking about it a lot. “—you’re going to think about getting fucked right here. How I spread you out and took you and you loved it.”

  “Yes. Please. Here. Evans, please.”

  Oh. My. God. I can’t believe I said that. That I’m going to do this. But some piece of my brain that hasn’t been corrupted and shamed has taken over, and I’m not even sorry. I do want this, and by some small miracle, I’m going to get it.

  Then he’s kissing me again, his mouth hot and hard on mine. But when he slips his tongue across the seam of my lips, it’s coaxing. A seductive request. I give him access and then he’s inside me. This kiss is filthier than any sex I’ve ever had. If he can make me feel this way with a kiss… I groan into his mouth before pulling away. I want to tell him so he has no doubts, feels no guilt.

  “More, please.”

  He nods and reaches for my shirt, tugging it out of my waistband. The unnaturally cooled office air hits the skin of my stomach and the contrast of his warm hand sliding up my ribcage is delightful. Especially when he hits my bra and tugs the fabric down to play with my already hard nipple. He toys with it before cupping my breast and squeezing.

  “You have amazing tits, Lucy. Jesus.”

  I’ve heard this before—it seems to be one of the qualities men like the most about me—but from Evans it doesn’t sound like an insult or something he wants to use against me. It’s one more layer of things he likes about me and it happens to be about my body. The grip of his fingers is clumsy as he pulls down the other cup. It doesn’t feel sloppy, though. It feels desperate, and it makes me feel good he wants me that much. I push into his hand, wanting more, wanting him to want me more.

  He seems content to kiss me, to touch me under my shirt. I should be grateful for this level of attentive foreplay, the way he repeats the things that make me moan. Maybe if I hadn’t already been so turned on when we started, I could make this last. As it is, the lace of my underwear is rubbing uncomfortably between my legs and I need for him to do something about it.

  Begging seems passive, though, and I want for once in my life to take what I want, to be an active participant. So I reach for him, resting a hand on his waist before sliding it down and palming him through his trousers. I’m about to ask if it’s okay that I touch him like this, but he beats me to the punch, groaning, “Hell yes, Lucy.”

  Stroking him seems like a good idea. What else am I supposed to do with the thick, hot hardness in my hand? He bites my bottom lip, and our breath mingles between our mouths as we rest our foreheads against each other.

  “I need to be inside you,” he says, his fingertips trailing down the side of my ribcage, making me shiver. Need. He needs me. He grips my waist with both hands, pads of his fingers sinking into my flesh. “Shit. Not need. I want to be inside you, so badly I can taste it, but—”

  He’s sweet, so sweet. Of all the things he’s said to me, this is what brings blood to my cheeks. Maybe because, while bold and sexy Lucy and Evans have been the ones at play, shy and awkward Lucy and Evans have never left the building. I wouldn’t want them to, not entirely.

  “Don’t apologize. I know you’d stop. If I wanted you to. If I changed my mind. I don’t want you to stop.”

  “I have to. Just for a minute.”

  Leaning back, he holds me at arm’s length, like if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to help himself.

  “I’ll be right back. I swear. But in the meantime…”

  He reaches over and rucks my shirt up, leaving it bunched above my exposed breasts. Then he’s working my skirt over the tops of my thighs until it’s gathered around my waist and he can see my underwear. My pink, lacy, drenched underwear.

  “Kneel, knees apart,” he instructs as he presses them wide open. It makes me want him more. It makes me need him inside me as badly as he seems to need to be inside me. “And hands behind your back.”

  I whimper as I drop to the floor and thread my fingers together behind me. His gaze zeroes in on my chest as the motion forces my breasts up and out. He’s put me on display, and I like it. I like being seen, I like his eyes raking over me and the wanting I can practically feel dripping over my exposed skin.

  “Now stay. Just like that.”

  Nothing has ever made me feel so wanton, so slutty. But slutty doesn’t seem like a bad word right now. I watch Evans walk out, his erection filthily obvious in his pants as he tries not to hurry. But when he turns the corner, I hear him break into a jog and I purse my lips in a satisfied smile. It’s not long before he comes back toting a box he rips open as he steps over the threshold.

  “You keep condoms at work?”

  He reddens and shakes the half-torn box. “Yeah, but if you didn’t notice, the box was closed. I just, you know, like to be prepared.”

  The best kind of Boy Scout.

  “And you…you are the best thing I’ve ever seen. Look at you. I’d like to see you naked—”

  “No. Do me now.”

  This brand-new Lucy is demanding, and I’m having fun letting myse
lf say all these things I never thought I could. Because brazen Lucy can, this is what she’s supposed to do.

  Evans reaches out a hand, threads fingers through my hair in a gesture so tender it makes me want to close my eyes. But it finishes with the tightening of his fist at the nape of my neck and I gasp. Oh, yes. That does feel surprisingly good.

  He gets a funny look on his face, as if he’s not entirely sure what to do next, but then seems to screw up his courage. “Yeah? But you like it when I’m being bossy, right? You want me to do that some more?”

  “I totally do. It’s hot.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” But apparently he has to think about it and come up with something. It’s awkward but endearing that he has to deliberately plan what to say next. “You’re awfully mouthy for a girl on her knees. Want to try again?”

  I could laugh, because it’s unlike him and it sounds as though he’s trying so hard. But it’s fun, and I want to play with him, not embarrass him, make him stop. Instead, I beg. “Please, Evans, don’t make me wait anymore. I want you inside me. I need you inside me. Please.”

  God, I sound desperate and I’m not even sorry. The playacting, the exposure—it makes me even hotter for him.

  “Release your hands,” he orders and I immediately comply. Before I can reach for him, he’s easing me onto my back on the floor and tugging my underwear down my legs. They get caught on one foot, but instead of working them off, he mutters, “fuck it,” and kneels up between my thighs. The floor is hard and chilled under my back, but I stop caring the second he reaches for his zipper.

  He reaches inside and pulls out his cock. It’s as thick as I’d imagined it. It might even be big enough to be scary, but somehow I’m not worried. He’s not going to hurt me. He would never hurt me. Not the Evans who scoops up spiders on printer paper and carries them out to the parking garage to set them in the bushes.