She’s breathing hard.
Her eyes are wet but she’s not crying.
Not quite.
Something inside me cracks open.
“You think I hate you?” My voice comes out rough. “Bree, I’ve been cold because it’s the only way I can control myself around you. The only way I can stop myself from doing things I won’t be able to stop.”
“What things?” she squeaks.
I step closer. Close enough to see her pulse hammering in her throat. “Things like pushing you up against that glass wall and finishing what we started. Things like locking that door and keeping you in here until neither of us can walk.Things like telling you that I haven’t been able to think straight since the gala and every time you walk past my office I want to drag you inside and make you scream my name.”
Her breath catches.
“Maybe I want that,” she whispers.
I go still. “What?”
“Maybe I want you to stop controlling yourself.” She meets my eyes. No more walls. Just raw, terrified honesty. “Maybe I want you to do all those things and more and I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
I move before my brain catches up.
One hand smashes the smart glass panel. The walls go opaque, blocking out the empty office, the city lights, everything except her.
“Bree.” Her name comes out like a warning. “If I kiss you right now, I’m not stopping. You understand? I won’tbe ableto stop. Two days ago, I stopped. But tonight, I won’t. I can’t. Is that clear?”
“Then don’t,” she says simply.
I close the distance between us. Cup her face in my hands. Her skin is warm and soft and she’s looking up at me like I’m something worth wanting and I’m done.
Fuckingdonepretending.
I slam my mouth against hers.
This time, she doesn’t run.
Her mouth opens under mine and she makes that sound, that perfect desperate sound, and I’m undone.
19
Bree
Nico backs me toward his desk without breaking the kiss, and I should probably be concerned about the fact that the cleaning crew is somewhere on this floor past those opaque walls, but my brain has officially left the building.
His hands find my hips, lifting me onto the edge of his desk like I weigh nothing. Papers scatter. I slide against a cardboard box.
“The pizza,” I gasp against his mouth.
“Fuck the pizza.”
The box slides off the desk and lands with a wet thump. Half-eaten pepperoni, meet expensive carpet. RIP.
He steps between my thighs, and even through layers of fabric I can feel him. Hard and ready. His hands grip my knees and push them wider apart, making room for himself, and the possessiveness of the gesture sends heat flooding through me.
“Is the door locked?” I manage, even as my fingers are already working at his tie.
He touches something on the wall panel behind him, and I hear the deadbolt click.
