He clenched his fingers into a fist, then purposely relaxed them, exhaling as he did. Dammit, if he had his father here right now, each finger would be wrapped around his neck. Disgust twisted in his chest. If only what he felt toward his father was as simple as anger.
Stepping to the counter, he shoved everything from his mind and focused on ordering. Moments later, with his Americano in hand, he turned toward the entrance, but slammed to a halt.
A petite woman stood next to a table near the huge window, her back toward him, the ends of her unbound hair grazing the tank top–bared skin below her shoulders. The black top molded to the slim line of her back. Dark blue jeans clung to the gentle flare of her hips, the gorgeous tight ass that could be an eighth wonder of the world and legs that could grace a runway and climb the rocky, tough face of a mountain.
An achingly familiar itch tingled in his palms and hands. Familiar and painful. The need to hold a paintbrush. To capture the beauty and strength before him. To immortalize it. His medium had been mixed-media collages, but he’d also loved to paint. And right now he would use bold, rich colors to portray the golden tones of her skin, the power in that tiny body, the larger-than-life vibrancy of her personality, the thick softness of her hair.
That hair.
The thick golden-brown strands reminded him of a mare his father had doted on when Joshua had been a boy. Like raw umber with lighter strands of deep, burnished sunlight. His father had babied that horse, brushing her coat himself until it shined.
A yearning for a return to those idyllic times yawned so wide and deep, Joshua barely managed to restrain his free hand at his side so he wouldn’t rub the knot that had formed just below his rib cage.
He could hate her alone for dragging that memory out of the abyss even as he fought against the need to burrow his hands in the wavy mass up to his wrists, fist it, tug on it... Bury his face in it. He already had personal knowledge of how far he would have to bend to inhale her citrus-and-flowers scent. As small as she was, he could completely surround her. Until he met Sophie Armstrong, tall, statuesque women had been his type. But now...now he got the lure of a petite woman he could cover with his bigger body. She triggered a primal, almost animalistic desire in him to take down and conquer her even as he did everything in his power to drown her in pleasure. Not that Sophie would take anything easily. No, he imagined she gave as good as she got in bed as much as she did out...
Molten heat swarmed through him at the thought of holding those slender, strong arms above her head, pressing his chest to her small, firm breasts, having those toned thighs clasping his waist as he drove inside her. She would be so tight, so perfect, damn near strangling his dick.
As if sensing his scrutiny, Sophie glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze. Surprise flickered over her face, her gray eyes widening slightly. He wanted them to do that when he first pushed into her sex. Hungered to see them darken like they did now as she slid a long glance down his body, and he swore he could feel that perusal as if her fingertips brushed over his collarbone, chest, abs, thighs...cock. Blood rushed to his flesh, thickening it behind the zipper of his pants. Hell yes, he wanted that touch on his bare skin, light then hard. Gentle then bruising. Yeah, he wanted this fairy of a woman to mark him.
A frigid blast of ice skated over his skin, digging farther to muscle and bone so he was chilled from the inside out.
Of all the women he could get hard over, Sophie Armstrong, reporter for the Falling Brook Chronicle, was the absolute last. Just this morning hadn’t he witnessed the evidence of her recent rehashing of the scandal with his father in the creases on his mother’s face and in the slump of her stooped shoulders? Haley might have managed to nab the paper before it was delivered to his mother’s home, but Eve had overheard the maid and butler talking about it in hushed tones. And she’d demanded to see the paper. Reading that article had taken a toll on her.
So even with Sophie’s offer to help him determine if the paternity accusation was true or not, he could never trust her. Could never believe that he wasn’t just the means to another juicy story. Who knew what her follow-up article would contain? Why the fuck did he agree to it?
No. Sophie was a threat to his business, his family...to his sanity.
But he’d never been led around by his dick, and he wouldn’t start a new trend now.
Still, as her lush mouth curled into a smile, he had to remind his body of that.
He tossed his still-full cup in the trash and crossed the room toward her, because no way in hell would he run from her. Or the need that strung his body so tight. It was a wonder he didn’t snap in two at the slightest movement.
“Sophie,” he greeted, for the first time thankful for the avaricious media and eyes that forced him to perfect a mask of indifference. He swept a glance over the laptop bag that hung near her hip. “Working?”
“Yes, but from home today. I’m a creature of habit, though. Every morning I stop in here for a coffee and their cinnamon-and-brown-sugar scones. Have you had them yet? They’re God’s way of saying He loves us.”
She released a throaty hum that had his gut clenching. Hard. He wanted to hear it again even as he longed to
