And…I’m losing my mind.
Having a temper tantrum in front of him, yelling at Jace like a psycho, and worst of all, doing it so intensely that I fucking forgot why I was here.
Dumb.
Dumb.
“Cookie—” Jace begins as I shove away from him and start sprinting toward my bag.
I want to snatch it up and run out of here, but I know this is more important than my crippling embarrassment.
“Freeze right there.”
The tone is one I haven’t heard from him before.
Hell, I don’t think I’ve heard it from anyone, not even Jean-Michel when he’s at his bossiest.
And it doesn’t do what I would expect—doesn’t raise my hackles and have me snapping at him again.
Instead…I freeze, phantom fingers stroking me between my thighs, heat blooming in my middle.
And he seems to recognize it too.
“You like that.”
“No.” My throat works, and I will my feet to carry me forward, but I can’t make them move, not as I hear his footsteps as he prowls toward me.
He shifts my hair, sliding it over the opposite shoulder, lips coming to my ear. “You do.”
“I—”
His hand settles on my waist, drawing me back against him.
“Should we talk about why you came?” he asks silkily, mouth drifting along my jaw, tracing lightly enough to make me shiver against him.
“I—”
“Or should we discuss why you’re turned on when I gave you an order? Or maybe”—his lips press to my throat—“I should order you to get naked and place your hands flat on the desk.”
Heat scorches me from the inside, and I know he feels it when I tremble, when my knees threaten to give way, when my hips arch back against him, ass rubbing against the hardening length of his erection. “We sh-should talk about why I came.”
“Hmm.” A flash of teeth. “Okay then, gorgeous. Tell me why you’re here.”
“I figured it out.”
His hand has been trailing up and down my side, and it doesn’t stop. “The connection between Titan Capital and Genen-core?”
“Mmm—ah!” I gasp when his fingertips brush the bottom of my breast.
“What’s that, cookie?”
“Yes,” I manage to push out. “I found the connection.”
“And is that connection going to change in the next thirty—” A beat as his palm slides down, cupping my hip, drawing me more firmly against him. “Scratch that. The next forty-five minutes?”
Forty-five minutes of this man touching me, holding me, kissing and stroking and fu?—
“No,” I rasp. “It’s not going to change.”
