Still Not Love: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Read online

  Somehow, he still manages to avoid me anyway.

  I feel invisible, while he speaks on his phone in a low murmur to the other members of the Enguard team, then switches to a video chat on his laptop, talking through logistics and planning.

  He goes strangely quiet when the other security team from Pershing patches into the virtual meeting, though. A big man named Hook dominates the discussion with a few other contributions from a voice I recognize as James' boss, Landon.

  I’m stuck messing with the library catalog on my phone, catching up with some digital archiving work while I’m away, feeling like nothing has really changed.

  Is it wrong? Once again, I’ve been shoved into a corner, the little girl told to behave herself and play with her books while the big, brave men handle everything.

  Honestly, I’m getting so impatient to be part of this drama that I’m ready to set something on fire just for a little excitement.

  Possibly James, if he keeps refusing so much as eye contact with me.

  I should be nearly clawing his eyes out.

  This quiet withdrawal, this retreat, this waiting isn’t like me.

  I tell myself it’s because I’ve grown up and matured. Maybe I'm not the impulsive girl I was when we were lovers.

  I'm older and I can sense the danger in the air. Holding back until a more appropriate time just makes sense.

  But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m scared. Freaked.

  And not because of the storm or the tension or the pointed secrecy.

  It's because I told myself I was over James after the shitty way he dropped me.

  I’d moved on and left him behind.

  Then yesterday happened. The ridiculous way my body remembers him every time I look at him, the way my gaze can’t stop straying in his direction even when he’s wholly oblivious to me.

  The awful proof it's impossible to keep lying to myself with a pretty little smile on my face.

  I’m not over him at all.

  I must've dozed off in my rage, though. Because when I wake up it’s dark, the evening falling through the windows in shades of blue reflected off deep, still plains of silencing white, snow blanketing everywhere.

  James is nowhere to be found. But I can smell food, faintly, and there’s the sound of running water from the bathroom.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly midnight.

  Holy time-slip. The endless snowfall must've made me tired, sending me into hibernation.

  I follow my nose to the little open kitchen island.

  There's a covered dish on the counter, the outside of the metal still warm, and when I lift it away, I’m greeted by the warm scent of spicy chicken, tantalizing my nostrils.

  My stomach growls like a grizzly bear.

  It might be what heaven itself smells like, even if it's really just one of those fancy prepared meals, arranged neatly like a proper meal, with a little folded note card under the plate.

  Please eat. Help yourself, Ms. Harris, the note card says in James’ crisp handwriting, the letters slanting and narrow.

  Just that, nothing else.

  Okay. So, maybe I still want to kick him square in the face, but I can’t help but smile.

  I fish a fork out of the drawer, then prop my elbows on the counter and lean there to eat right in the kitchen like the etiquette-heathen I am.

  The chicken is good, surprisingly, peppered and fried with broccoli and tomato. A little bit of rice pilaf on the side helps calm my angry stomach.

  As I’m happily devouring it, staring out the far window at the shifting night and wondering if the festivities will resume tomorrow, the bathroom door swings open.

  I glance up instinctively, drawn by the motion from the corner of my eye.

  And immediately wish I hadn’t.

  Now I know how he felt when I walked out of that bathroom dripping wet.

  At least, how I hope he felt, when I can’t be the only one dealing with this needy ache in the pit of my stomach, this emptiness food can't fill.

  No way. Nope. This can't be happening.

  I can’t be this weak for him when he’s impervious to me.

  So I need to believe that when he’d seen me half-naked in that bathrobe he felt the same instant jolt of burning, throbbing hunger I feel as he walks out in nothing but a pair of loose, light pajama pants, his entire body nearly steaming with heat that practically dares the cold to touch him.

  When he's like this, James is...he’s raw.

  Feral.

  Scary hot.

  Almost like how he is in his slick suits with his hair smoothed back, a polished soldier, but when you take away those elegant mannerisms and stylish clothing, he’s just a raw, unfinished thing underneath.

  Pure jagged maleness no one could try to tame into a proper shape.

  His body is powerful and toned and tapered, lightly tanned and marked with scars I know by heart because I’ve traced every last one of them with my lips.

  Though I'm sure he’s earned a few new ones since the last time I saw him naked.

  He has that kind of Apollo’s belt that flares out just a little before dipping inward in that hard cut, arrowing down and pointing to the forbidden.

  The shape of his hips makes it hard for anything without a belt to ever stay up around his waist – instead falling down, hanging so low I can see a hint of blond hair tufting above his pajama pants before vanishing.

  Just before the point of temptation where his cock begins.

  His hair is loose, for once, damp and tousled and tangled, a few strands drifting into his face and teasing at the corners of those cold, sensuous lips.

  Lips that are currently parted now, stuck on unspoken words, as he watches me with half-closed silver-blue eyes that glitter.

  Completely unreadable. Completely maddening.

  All while I’m just hoping it doesn't show on my face just how bad I want to lick the last lingering drops of water from his neck and those strong shoulders and those rippling, corded biceps.

  Holy hell.

  Time to get a grip.

  I don’t think he has the slightest idea how his monk-like aloofness turns him into pure sex. Makes him this dark and dangerous thing you want to torture you and hurt you as much as you want him to take you every which way and leave you sore and dazed and ruined for any other man for the rest of your life.

  That’s what I really hate him for. The ruining part.

  I haven’t been able to be with anyone else since him.

  And I don’t want to know if he’s put those long, devious, intimately talented hands on another woman since me.

  I definitely can't stand picturing it.

  Maybe it’s the sobering thought that lets me tear away from staring at him, sucking in a deep breath and trying to ignore the hellfire in my cheeks.

  I fix my gaze on my empty plate. Somehow, while I was busy ogling him, my dinner disappeared.

  At last, I clear my throat, busying myself with carrying the dishes to the sink and turning on the water to rinse them off.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I say weakly. “It was decent.”

  “Ms. Harris,” he acknowledges coolly.

  Oh. My. God.

  For a second, I'm afraid I'll snap a finger as they curl into a shaky fist.

  I sniff so loud I go light-headed.

  This man. This horrible, confusing, too-gorgeous-for-life man.

  I can only tell he’s moving by how the sound of his voice shifts, when his bare feet are silent on the wood. He moves like a huge cat, stalking and lithe, and even though I keep my eyes on my hands, I can picture the writhing muscles slinking under his skin as he prowls through the cabin.

  I want to kick him in the teeth just for existing, right now.

  And for that stupid, formal Ms. Harris.

  Still, I try to keep my voice mild as I say, “Looks like the storm finally broke. Are Dad’s guests still coming?”

  “Possibly,” he answers. Neutral, factual delivery of information. “Only the first wave of the storm front has passed. This is a lull. Heard the local ranger stations have already issued new advisories about driving on the roads. It's possible the Senator’s people might arrive by chopper. Or they may just call off the entire event like sane people.”

  “Oh.” I frown, idly swiping a dish towel over the plate. “Wonderful. So we came up here for nothing?”

  He's dead silent.

  But he’s not ignoring me. His silence is its own language, James-speak, and one of the rules is it's possible to say everything with nothing. He isn't answering because...why?

  If he answers me, will he have to lie?

  Will he have to shield me from the ulterior motive for this little getaway, this unspoken thing I can feel skulking around us like a hungry wolf slinking through the snow?

  What’s really going on at this fundraiser, where everyone here knows someone wants to kill my father – and me?

  I don’t know what to say into the silence, so I don’t say anything at all.

  But when I hear him moving again, it’s enough to draw my gaze up, watching over the kitchen island as he settles into the couch and draws the blankets over him, eyes closing as he rests his head on the pillow.

  “Goodnight, Ms. Harris,” he murmurs. “Another early morning tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” I answer numbly. “Goodnight.”

  I try to be quiet about finishing up with the dishes in case he’s really sleeping and not just pretending so we don’t have to talk to each other.

  Ugh.

  It’s hard to tell with him.

  He sleeps like an android with an off switch and always has. James just goes completely still, only subtle indicators in the boyish relaxation of his face hinting that he’s truly out like a light.

  He wakes up the same way, too, that switch turning on and flooding him to full awareness in less than a second, not a moment’s drowsiness in between.

  It’s almost unnerving when he does that, creepy.

  Guess I must have something wrong with me because it’s one of the things about him that turns my blood so hot, so wild, so needy, so thick.

  It's one of those things that's adorable about a man who tries to show the world he doesn't have a sweet bone left in his body.

  Changing for bed, I take a risk that he really is asleep.

  He’s right there in front of me, his back to me but that powerful body right there.

  God. It's never been harder to strip out of my sweater and jeans, unclasp my bra, and for a moment just...stand there.

  Naked except for my panties.

  Letting myself feel the air touching my skin, teasing that terrible ache that’s just gotten worse and worse until it’s like an addiction.

  And my fix is so close it's pure hell.

  I want his hands on me.

  I want to remember, relive how it feels when he touches me.

  When my flesh gives in for him and he strokes every inch of me until I can’t do anything but arch and open my legs and gasp out his name.

  His lips, his tongue, his fingers, his terrible thrusts...they've never been nearer or had me needier than now.

  Shame blossoms on my cheeks.

  What the hell is this, anyway?

  This hurt? This need?

  But I fight to ignore it as I slip on a pair of little jersey shorts and an old faded baseball tee to sleep in.

  Hardly sexy, but the way the fabric clings to me and teases against my aching nipples makes me nearly whimper.

  I’m so sensitive all over, shivering and unsatisfied and ready to lose it.

  Slipping into bed with my teeth sunk in my lip, I burrow under the covers, telling myself to let it go.

  But I can’t.

  It’s something about James.

  Some crazy, beautiful gravity that's like a force of nature for anything female. Or maybe anything Faye.

  Before I met him, I’d always gotten my thrills off that hint of danger as I learned how to defuse explosives and rode the adrenaline rush.

  Before that, I’d found it snowboarding, horseback riding, any sport that let me go fast with something only barely in my control, whether it was a straining beast or Mother Nature herself. I’d been curious about sex but not particularly interested in seeking it out.

  And then he happened.

  The day we met at Quantico, something about his aura of menace called to my inner thrill seeker.

  Woke something primal.

  Something I’d thought died in his absence, but it’s wide awake now.

  Awake and loud and trying to swallow me in its hot, licking mouth, sucking down my body until I’m a throbbing mess and I can feel the steaming wetness slicking against my folds.

  Oh, hell.

  Even if I’m in denial, my body knows what I want, what I crave, what I’ve been deprived of for too long.

  It's right there, and it’s so damn ready and doesn’t understand that what it needs will never, ever happen.

  Worse, I still remember our last time.

  We’d just come back from an operation to assess a bomb threat at a foreign embassy in Kent.

  Ever since the black market arms sting that was my first trial by fire, we’d been inseparable.

  Together on every mission, tearing each other’s clothes off right after.

  James, the dangerous and sinister beast in bed.

  But after, quiet and sweet while I ran my fingers through his hair, listening to him talk softly about his sick mom, and how afraid he was of losing her to the disease that was eating her alive.

  His unexpected sweetness was just as irresistible as his unpredictable and thrillingly unnerving command in the bedroom...but that night, after that mission, we’d been less sweetness and more a pure firestorm.

  Clothing was shed on the floor of our hotel room while we grasped and clawed and kissed so deep it felt like sex incarnate every time our mouths locked.

  His tongue sought mine in searching, domineering caresses.

  I curl up on my side, pressing my thighs tightly together as I remember too much.

  Like how, rather than shoving me down on the bed like he sometimes did, he’d lowered me with masterful control, rendering me completely submissive.

  Like how he pinned me down with his body braced over mine, his shirt hanging open over his delicious sculpted chest, one knee pressed between my bare thighs.

  Like how his slacks rubbed against my bare pussy.

  Oh, I can feel it even now.

  That sense of sweet, sweet vulnerability when I’m undressed under this predator who wants to devour me, and every cutting look both scares me and takes me even higher.

  I bite down on my knuckles to keep from whimpering, my other hand slipping down, cupping myself over the shorts, the panties, then inside.

  I can’t resist.

  Can’t even fight when he’s so close his scent fills the air.

  It’s like he emits some strange, hypnotic pheromone that completely destroys my mind and leaves me empty of all thoughts but him. As I trace my fingertips over my own wetness, lining the edges of my folds with soft strokes, I curl up tighter, my entire body alert and prickling and aching with the need to be touched by one man.

  Every clenching, dripping pulse inside me demands it, and although I know what I want, I need to draw it out a little more and savor it.

  Because in the morning, I’ll be mortified.

  And even though he’ll never know, I’ll never be able to lie in this bed and enjoy this again when I’ll be too afraid of getting caught.

  But that’s then, and this is now.

  So I don't think. I carefully pull my hand away from my mouth and cup my breast, filling my palm with its heaviness and sinking my fingers in.

  It feels so good to imagine it’s not my own small, cool hand but his.

  James' hand is large and rough enough to span the entire swell of my flesh, the strength of him sinking into me and making me soft as he kneads deep and flicks his thumb against my tingling, sensitive nipple.

  Mirroring the imaginary James in my head, I flick the tip of my fingernail against my nipple through my shirt, sucking in a sharp gasp as pleasure bolts down to my clit.

  I graze a fingertip against the pulsing, screamingly hot little bit of flesh, and have to turn my face into the pillow to muffle a cry.

  One little touch ripples through me.

  Makes my thighs quiver, spearing up into my stomach and radiating out to my fingertips.

  I do it again and again and again, biting the pillowcase harder.

  Until my entire body jerks and shivers each time as I set off tiny quakes inside myself, every muscle within me contracted tight and wanting, begging, pleading for what I can feel so deep.

  It’s like James is engraved on me, and my body knows only him.

  I can’t breathe, and I gasp hoarsely, wetly into the pillow as I let my fingers glide fully along my slit, soaking myself in every blinding throb between my legs.

  It’s not the same, when I finally give in and slide my two middle fingers into my body, using my index and pinky finger to spread myself open.

  Searching for that delicious feeling of being exposed as I delve in, seeking to touch that red-hot sweetness that feels like a key to ecstasy.

  It’s not the same as his cock inside me, his hard body hovering over me, pinning me in place as he slams in deep. Like he can infuse the power in his tense, rock-hard frame into me with every rough, hard thrust.

  But my flesh remembers.

  My flesh remembers the shape of him too well.

  The way his bulk forces my thighs open.

  The way I could barely hold him when he was so thick, so thick, too big for me.

  And yet I opened wide for him anyway and almost dared him to tear me apart.

  I remember the intensity in his eyes, capturing me with that darkened, stormy silver gaze as he pinned me by my wrists and left me helpless as he took me harder, harder, harder.

  How I begged for him, how I wept for him, how I lifted my hips into him the same way I lift them now, rocking up into that familiar rhythm, plunging my fingers into his imaginary thrust.

  Stroke after stroke after stroke.

  Each slip and caress of my fingers evoking the shadow impression of his cock splitting me open, and for a moment I almost forget he’s in the room as I arch onto my back, thighs spread, as I circle my clit with my thumb and toss my head back and nearly claw at my breast.