“So, Miss Morgan,” he begins, fingers threading together on the desk.
“Please, call me Elizabeth, or Lizzy. Everyone else does.”
“With a smile, he continues. “Tell me about yourself, Lizzy.”
The way my name rolls off his tongue makes something low in my belly clench. It isn’t casual or polite. Instead, it’s like he’s tasting me with his voice.
I try to breathe normally, try to pretend the burn of his eyes isn’t already sliding down my skin like a hot hand. “And not work stuff,” he adds, leaning back in his chair with that dangerous ease. “Tell me about the real Lizzy outside of these dull walls.”
For a moment, I can’t think of a single thing about myself that doesn’t sound ridiculous. When I finally manage to open my mouth, it all tumbles out too quickly. “Well, I grew up in a smalltown outside the city, moved here, tried marketing but hated the people, bounced through a few other jobs, and then… landed here.”
“Marketing, hm?” His smile curves like a blade. “Their loss.”
The compliment is light, but his eyes are not. They are scorching, pinning me where I sit, as if he’s stripping away every safe layer and looking for the parts of me I keep locked.
I clear my throat and force a laugh. “I live with my best friend, Dani. She’s a character. We’ve been attached at the hip since school. She once—” I launch into a story, words tripping over themselves because it’s easier than focusing on the weight of his stare.
Still, every time he chuckles, every time his attention sharpens, I feel my pulse drag lower, hotter.
He’s not just listening. He’swatching.
Watching my lips, my throat, the way I shift in my chair. And every inch of me feels claimed.
I tell him about my brother, Karl, and his devious streak, and Jon’s expression darkens with amusement. “Little brothers,” he mutters, but he doesn’t look away from me. Not once.
It’s dizzying, this sudden intensity. Like I’m the only woman alive. Like he could push his chair back, curl a finger, and I’d cross the desk to him without thinking.
“Someone as impressive as you,” I blurt, cheeks hot, “wanting to know me—it’s… hard to believe.”
His jaw tightens, and the smile that flickers across his mouth is far too wolfish for comfort. “Oh, Lizzy. You have no idea how easy you are to want.”
My breath catches, the room too small, too warm. He smooths a hand down his tie, like he’s restraining himself, and his voice comes out rougher when he adds, “Now tell me more. I want everything.”
The conversation drags us straight through the daylight. One second, the city hum is bright beyond his windows; the next, it’s dusk, the sky bruised purple, the office sinking into quiet.
Jon leans back, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes cutting toward the glowing screen. “Well, this was… entertaining. But we’ve done nothing useful. I’ll stay late and clean up. You should head home. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
I rise, but something inside me balks. Walking away feels like abandoning him, like letting the moment dissolve. I lower myself back down, steady. “No. Today was both of us. I’ll stay. You can show me what I need to learn.”
His eyes catch mine and for a second, the refusal on his lips dies there. Instead, the faintest grin tugs at his mouth.
A look that says he’s not used to being told no, but he likes it.
The office empties, footsteps fading until it’s just the two of us cocooned in silence. The kind of silence that presses against the skin, thick and expectant. “This is strange,” I murmur. “I’ve never heard the place so quiet. It’s almost… unsettling.”
“I know,” he says, voice low. “I stay late for that reason. No interruptions. Just me, the work, and the dark.”
His words curl around me like smoke, and when he adds, “Bring your chair closer,” it’s not a suggestion, it’s a pull.
My hands tighten on the backrest, dragging the chair beside him. I’m close enough that his heat brushes mine, close enough that I catch the faint musk of his cologne, expensive and dangerous. My pulse stutters.
He opens a file, words leaving his lips in that smooth, commanding tone, pointing at the screen as if this is simply training.
But I can’t hear a damn thing. Not really.
Because every breath he exhales drifts across my cheek. Every flick of his wrist, every shift of his thigh against the leather seat, coils tighter inside me.
And when his arm brushes mine by accident—or maybe not—I almost forget how to breathe.
