Somewhere Along The Line

11. Piper

I close the door behind me and turn to collapse against it, sliding down until my butt is on the floor and my head is between my knees. My brain is a jumble of questions, my heart a tangle of emotions.

I don’t know how to make sense of this morning, of James opening up, existing outside of the parameters I’d created for him, kissing me like a man who wants something.

Even more, how do I process the fact that I liked it? And not just the kiss, although it was a hell of a kiss, the best kiss of my life… but also his hand on my leg, his playfulness, and the way he looked at me while talking about his mom?

A few weeks ago, I would’ve sworn I knew the kind of guy he must be. I was certain James Newhouse was a means to an end, a way to Robin Hood from Big Finance for the sake of my budget. The plan was to save a little money and make the morning commute more fun.

It wasn’t to end up in a legal proceeding and then start falling for a guy who is exactly the type I swore I’d stay away from.

Except maybe James isn’t that type, and the possibility is scaring the shit out of me. I grab my phone and open my text thread with Sami.

God, I love her and hate her.

I won’t mention I might have if I’d let him come inside. Shit—there’s another phrase, “come inside,” I need to not think while thinking about him.

I take a breath, her words settling into my bones as I read them. Then the three dots appear: Sami’s still typing.

I’m back at my desk, typing up an event flow to stay busy while I wait for five o’clock. I’ve gotta give it to James for one thing—I’ve never been as productive in my life as I have these past few days, if only to keep my brain from lingering on our kiss.

If this event is a success, he’ll be responsible for most of it and Sami for the rest. We spent the weekend making table cards and centerpieces, incorporating prints of her watercolors throughout the decor. The ballroom will be stunning when the place is decorated.

My fingers tap fervently on my keyboard while I work myself up for what’s coming next. The gala, of course, but not until Saturday. I need to make it through the practice session with James first.

Which happens tonight.

At his house.

Just the two of us.

Alone.

The clock strikes five. I slam my computer shut and retrieve the pieces of myself that I’ve scattered across my desk. My water bottle, my notebook, my collection of rollerball pens, and the remains of my half-eaten snacks. I don’t think we’re getting dinner tonight, James and I, so I might need those snacks later.

I stop by Sadye’s desk on my way out to check on the gala’s setlist, pleased with myself for assigning the task to our Gen Z intern who knows the current songs from TikTok. I couldn’t name them if you paid me.

It’s not too far of a walk from my office to James’s, which makes sense given that we get off at the same train stop even though we work in opposite directions. Unease creeps into my throat as I enter the financial district. It’s a lingering side effect of my past that I typically avoid by never coming down here.

I slip through the revolving door of James’s building and am dropped into the lobby like an alien to Planet Corporate, complete with a band tee and pleated skirt.

“I’m here for James Newhouse at Trion.”

The security guard at the desk waves me through quickly without stopping to question what I’m doing here. The elevator opens on the twelfth floor, directly into Trion’s office space.

Turns out finance has a smell, and it greets me immediately as I step into the foyer. It’s something like printers burning through paper mixed with cologne and the high-end leather of conference room chairs.

It’s achingly familiar.

A man strides around the corner and stops, taking me in and trying to place why I’m here. A smile creeps up his face. “Yo, Newhouse!” He swings his head around with a shout, “I think someone’s here for you.”

I don’t know who this man is, but he must know who I am… or at least he knows James is expecting someone. By the look on his face, the same subtle glee sweeping across it I recognize from Sami lately, James has told him plenty about me.

“I’m Piper,” I say with fake confidence, extending my hand which he shakes with a firm grasp.

“Oh, I know,” he says with a smirk before putting on a professional smile as James turns the corner. He punches James in the shoulder which prompts an immediate eye roll before he shoots me a look. “I’m Kyle, I work with this guy.”

“Kyle and I go way back,” James says apologetically. “We were in the same investment banking analyst class almost ten years ago.”

“And we had fun, didn’t we?” Kyle is ribbing on him and it’s making him flustered; I get the sense he wanted to sneak out unnoticed.

“Yeah… I wouldn’t call it fun ,” he says with a sigh, rocking back on his heels, “but it was something.”

“That it was, my man. That. it. was.” Kyle turns back to me, leaning in like he has a secret, his hand cupping his mouth. “You see, Old James here,” he points at him with his thumb, “it might seem like he’s a hard-ass but I can tell you with confidence, he only has a hard ass, he really isn’t one.”

With that, James grabs my arm and pushes past Kyle, shepherding us to the elevator and jamming the down button at least eight times.

“Have a great time! Make good choices!” Kyle taunts with a laugh as we wait for the doors to open. James slides his hand down his face and takes a deep breath before shaking out his arms.

“Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly as we enter the elevator and head down to G. “Kyle is… he’s something else.”

“I gathered that.” My words come out with a lilt of amusement; I’m not bothered by the interaction with Kyle, even if he is.

“I should’ve met you in the lobby. Sorry, I lost track of time; I didn't realize it was already 5:20.” He shrugs with regret.

“James, I’m telling you, that conversation was the most fun I’ve had all day. Give Kyle my regards and thank him for the extra serotonin.” My shoulder nudges his side, and he ekes out a small smile. We walk through the lobby, and he waves at the guard before we enter the revolving door, both of us in the same bay.

It’s brief, of course, but it’s tight, his front against my back as he reaches around me to push the door forward. God, he smells good . It sends a shiver down the back of my neck to have him pressed against me, even for five seconds.

I let him lead the way to the station, and just like a week ago, there’s something lovely about boarding the train together, stepping into a space that is ours versus his or mine. We find our seats on the left and crash, my leg rolling into his as we settle. It stays there, my knee pressed against his thigh as we ride.

“So, tell me,” I turn toward him with a grin, “what do you have planned for this evening of ours? It can’t be murder because Sami is busy tonight.” Making a joke about homicide is not the right move, but my words spill out before my brain stops them. He already knows this about me.

“To be honest, murder sounds like way more of a mess than I could handle, and frankly, I’d miss you too much to go through with it.”

“Don’t lie, you’d just miss my sausage balls. The recipe is online and it’s literally four ingredients that you—”

James shoots me a look before cutting me off. “I’d miss a lot of things about you, Pipes. The sausage balls wouldn’t make the top ten.” He says this with a gruff laugh.

What would be on his top ten list? I’m desperate to know, but I don’t push him.

“I don’t have anything planned, to be honest,” he says, both of us thankful to move away from murder talk. “I figured we’d talk through some questions, get to the bottom of what you’re nervous about, and sort through it.”

“I can do that,” I reply.

He slides his hand to my leg before adding, “I know you can.”

His fingers press into the fabric of my skirt, and it feels different after our kiss on Friday. Before, this touch felt friendly, comforting. Now, it’s a trap door, a pit of decisions we might regret lying below it.

The seven-minute walk from the station to James’s house goes by quickly. I follow him up the steps to the porch, James jostling the key in the lock as I wait behind him.

This is a bad idea, being together at his house, but I’m not sure where else we could do this—practice a cross-examination and allow me to work out my nerves. He holds the door open, ushering me in.

It’s shocking how sterile his home is, though perhaps it shouldn’t be. There are no signs of life other than the shoes James just kicked off behind me and the keys he hangs on a hook just above. I follow the hall until it drops into the main living area. Beautifully open concept, he has a white, modern kitchen with barstools lining a granite counter, an adjacent dining area, and a family room separated from the kitchen with a stand-alone, two-way fireplace.

I glance around, looking for crumbs (literally and figuratively) to inform who this man is and how he lives. Does he keep any food in the fridge? Probably not. There isn’t a single magnet on either door, no invitations or announcements covering the stainless steel like the patchwork of friends and family Sami and I display in our kitchen.

I can’t imagine what he’s paying each month to only sleep here.

My eyes catch a flier tucked near an empty fruit bowl on the counter and I recognize it instantly. Heat rises to my face, reddening the tips of my ears as I stare at the donation drive postcard Hope First mailed last month. Of course he received one; his address is well within our target region for promotions like this.

But why did James keep it?

A quick glance around confirms there’s barely enough stuff in this house for one person to survive—certainly nothing extra to donate. I rifle through memories of our prior conversations, looking for any mention of the name of the organization where I work.

Does he know I work for Hope First? I can’t imagine that he is holding onto the flier because it’s tied to me… but I also can’t ignore the possibility. I push the thought away as he comes up behind me, taking my coat and pointing me to the couch.

“It’s uh… a work in progress, as you can see.” He gestures to the space, all clean lines and empty shelves.

“Did you move in here recently?” I ask, trying to keep things light as we settle into our respective sides of the sofa, the leather dipping under each of us.

“About five years ago, actually.” He confesses this with a wince like he’s embarrassed for me to see him here. He can’t hide behind his usual armor of a put-together appearance. I delight in the knowledge that he is, in fact, human.

“It’s a wonderful home! I mean it. This place has loads of potential. If you want, I could connect you to Sami, or rather, re-connect you. She’s an artist and specializes in home decor. She’s the one who got me into painting, actually.”

He adjusts his position, his legs spilling wide as he settles deep into the seat of the couch, turning towards me. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need you to blow smoke up my ass about how lovely and homey my house is when we both know it’s not. It’s fine for now. For me, I mean. Let’s start with the task at hand, yeah?”

James is flustered having me here on his couch, and I can’t help but take the opportunity to make it worse. “Noted. No kindness for the rest of the night, and I’ll keep myself away from your ass as well.”

This might be my new favorite thing, poking James with something suggestive to see how he responds. He runs his hand down his face and gives his head a slight shake like he can’t believe this is his life right now.

It’s a good look for him.

Gathering his resolve, he stands. His energy shifts as he heads toward the kitchen, losing the nerves and picking up something authoritative. He returns with a stool and sets it opposite his spot on the sofa. A mischievous new gleam sparks in his eyes.

“So, she’s here to play.” He smirks as he settles himself back into the divot in the leather he left a minute before. Gesturing to the stool, he doesn’t break eye contact. “Sit.”

“Why do I get the stool and you get the couch? The stool is hard and cold! You could at least grab me a pillow,” I say in protest, while still uncrossing my legs as I prepare to change locations.

“Being on the stand won’t be comfortable and the purpose of this exercise is to let you practice. Like I said, sit.”

The confidence in his voice makes me suddenly aware of the pressure gathering between my legs.

I do as I’m told and now we’re facing each other, two feet between my shins and his, our eyes locked.

“Atta girl,” he praises with a nod.

So, he’s here to play too.

My skin prickles with a heat I try to ignore.

I study this Bossy James with purpose, certain this is my new favorite iteration of him. I've met Corporate James, Gracious James, Protective James, even Angry James. But Bossy James is something else entirely.

So much of the time, James seems to slip into roles, putting on the persona someone needs at the moment, his behavior informed from the outside in. This though, whatever this is, is coming from the inside out.

“And now we do what, exactly? You ask me questions and I answer them?” This was the plan, after all, to do a practice examination before a possible trial. James and I both know that banking on me being an articulate person in real time is too much of a risk.

“I’ll ask you some questions, yes. The lawyer could ask you all sorts of things on the stand, but I don’t think the specific questions matter. The goal isn’t to flesh out your answers, it’s to practice managing your nerves.”

He looks determined, a glint in his blue eyes that makes my heart flutter.

I wish he was closer.

“Gotcha. You must assume, then, that you can make me nervous?” The line I’m walking is paper-thin and we both know it.

“I don’t assume.” James gives a cocky smile. “I’m sure of it.” His eyes dart down to my mouth and linger a second before meeting up with mine. “What’s your name?”

“Piper Paulson.”

“Good. And where were you at 7:26 a.m. on September 28th?”

“I boarded the B Line at Roosevelt, heading toward downtown, in the third car. I always enter the third car.”

“Great. Did anything seem amiss when you boarded the train?”

“No, though I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. I saw an open seat and made my way to it.”

“Why did you choose that seat?” The smirk returns to James’s face, and I lean forward to shove at his knees.

“They’re not going to ask me that, James!” I huff as he breaks out in a laugh. He must be tallying a point for J on his mental scoreboard.

“Your reaction is why we’re doing this, Pipes. You tried to talk a big game a second ago about me not being able to fluster you. Show me that you can control yourself.”

“You’re trouble,” I muse. He doesn’t understand just how much.

“Answer the question.”

“I chose the seat because I wanted to sit next to you.”

“Uh-huh. And why was that?” James pitches forward, his hands dropping between his knees, stony blue eyes stuck on mine. Why did I agree to this exercise, again?

“I sat next to you because I had something to give you.”

“Was that the only reason? You’re under oath, remember.”

“But I’m not!” Thrusting my arms out in front of me, I wave maniacally. “We’re in your living room, James. These questions aren’t going to help when I get on the stand, and you know it. You’re just messing with me.”

“Am I?” He slides closer to me, sitting on the very edge of the cushion with his forearms resting on his thighs. Our knees almost touch. “Because when we decided to see this agreement through you told me your concerns. You knew that managing your anxiety could be a problem. I told you then and I’m telling you now that I can handle you, but you have to let me. I’m doing my job here—focus on yours.”

I settle my butt on the stool, accepting that I can’t worm my way out of this exercise. He has a point. James is making me nervous, and I am not managing it well.

“Fine. I sat next to you because I had something to give you and I wanted to talk to you.”

“That wasn’t so hard, yeah?” I roll my eyes for dramatic effect. “And what happened next?”

“You offended me by suggesting I wouldn’t hold up my end of our bargain.”

“I did.” He nods.

“And then you put your hand on my leg and apologized.”

“I did.” A stark pause hangs between us. “I’m surprised you remember that. It was only for a second.”

Breaking character, a pleased expression warms his face, as though his memory of that fleeting moment cracks something open within him… just like it does for me.

“And after that?”

“There was a loud noise, a pop or a bang, and I thought it was a bomb or maybe a gun. I dove for cover between the seats.”

“Of course. Were you alone?” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he holds eye contact.

“No. I was with you.”

He rolls up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, exposing his forearms as he folds the fabric to his elbows. I try not to look. The tension between us is like a guitar string pulled taut, one that would snap with one more turn of the knob.

With every question, James twists the string tighter.

I won’t be the one to break, even though I want to . Letting go of control, letting James get me all riled up to bring me back down again… it’s an inviting idea. The building ache between my legs is at war with my brain about tonight’s preferred outcome, and I realize I’m not just sparring with James. I’m also fighting myself.

“Can you describe your position?”

My attention snaps back to James’s face, his eyes darker, intent, his eyebrows furrowed.

“You were sitting on the floor, your back facing the aisle of the train car. I curled myself into a ball, tucking up my knees and settling between your hips. My head was under your collarbone, and you wrapped your arms around my back.”

He stands, and I watch him walk a half circle until he’s directly behind the stool. My heart leaps into my throat as he stops there, draping his arms over my shoulders and hugging me tightly from behind.

“Like this?”

The warmth of his breath on my neck makes my blood hum. “Not quite,” I whisper, turning my face into the crook of his arm. “We were chest-to-chest; I was facing you. Right now, we’re back-to-chest.”

“Is that a problem?”

A whimper escapes my throat as he nudges back my hair and presses his mouth to the delicate skin under my jaw.

“No. It’s… goodness, James…”

He kisses a line from my ear to my collarbone, my head stretching in response to give him more access. It makes me light-headed.

“Focus, Piper. You need to control yourself.”

I strain to remember the question, his body pressed against mine and the words coming out of his mouth an impressive distraction. “No…it’s… not a problem.”

“Good.” His voice is soft in my ear, quiet and familiar, before he gives the lobe a gentle bite. “What else do you remember?”

“You held me there on the train, tracing circles on my back, gripping my sides, encouraging me to breathe, reminding me I’m safe.”

James’s hands echo his movements from that morning, holding my arms tightly within his, his fingers splayed across my ribs.

“You are safe.” Breathing deeply, he nuzzles his face into my hair before releasing a contented sigh. “You’re safe with me.” His hands move slowly to the curve of my waist, pressing in gently. “You can be fine or not fine, okay or not okay, but you’ll never be unsafe. Not with me.”

A shaky exhale is all I can muster.

With all the pushing and pulling, teasing and bartering, disagreements and compromises and compromising situations , I’ve felt a lot of things for and with James Newhouse.

But never once have I felt like he’s reckless with me. He makes me feel like I could collapse into a puddle or explode like a geyser, my heart seeping in every possible direction, and that he’d wait patiently to dam me in.

“Can I touch you?” He says it in a whisper, his tone a mix of tenderness and hunger as he strokes up my sides, slipping under the hem of my shirt. I nod, hoping it’s enough encouragement for his hands to move where I want them.

“I need you to say it.” It’s both dominance and deference, this demand, and it turns my insides molten.

“Yes. Please, James.”

He groans at the sound of his name on my lips, his hands drawing up to my breasts as he sucks gently behind my ear. I’m impatient to bring my mouth to his and my hands to his chest, returning the favor. “Do you want me to turn around? I can turn around.”

“No, I want you right here, exactly like this.” He slips a hand under my bra, twisting my nipple and making it hard, pulling a moan from my throat as he tugs. His head is tucked into the crook of my neck, the stubble on his chin grazing my shoulder every time he exhales, lightly tickling.

He peels off my shirt and then my bra, and both land at my feet. Somehow, he manages to do this while keeping his lips on my skin.

He moves achingly slow, touching and tasting like he's cataloging my body and my response to his touch. We’re working in tandem this way, the arching of my back and my whimpering sighs charting a path he attentively follows.

“Please, James…”

I want all of him—his hands, his mouth, his abs, and what lies lower. I’m frenzied by the need building in my center. If he senses my growing urgency, he doesn’t match it.

His left hand is on my breast, pinching my nipple and rolling it between his fingers as I squirm within his arms. His right hand traces my stomach before ducking beneath the waistband of my skirt and resting on the lace of my panties.

I need him to touch me, to diffuse the tension that’s pulsing through every inch of my body.

“Please what?” he whispers, tapping his thumb once to the most sensitive part of me and sending electricity crackling through my limbs.

“Please touch me,” I whine, sliding forward on the stool to press myself into his hand. He tightens his grip on my breast, pulling me back against him.

“Here?” He moves his fingers along the front of me, stopping where I’m wet—he can feel it through the layer between us. “Shit,” he says with a groan, and I can feel his hand trembling. He wants this as much as I do.

James brings his hand back to the top of the lace and then slips under, his palm cupping me briefly as he takes a composing breath. He puts his mouth to my ear, and I swear I might die if he doesn’t start moving.

“I want you to focus, Piper, on my thumb moving against you, my fingers parting you and slipping inside, my hand on your tit, my mouth on your neck. I want you to feel every bit of it.”

There’s no time for shock at James’s words because his hand starts moving in rhythm, pulsing right where I need it, making me gasp. He works slowly at first, building momentum to match the rise and fall of my breath. He sucks on my neck between whispers of encouragement, each praise pushing me higher.

That’s it.

You’re perfect, you know that?

I’ve got you.

Shit, Piper, you feel so good.

Go on, come for me.

I break apart as soon as those last words hit my ear, waves of pleasure crashing down as I collapse into him. James sweeps his left arm across my chest to steady me, his right hand drawing out every bit of my orgasm.

We breathe heavily in unison, stuttering inhales and exhales as I come back down. He wraps me up in his arms, keeping me tight to him as he dots kisses along my hairline.

I gasp out a laugh, startling him as I straighten.

“That bad?” He comes around to my front, his eyes glinting brightly as a smile creeps up his cheeks.

“ That good. ” I chuckle, my face flushed and my hands trembling as he takes them in his, walking backward toward the couch and pulling me off the stool to follow. “I never imagined you’d make me come before I’ve even seen you shirtless.”

It feels like it should be awkward, this acknowledgment that I’ve bared more of myself than he has. However, on second thought, he didn’t hold back from giving me so much of himself just a moment ago.

“Let me fix that.” Slowly, James unbuttons and then peels off his shirt. This man is something else—defined muscles typically tucked away behind starched cotton; brazen sexiness hidden under unassuming sweetness.

I don’t take for granted he’s offered me both sides of himself. As if to prove the point, he draws me onto his lap, taking my face in his hands as he finds my mouth for a kiss that’s equal parts hungry and reverent.