Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)

Kensington Consolidated’s offices are just as massive and imposing as I expected. The path up to the entrance of the building is immaculately landscaped, a fountain located just outside doors that require a keycard to enter.

Oliver’s hand falls to my lower back, guiding me through the door in front of him.

A middle-aged man is seated at the desk that sits in the center of the massive glass lobby, decorated by couches and plants.

“Evening, Mr. Kensington.”

Oliver nods at the man, who eyes me curiously. He has to swipe a keycard to get to the elevators, and again when we’re inside.

I lean against the wall, watching the digital numbers above the buttons tick higher and higher as we ascend.

Oliver is typing on his phone, a furrow formed between his eyes.

Coming here was probably a bad call. When Oliver said he had to come back to the office after dinner, I should have asked him to drop me off at my hotel. Instead, I said I didn’t mind stopping.

I’m curious about this central component of his life. This building that he spends so much time at, and this piece of his identity that’s tied up with his family’s company.

And I also don’t want tonight to end. Not yet.

I don’t know if I consider tonight a date. I don’t know if Oliver does.

But I do know it’s the best one I’ve ever been on. Even with the detour to a skyscraper.

The doors ding open. Oliver slides his phone back into his pocket, waiting for me to walk out first. Automatic lights flicker to life, bouncing off the glass fronts of the offices that line this hall. Everything is immaculate and expensive looking.

“I’m at the end.”

I follow Oliver, walking past the long line of dark offices. It’s eerie how quiet and still our surroundings are. Like we’re the only two people in the world right now.

There’s an open cubicle just outside the door that leads into Oliver’s office. “That’s where my assistant, Alicia, sits,” he tells me. “She’s been with me since I started here.”

I glance at the two photos on the desk. One is a wedding portrait of a smiling couple. The other is of two kids sitting on a rock formation. Some petty part of me is relieved to know his assistant is married with children instead of single.

Oliver keeps walking into his office. No lights turn on; the only brightness is what’s spilling in from the hallway. And from the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the far wall of the office, displaying a dazzling view of New York’s iconic skyline.

I head straight for the windows, pressing a hand against the cold glass. From this height, it feels like I could fall forward right into the skyscrapers.

Fingers tap against keys.

I turn to see Oliver leaning over his computer, focused on whatever he came back to work on. There aren’t any framed photographs on his desk. I stroll past it, over toward the leather couch. I sink onto the soft surface, shrugging off my trench coat. It’s much warmer in here than it was outside.

My phone screen is covered with messages. From my father, from Rachel, from Rosie.

I toss my phone away and stand, strolling over to the tall bookcase and skimming the spines. They’re all business or law books, with long names. Ornamental more than functional, I’d guess.

“All set.”

I spin, watching Oliver stand and shut off the computer.

“That was fast.”

“I just had to send something. Forgot to earlier.”

I reach the side of his desk, skimming my fingers across the flawless surface. My heart thuds out a steady rhythm in my chest as I inch backward, resting against the imposing, massive desk.

Oliver stills, his eyes tracking my every movement like a predator eyeing prey. The difference is, I want him to pounce. I crave seeing that leashed control shatter.

More of the desk supports my weight as my thighs part. Barely, but enough to catch his notice. Tension coils in the still air between us, the tangible tang of uncertainty and desperation humming between us. The acknowledgment we want to do this but shouldn’t.

I decide to push, spreading my legs a little further. My dress inches higher. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Kensington?”

Oliver’s lips quirk, but he shakes his head, not moving. “Hannah…”

“You called me Ms. Garner when you asked for this report.” I bite my bottom lip, then bat my eyelashes. “Did I mess up the deliverables? Or the quarterly statements? Are you calling me Hannah because you’re about to fire me?”

Oliver’s jaw tightens as he studies me, deliberating.

The twinkling lights of the city mix with the soft glow of the moon streaming in through the windows. I can’t make out his whole expression, but I can see the taut line of his jaw. The broad spread of his shoulders.

“Is this a fantasy?” I whisper. “In your office, where you give orders and decide big, important things? You’re here late at night with a secretary or a coworker and she keeps leaning forward, teasing you until…”

I grip the edge of the desk and slide back, the smooth material of my dress easily gliding against the varnished wood. My knees part until I’m exposed, and I moan when cool air brushes against the wetness between my legs. Deliberately, I tug the hem of my dress an inch higher.

Finally, Oliver moves. He takes a step. Only one, and my body reacts with a jolt. “You want to know my fantasy, Hannah?” Another step. “My fantasy isn’t fucking a woman in my office, Hannah. It’s fucking you.”

He moves closer, but he doesn’t touch me where I’m hoping. He winds a piece of my hair around his finger, tugging gently. There’s nothing sexual about it. It’s sweet. Affectionate. Familiar.

I swallow, lust trickling back into my bloodstream in response. But it’s not the wild, wanton urge that landed me on this desk. It’s focused and intentional, thrumming an insistent pulse between my legs.

I want him, specifically. The intensity of it scares me a little.

Oliver releases the piece of my hair, only to wrap all of it around his hand, pulling my entire head back. His other hand lands on my thigh, the heat of it searing into my skin like a brand. “Tell me no.”

I suck in a deep breath. But no words escape. I can feel him thickening against me, hot and huge and hard.

“Tell me no, Hannah.” His voice is deeper now. Darker. Too easy to fall into.

I should say no. We both know it. Just like we both know that he shouldn’t have called me. That we shouldn’t have gone to dinner. That I should’ve asked him to drop me off at my hotel.

We’ve both toppled dominos, then looked away as they’ve fallen. Pretended we weren’t the ones who pushed them over.

And even if we don’t admit it, this is more than amicable strangers seeking a divorce. More than staying on civil terms. More than attraction or lust.

I acknowledge that truth to myself, at least, as the firm ridge of his desk digs into my skin. There’s a flash of déjà vu as we face each other, this moment so similar to the charged one in my kitchen.

“Have you been here before?”

There’s a tiny jolt of surprise. Oliver has never brought Crew up.

He’s revealing a tiny flicker of insecurity, one I didn’t realize existed. In order to care about my history with his brother, he’d have to care, period.

“No.” I swallow, choosing my next words carefully. “He was easy to explain to Rosie, Oliver. You’re…not.”

“I keep having this dream,” Oliver says, his grip tightening on my leg the same way it clasped around my hand. “Where you’re standing across from me in a church and your lips are moving, but I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“I’m probably promising to love and cherish you in sickness and health, for richer or for poorer …” My voice trails, dampened by the burning intensity in his gaze.

“I wish I remembered,” he confesses. His hold on me tightens, and I know the fuse is lit. Can practically see it burning, racing toward explosion.

“Drunk people do things they want to, not things they don’t.”

“What the fuck does that say about us?” Oliver asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

But what I do know is it’s no longer a mystery to me, why I married him. My hazy memories from the night we got married are still incorporeal. This isn’t, though. Feeling this lust and comfort and intensity every day isn’t a fate I’d shy away from. Some part of me recognized that first night we met.

He exhales as we teeter on a knife’s edge.

For tonight, at least, I know where I want to fall.

My hands press against his stomach, the ridges of his abdomen prominent even through the cotton shirt he’s wearing. I move lower, gripping the firm leather of his belt.

“Tell me to,” I whisper.

His exhale is ragged and rough, as my hand drifts lower to drag across his crotch. It’s a rush, feeling him respond. Knowing his body can’t lie, even if his mouth does.

“If you think I’ll deny you anything, you haven’t been paying close attention.” The words are low and gruff. And then his hands are brushing against mine, unbuckling his belt.

I clench against nothing, desperate to have him inside of me.

“You sure you want this, Hannah?”

“I’m sure.”

He tugs his pants down just low enough to free his cock. I reach forward, gripping his erection tightly, memorizing the shape and weight. Savoring every stroke as I draw the anticipation out.

“Lean back and close your eyes.”

Breath catches in my throat as I comply. The wood of his desk is hard and unyielding against my spine.

The callouses on his hands rasp against my skin as they shove my dress higher and tug my soaked thong down.

I know what’s coming, when his palm presses against my inner thigh until I feel the burn of my muscles stretching fully spread. But I’m in no way prepared for the slick heat of his tongue exploring tracing circles around my clit, sparking electricity everywhere.

His touch is teasing, a kiss on the inside of my knee or just above my hipbone before he’s back between my legs. There’s a dull roar in my ears as my body arches, my instinct to push closer to the pressure no matter how desperate it makes me look.

I’m lost to lust, desire eradicating every logical, nuanced instinct.

“More,” I moan, lifting my hips.

Oliver chuckles, and I feel it reverberate against the sensitive flesh. “I’m never going to be able to work at this fucking desk again without picturing you like this.”

Good, I think.

Because he’s infiltrated my life in LA. I think of him in the passenger seat of my car. Playing croquet in my parents’ backyard. Making me come in the bed I sleep in every night.

The pleasure grows, stoked like a fire finding fresh wood. I’m closer and closer, my breath coming faster and my heart racing as Oliver matches my urgency, his tongue swirling and his teeth nipping.

And then I’m flying, propelled by an invisible force that flings me into nothingness and then pieces me back together until I’m back on Oliver’s desk, panting and relaxed as the aftershocks of my orgasm tremble through me. If we were really married, I’d beg him to do that to me every morning. Scream until I was hoarse.

A satisfied smile spreads across his face as he takes in my heaving chest and heavy eyelids.

I force myself to sit up, grabbing the cock that’s turned an angry shade of purply red. Engorged and leaking, pulsing in my hand. I pump the tip, and he hisses.

“You have a condom?”

He’s already pulling out his wallet. A piece of paper falls out when he grabs the foil packet. I don’t realize what it is until I catch a glimpse of the writing on it before he carefully tucks it away.

“Seemed silly to actually burn it,” Oliver mutters, grabbing the foil packet and ripping it open with his teeth.

I watch as he grips his dick and rolls the rubber on. Suck on my bottom lip, as the tip teases my entrance, sliding through the evidence of my arousal.

Oliver grunts as he starts to press inside of me, his fingers digging into my hips. My thighs tremble from the effort of holding open and the burn of him stretching me.

My breath comes in gasps and lurches, trying to acquaint myself with the sensation of him inside of me and also recognizing it’s an impossible task.

Oliver’s breathing is just as erratic, his abs clenching as he pushes in deeper. I can see each inch, watch as it disappears. Feel my inner muscles pulse around his thick length and notice the tendons in his arms tense, holding himself back.

I’m not sure if anything has felt better than the wet heat of his mouth tugging on one nipple, sucking it to a raised point as a fresh shock of electricity races through me.

Jagged pants spill out of my mouth as I rock against him, trying to erase all the distance between us and force more friction.

My breathing is loud and needy. All I can hear in the quiet space. I hiss his name, scrabbling at his back as I grip his shirt. It’s too good—too much.

And then I’m flying, staring out at a dazzling view of the city.

Wondering how I’ll be able to return to LA, after experiencing this.