Devoured - Cathryn Fox Page 0,69
Sterling nor I are as resolute as Hudson, who’s made venture capitalism—risky money-making that makes the world’s top financiers quail—a contact sport. But then neither of us has experienced the uncertainty of Hudson’s early life growing up in the foster system. His drivers are understandable. And his success is an aphrodisiac. Not that he needs to wield one. Not with that sculpted face and virile body that I can confirm he knows how to use.
And tonight, for some reason, I’m struggling to ignore the potent combination.
Tiny flecks of gold shimmer in his irises. ‘In the right situation, I’d have to agree with you about the climax, Dove. I’ll concede this one point.’ He raises his glass. ‘Cheers.’
I smile, awash with happy hormones. ‘To Tokyo—there’s nothing better than a day of good business and good company in one of my favourite cities in the world.’
Well, perhaps one thing... But we can’t go there again. We’re colleagues. Friends.
With his unrestrained smile, Hudson relaxes back into the sofa, his glass resting on his flat stomach. It’s a captivating sight. I’m so used to seeing him in control, being inspiring, authoritative. I watch him with renewed fascination, as if noticing him for the first time. His broad chest strains against the fabric of his shirt, his muscular arm bulging where he rests, one hand behind his head, his long, powerful legs stretched out.
He settles his stare on me, and that sexual heat we seem to be generating fires my endorphins. This is dangerous.
‘It’s a shame Sterling couldn’t make it,’ Hudson says. ‘I had plans to take you both to a new saké bar this week.’ He rubs at the sexy five o’clock shadow on his strong jaw.
I’m momentarily distracted by the disarray of his usually tamed dark hair. My fingers itch as if my hands were once more responsible. But the reminder that Sterling should be here douses the perilous direction of my thoughts. I nod, genuinely sorry that he was detained by his cousin’s funeral. A few times a year the three of us meet face-to-face to reconnect, brainstorm and plan long-term strategies for Bold, rotating Tokyo, London and New York, where Sterling lives.
‘We’ll catch up in London next week instead,’ I say, referring to the impromptu meet-up we’ve brought forward. ‘Besides, I can’t make it tonight.’ I smooth a wrinkle from my skirt, ignoring the irrational sinking feeling in my stomach. ‘I have a date.’
I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable admitting this to him, but I do. It’s as if my body missed the memo that I’m not supposed to find Hudson Black sexy. That I’m supposed to forget that one time and how it ruined me for mediocre sex. That I shouldn’t be flirting with him just because we’re alone. I swallow another sip of Scotch to chase off the errant feelings I don’t wish to analyse.
Hudson’s cognac-brown eyes trace my face thoughtfully. ‘I wasn’t thinking of tonight. I have a date too.’
Misplaced disappointment pricks my skin. Silly, because my head is telling me that Hudson and I have been there, done that. That our pretty fierce attraction—there from the day we met—is contained. But he’s always been my type. Only after Sterling and I divorced did any thoughts that weren’t strictly professional enter my consciousness.
I loved Sterling. I still do; we just didn’t work out.
The night Hudson and I crossed the line three years ago I was feeling lonely and disheartened after the divorce. Sterling had just announced he was leaving the London office, where we all worked at the time, and moving back to New York where he grew up. We’d been a little shell-shocked. Once Sterling left, Hudson and I lingered for a drink. Neither of us took a single sip. But it felt good to get it over with and put our chemistry behind us, although sex that good had been far from a chore.
‘Oh, look at the sky over the bay.’ I change the subject. I don’t want to think about Hudson sleeping with some lucky woman tonight. ‘That looks ominous.’
A large mass of white cirrus clouds obliterates the horizon over Tokyo Bay. The sunset has turned even darker, gloomy and foreboding.
I shiver and curl my feet under me on the sofa.
‘There’s a storm due tonight,’ he says. ‘Typhoon Kano. It’s not predicted to reach land, though.’ He stretches his arm along the back of the sofa, distracting me from the change in the weather with his spicy male scent. ‘What time is your date?’
‘Dinner at eight.’ I