“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t say my name like that. Not here.”
“Like what?” I implore.
“Like...” She swallows. Hard. “Like you’re about to kiss me.”
The air between instantly flares up.
I can feel it arcing across the space, connecting us despite the distance she’s trying to maintain.
My body is already responding, memories of last night flooding through me with inconvenient clarity. My cock is pressing so hard against my tight slacks it fuckinghurts.
“Go back to your desk,” I say.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” she replies.
“Thengo,” I hiss, before I lose all fucking control.
She goes.
I sit at my desk for a long time after, not working.
Just thinking.
Replaying.
Wanting.
This is a fucking disaster.
The afternoon crawls.
I call her in twice more on flimsy pretexts. Scheduling questions. Calendar conflicts. Things I could easily handle through email.
She comes each time. Maintains professional distance. Doesn’t look at me any longer than necessary.
But I see the way she grips her laptop a little too tight. See the color in her cheeks that wasn’t there before she entered. See every crack in her composure that mirrors the cracks in mine.
We’re both trying so hard to pretend.
And we’re both failing.
Badly.
At five o’clock, the floor starts emptying out. Paloma leaves at 5:15. Cressida at 5:30. Even Elspeth, usually the last of the executive team, heads out by 6:30.
Bree stays.
She’s at her desk, typing something on her laptop, pretending to work. But I can see her screen reflected faintly in the glass. She’s not doing anything productive. Just moving words around on a document that was finished hours ago.
She’s waiting.
I should send her home. Should tell her there’s nothing more she can do tonight and she should get some rest. That would be the professional thing. The appropriate thing.
Instead, I wait until the floor is completely empty. Until it’s just the two of us and the hum of the HVAC and the city lights glittering beyond the windows.
Then I stand up and walk to my office door.
“Bree.”
