Sway (Landry Family #1) (9 page)

His features morph, turning lighter, more playful. He looks like a little kid showing off his new bike. It’s adorable.

"I had no idea it was even here,” I say. “It’s amazing. So quiet."

"That's the point. I—"

Our gazes land on his desk to a phone buzzing. He looks at me for permission to answer and I nod. He stands and lifts the receiver.

"Yes, Rose?" He pauses and stares at the wall, purposefully not at me. "Send him through." He pauses again. "Yeah, Nolan?"

His posture changes immediately. His back stiffens, his shoulders tense. His volley back and forth with Nolan is all political jargon, the harshness in his tone has returned, thicker than before.

I wonder if this is what he goes through every day. It's even more stressful, I'm sure, than what Hayden went through, and I can't begin to fathom what that must do to his life. I know it's a part of the job, but I wonder how much of himself Barrett has to give up to have
this
life. And I wonder if he enjoys it.

"My cell is off because I'm trying to get some actual work done," he bites out. He moves confidently around the desk, one hand stuck in the pocket of his pants. He looks in total control, completely assured, a touch aggressive, and it's nothing short of visual foreplay. This call is prepping my body for sex, even though it wasn't meant to.

"If that's the absolute only way to get the votes, then fine," he finally sighs. I can tell he isn't thrilled about whatever he's just agreed to. "Listen, I want a list of other options you've explored before this goes through. I want it perfectly clear that if another way becomes available to achieve this, I want to go with it instead.
This is a last resort
. You got it?" He listens before planting the receiver firmly in place. He turns to face me, the prior look of amusement long gone. I'm not sure what that call was about, whether he's had a bomb dropped in his lap he must take care of.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice low. When he doesn’t respond with more than a furrowed brow, I say, “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”

"The campaign is a—"

"Barrett," I interject, "your campaign isn't what I was asking about. I was asking about you.”

A slow smile slides across his face and he sits down and leans back in his chair. "In that case, I'm better at the moment than I have been since, well, last night."

I grin.

He pauses for a moment and then leans on his elbows again. "I'm sorry about that call. I don't know what else to say other than
welcome to my life
."

"Is it always so . . . stressful? Aren't you here to get away from that today?"

"Yeah," he says, blowing out a breath. "It's a part of the job. It's 24/7."

"That must be exhausting."

"It's what I was born to do. Do the things I'm doing now."

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean,
am I sure?
Of course I'm sure."

I almost play Devil's Advocate with him, but I don't. I let him be “sure” because really, it's none of my business.

"What are
you
sure about?" he asks me.

"I'm sure I wasted my time delivering the food.”

I would never tell him that the smile I get in reply is worth it in itself.

"Are you saying you don't like my company, Ms. Baker?"

"I'm saying, Mr. Landry, that you could’ve called and invited me to lunch, not . . . tricked me out here." I lean forward, pasting a serious look on my face. He leans in too, and I fight the smile on my lips.

"I didn't trick you out here," he replies. “I just didn’t give you the choice to tell me no. Again.”

My laughter catches him by surprise. "You're tricky, but smooth.”

His grin turns wicked. "My moves are even smoother."

My cheeks heat, my core burning with a flame that’s starting to burn like wildfire. "Are they now?"

"Smooth as silk. If you're ever inclined to see them," he shrugs, "I'd probably be willing to show you."

I roll my eyes.

"That . . . thing you do with your eyes," he says, pointing at my face, "is almost impressive."

"It's a good thing I didn't come here to impress you then, isn't it?"

His jaw drops slightly before he recovers with a smirk. "It's a good thing I didn't ask you here to impress me."

I start to answer, but he leans closer and cuts me off. The smirk is gone and a softer smile is in its place. It makes my heart stutter.

"I didn't need you to impress me today because you impressed me last night."

"I didn't try to impress you then either,” I whisper.

"I know. That’s exactly how you did it."

My hand begins to shake and I lay it on my lap so he doesn't see. I scramble for a response, knowing this is going to go one way or the other right here, right now. But before I can come up with something, his phone rings again.

"I should go." I push back from the table and stand. He's in front of me before I can move. His eyes are holding mine, just like they did when I first met him. My heart is beating so fast I'm afraid it's going to thump right out of my chest. He overtakes all of my senses—his burning eyes, his jagged breath that matches mine, the feeling of his hand on my arm, and, before I know it, the taste of his mouth against mine.

I take in a quick breath as our lips touch. The contact zips through me, making me tingle from head to toe. I try to pull back, but a hand is at the back of my head pressing me firmly against him. My will to fight flees as his hands fall to the small of my back. I'm completely pulled into his web and I like it. Too much. He kisses in the same way he does everything—with power and passion and with no relenting. It's completely and utterly overwhelming.

He tastes of heat and energy, of confidence and practice. He tastes like a man should taste, and my lips tremble as my senses are overtaken.

His body is as solid as I imagined, his lips as supple and sweet as I dreamed. His lips open mine slowly, leisurely, and he breathes into my mouth. The heat and intimacy cause my knees to buckle and I lean against him, feeling his cock hard against my stomach.

I bring a hand to the side of his face and let it skim across the stubble. He pulls me tighter into him, his hands caressing my back, playing with the hem of my shirt. My breath quickens as his fingertips ghost over the delicate skin of my back and dip beneath the top of my jeans.

A growl emits from his throat, coursing through me and shaking me back to reality.

I pull away . . . and he lets me.

The room feels ten times smaller than it did before.

His breathing is as erratic as mine. We face each other, ignoring the phone that’s ringing yet again. There’s a band pulling us together and I know he feels it too.

“Be ready at eight. Wear something I can get off of you quickly.”

“What?” I take a step back, the lust clearing out of my head at his tone. It’s a command, an instruction, and the sound of it brings back a lot of memories I don’t want to recall . . . and a burst of reality I’d somehow forgotten.

“Tonight,” he repeats. “I’ll have Troy pick you up around eight.”

Holding my hand in front of me, I shake my head. “Look, I think you misunderstand . . .”

The cocky grin on his face would’ve been adorable a few minutes ago. Now, it’s frustrating. “Stop playing hard to get. It’s cute, sure, but I’ve seen it a hundred times and it’s just going to take longer to get to the end point. And, let’s be honest, we will get to the end point with your back—”

I half-laugh, half-snort at his insinuation that he can just bowl me over, interrupting him mid-sentence.

“If the end result is you looking at my back as I walk out of here, then you’re right,” I say simply before taking the few steps to the door.

His brows are pulled together, a look of astonishment on his face. “What are you doing? I know you feel this. I know you want my cock as bad as I want it buried in you.”

“What I want and what I feel aren’t the problem. The problem is that you forgot your manners,” I smile as sweetly as I can. “Apparently you want someone that will bend to your will, jump, fuck when you say so. And if that’s what you want,” I shrug, “try the girl in the red dress from last night, but it isn’t going to be me.”

A look of bewilderment on his face, he shakes his head from side to side. “I’m sorry, Alison. Really. I . . .”

“Don’t be sorry. I get it. Women drop to their knees for you.” I flick the handle and pull the door open. “Good luck in your campaign, Barrett.”

I’m around the corner of the door before he realizes it.

"Alison!" he calls as I hit the landing and dart out the door, but I don't look back. And thankfully or not, he doesn't come after me.

Barrett

“FUCK IT,” I MUTTER, SHOVING
away from my desk. My chair rolls back on the hardwood floor of my office, coming to a rest a few inches from the wall.

It’s been three days since I saw Alison Baker. I figured I’d feel differently in a few days. I’d forget the sweet taste of her lips, the way her breasts pushed against my chest, and the sound of her laugh caressing my ears. Never did I think I’d still be replaying our conversations, jacking off every night to the vision of her body sitting on my cock.

Fuck. Me.

Her body is curvy perfection, her face is beautiful, her voice a call right to a place inside my chest that makes me feel like I light up on the inside when she speaks to me. But none of those reasons are why I’m a mess over this girl. I’ve seen banging bodies a hundred times before. Faces are a dime a dozen and I’ve heard the sexiest things, sweetest things, filthiest things whispered in my ear.

It’s not what Alison looks like, it’s not what she sounds like that has me messed up. It’s what she’s
not
.

She’s not calculated or conniving. She doesn’t have every word, every move thought out in advance. As crazy as it sounds, she’s a real person and one I can’t shake.

And that’s what has me fucked up, feeling guilt over something I said to a woman for quite possibly the first time in my life.

I feel like a complete cocksucker for making her feel like just another girl because clearly she’s not. I love that she has the confidence to not just be another girl. That makes her even more intriguing . . . and me even more of an asshole.

A soft thud raps against the door before it pushes open. Camilla’s heels, a delicate tick against the hardwood, announce her arrival.

She slips inside my office and shuts the door securely behind her.

“Hey, big brother,” she smiles, taking a seat across from my desk.

“How are you, Swink?”

“Good! Mom had some paperwork for Rose, so I brought it by on my way to meet a friend for lunch.”

“A friend?” I ask, cocking a brow.

“A friend. Her name is Joy, so don’t panic.”

Laughing, I sit back in the chair and watch my sister fiddle with her watch. “How are things going around here?” she asks. “Anything you need help with?”

“Nope. Everything’s peachy.”

She assesses me quickly. “I’m gonna have to call you out on that, Barrett.”

“Call me out on what?”

“That little ‘peachy’ comment. You don’t say things like that,” she smirks, “and your face just gave you away. So . . .
tell me
. What’s up?”

“You’ve earned your nickname, Swink. Such a meddler.”

“It’s what I do. Now spill it, Barrett,” she prompts.

Sighing, I try to consider getting around it, but I know she’ll pick at it until I come clean.

“All right,” I say, folding my hands on my desk, “I’m going to give you an opportunity to give me some advice.”

Her jaw drops. “Really? You’re really going to open up to me? Wow. Wait,” she says, shaking her head, “don’t overthink this. It’s a monumental day for sure, but you just talk and I’ll revel in the excitement afterwards.”

I roll my eyes. “Let’s say a guy you like says something that, I don’t know, offends you. Nothing terrible, just . . . said things he’s used to saying, but he obviously should’ve known better. And now he wants to apologize.”

“Oh, God, Barrett. What did you do?”

I toss her a look and she motions like she’s zipping her lips.

“How do I say I’m sorry?” I ask as she lifts a brow.

“Well,” she says, “the fact you didn’t just chase this girl and make her bend to your will is throwing me a bit. You’re usually a more ‘I’ll take what I want’ kind of guy.”

“Maybe I’m changing tactics.”

“Maybe I need to know who she is.”

“Maybe not.”

“Fine,” she groans. “Okay, you should apologize. But here’s the thing—you can say you’re sorry all you want, but words are pretty useless. Everyone says they’re sorry but rarely means it.”

“So what do I do? I mean it, Camilla. I’m sorry as fuck. I feel . . . I think I feel guilty.”

“Wow,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” I nod. “Wow.”

“Okay, so what you need is a grand gesture,” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling. “You need to convince her you aren’t the douchebag you presented yourself to be. Make her think you were just having a bad day. And if she believes you, you can’t go back to douchebag mode, okay?”

I sag. “Of course not. I . . . she . . . I . . .”