“Wait, who?”
“Blake."
She jerks back. "What?"
“Look.” I head back to my computer and point to the connection attempts, explaining technical details while rage builds in my gut.
"You work on my network from now on. Stay here.”
Riding the fury fueling me, I’m at her door, hand turning the handle, in four strides.
“Your dad’s protege and I are going to have a little chat."
“Oh, no you don’t!”
Faster than I expect, she slips between me and the cracked door.
“Chance—no. He’s not worth it.” Her voice is soft, but steel-edged. Her fingers curl against my shirt. No longer flat, but a tiny act of possession by holding on.
We freeze, our gazes falling to where her hand is now over my thundering heart.
Her chin tilts up, defiant, that same stubborn determination that always set my blood on fire.
Little Holly lived for pushing every last button I had.
Grown up Holly, she found a whole new set.
"If he gets my files, he wins. If he takes my time, my peace of mind, my confidence... he wins.” She sucks in a breath and squares those surprisingly powerful shoulders. “And I’m not letting him win."
“Holly, he hacked your camera.”
“Then I guess it’s good I watch my porn on a smart TV like a fucking adult then isn’t it?”
The air whooshes from my lungs and an immediate picture forms in my head.
Vibrant blue eyes glazed with building pleasure focused on a large screen. Breathy moans spilling from her lips joining those from the scene she enjoys unapologetically.
Her fingers boldly cruising along her skin, chasing pleasure with absolute confidence she deserves it.
My skin flames hot, but I force my hands to stay at my sides. “I don’t like it." My voice is tight, gritty, tortured.
"You don’t have to." Her eyes lock on mine. "But you’ll respect it."
So much determination in such a small package. “Yeah, I’ll respect it.”
“Thank you.” Her hand slides into mine with the soft spoken words.
Something just changed. Changed huge. I’m just not sure what.
Settling in beside her, I’m hyperaware of every breath. Fixated on every movement. The gentle slope of her neck as she bends over the keyboard. The way her sweater slips off one shoulder, revealing golden skin that begs to be touched.
Even with the distraction, I have her computer scrubbed and connected to my network—the only way she’ll connect until we leave.
Where I can keep a close eye on that fuckwit sniffing around her father’s company.
Days on dickhead duty and nights in close proximity that doesn’t have disaster written all over it. Not at all.
Not when she shimmies in her chair when something goes right, a little wiggle that makes her breasts sway gently under her sweater. The no-bra discovery pegs the hard-on to 100% leaving me struggling for air.
