I freeze. He freezes. We're both breathing hard, staring at each other.
"What?"
"I'm in love with you." He says it quieter but no less intense, and he looks almost angry about it. "I have been for months. Every single day you walk into my office and I have to pretend I don't want to lock the door and put you on my desk. I have to be cold and distant because if I'm not, I'll do something we can't take back."
I can't breathe. "You're… you're in love with me?"
"Yes. And it's completely inappropriate. You work for me. You're eighteen years younger than me. You should be with someone your own age, someone who isn't—" He stops, jaw tight.
"Someone who isn't what?"
"Someone who isn't fucked up." His voice is rough. "Someone who can actually give you a normal relationship instead of—this. Instead of a forty-two-year-old widower who doesn't know how to do anything except work and push people away."
My heart is hammering. "What if I don't want normal?" I take a step toward him. "I've been in love with you since month three. Maybe earlier. I stay late because I want to be near you. I rearrange my life around you because I'd rather have scraps of your attention than nothing at all."
"Claire."
"So yeah, I'm pathetic. But at least I'm honest about it." I'm standing right in front of him now. "What's your excuse?"
His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. "My excuse is that I'm trying to do the right thing."
"By lying to both of us?"
"By not taking advantage—"
"What if I want you to?" My heart is in my throat. "What if I'm asking you to?" I'm so close now I can see my reflection in his grey eyes. "I'm not a child. I'm not confused. I know exactly what I want. Do you?"
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. I can see the war happening behind his eyes—control fighting desire, logic fighting feeling.
"Yes," he says roughly. "I know exactly what I want."
He closes the distance between us and kisses me.
It's not gentle. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth is hot and demanding on mine. I grab his shirt and kiss him back just as hard, fourteen months of wanting finally breaking free.
We stumble backward and I hit the door with a thud. He pins me there with his body, one hand still in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
I bite his lower lip and he makes this sound that goes straight through me. His hips press against mine and I can feel how hard he is already.
"Garth—" I gasp when his mouth moves to my neck.
"Shut up." He's pulling my sweater up, over my head, and I barely get my arms up in time. It hits the floor and then his hands are on me, sliding up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra.
I'm working on his shirt buttons but my hands are shaking and he's kissing me again and I can't think. I give up and just yank, and buttons scatter across the floor.
"Expensive shirt," he mutters against my mouth.
"Bill me."
He chuckles and then his shirt is off and oh my God. I knew he worked out but this is—I run my hands over his chest, his abs, feeling muscle under warm skin.
His hands slide around to unhook my bra and I freeze for just a second. Every insecurity I've ever had rushes in—too soft, too much, not enough—but then he's looking at me and there's nothing cold in his eyes now.
Just heat.
"Claire." My name sounds different in his voice. Raw.
Then his mouth is on my breast and I stop thinking entirely. His tongue circles my nipple and I arch into him, my hands fisting in his hair. He moves to the other breast, his hand replacing his mouth on the first, and the dual sensation makes me gasp.
