Page 9 of Inventing Mr Darcy

“What’s one kiss between friends?” I say, stretching onto my tiptoes.

I feel a hint of wetness, like maybe he’s licked his lips. “But we’re not friends.”

And really, I can’t argue with that.

All the ordinary first-kiss awkwardness is made worse by the fact we can’t see what we’re doing. His lips collide with my nose, and when I’m trying to wrap my arms around his neck and pull his head closer, I stick my finger in his ear and then knock his glasses off his face. “Oh, sorry,” I say as they clatter to the floor. “I hope they’re not broken.”

Beneath my hands, I feel him shrug. “Right now, I really don’t care.”

Finally, our mouths find each other. His prior concern about my too full lips seems to have been forgotten. He kisses me like he’s been waiting an eternity for this moment: he’s reverent, sweet, and hungry all at once.

With gentle pressure, he steers me backward until my back is against the door and I’m pinned between unyielding metal and his hard body. Honestly, it’s a relief, the sensation of being anchored to something solid when you’re surrounded by a sea of black.

This might not be the smartest thing two allegedly smart people have ever done, but I promise you, no matter what a careful, reasonable person you are, if you find yourself in a similar situation and it feels like the world might end at any moment, you aren’t going to play it perfectly safe. We’re all mad here, as the Cheshire Cat says.

I tilt my head to give Fisher greater access as he slants his mouth over mine, licking into me before dragging his lips along my jaw and down my throat. He’s tall, six foot two at least, and I’m not, so he has to hunch over to reach me. But just as I start to feel a little sorry for him—he can’t be comfortable in this position—he problem solves: his hands skate down my body, and he grips my thighs just below my butt and, with a sexy grunt that has nothing to do with effort, hoists me up to straddle his waist.

I guess I always thought that kind of maneuver only happened in romance novels. After all, it requires a lot of athleticism, especially from the partner doing the lifting.

But it’s immediately clear to me that Fisher does not skip leg day.

Holy shit, this is hot. In my wildest dreams I never imagined this side of him. Even through my jeans, I can feel his arousal. As his tongue strokes deeper into my mouth and his fingers dig into my ass, I run my hands over his arms, his shoulders, his back, every inch of him I can reach—mostly to keep myself from grinding my pelvis against his.

Just as I’m on the verge of surrendering every shred of good sense, the room whirs to life around us in a chorus of buzzes and beeps. We’re both breathing heavily—me, more than him, which is ridiculous given that he’s literally holding me up. The overhead light is blinding, and I flail with one hand to find the switch next to the door and turn it off.

Even then, we’re no longer in the dark.

After a minute, we slide apart. He doesn’t let go of me until he’s sure I’m steady on my feet. Then he flips the lights on again to search for his glasses.

They landed on the floor a few feet away, evidently unharmed. At least he snatches them up without comment and crams them on his face in passing as he makes his way back to the desk. Still leaning against the door, I watch in disbelief as he sits down and begins to type. A moment later, the mainframe shuts down again and its blue glow fades away.

“I had to stop it before it tried to reconnect automatically,” he explains, sort of speaking over his shoulder but not meeting my eye. “Don’t want the whole thing to get fried by another power surge. Under the circumstances, a hard reboot is a big risk.”

Hard reboot feels like a nudge-nudge, wink-wink comment on where things might have ended up if the lights had stayed off a little longer. Is the big risk part a reference to us?

Anyway, he’s got his wish: no AUSTEN-C until at least Monday, because I haven’t the faintest idea how to restart the thing on my own.

Finally, he gets to his feet. “I should probably apologize. For, um …”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I insist automatically, and to my surprise, I mean it—though I find myself wondering whether he’s ever said sorry to anyone before.

His eyes, which had been downcast, shoot to my face. Relieved? Appalled? I really can’t tell. He clears his throat. “Then if the, uh, if the door’s unlocked, we should go.”

“Oh. Um. Sure.” And I thought things had been awkward in the dark. “Let me just grab my laptop.”

He reaches behind him and holds it out to me. Our fingers collide, and I know it’s a cliché, but I swear a spark passes between us. It’s a miracle my computer doesn’t go crashing to the floor.

As soon as I take it from him, he steps past me to open the door. “I’ll, um, I’ll call facilities services on Monday and have them take a look at this lock. It should really have some sort of failsafe mechanism.”

He’s waiting for me to leave, but I don’t immediately move. Are there guidelines for how to say good night after a mind-blowing maybe-apocalypse make-out session with someone who, until about an hour ago, you thought you couldn’t stand?

Finally, he says, “I should get back to work.” I imagine the IT help desk phones lit up after that power outage and nod my understanding. “I’ll see you around.”

His voice rises a little at the end, but it’s not really a question. It’s clear we both intend to do everything in our power to go back to avoiding one another … even if the reasons for doing so feel a little fuzzy around the edges at the moment. Tonight was the epitome of a one-time-only, extenuating circumstances kind of thing.

I listen to his footsteps echoing down the corridor, followed by the clang of the stairwell door. As I stuff my laptop into my bag, I realize the “More Pride, Less Prejudice” sticker is gone—I guess the adhesive was in worse shape than I thought. Disappointed, I smooth my thumb over the place where it used to be, feeling not even a trace of sticky residue. Like it was never there.

FOUR