Suddenly, I wish that his smell would linger on me. I fight these thoughts, needing myself to focus. I can’t screw this job up when it’s been what I wanted for a year now.Focus, Lizzy…Focus.
It’s an impossible task because I can’t seem to focus on anything else but how close I am to him.
“Now that we covered stuff on the computer, here are some older contracts that have gone over well with the clients.” He spins around and digs through his filing cabinet, pulling out a stack of papers and plopping them onto the desk. “I know it seems like a lot, but you can handle it. You’re smart and seem to have a great head on your shoulders.”
My eyes drop down to the desk, and suddenly, I feel like a schoolgirl with my crush. It’s ridiculous because I’m anadult and should be able to handle a compliment, but there’s something different about Jon Clark.
“Thank you.” My smile is wide, and I start flipping through the papers. He was right about one thing: I can handle it because I’ve proofread a million of these and know I can do this job correctly.
People often underestimate how much work I truly do around here. They assume I answer phone calls and look pretty all day. I dedicate my time wisely, going around and helping the other assistants when they are stuck on something.
Other than a small amount of finer details, I’m fully capable of doing this job even without training.
But spending alone time with Jon isn’t the worst thing in the world, so I’ll keep my mouth shut about already knowing the job.
“Oh, here. I’ll underline a few things that are crucial for our files.” He pulls a pen from his drawer, but it slips through his fingers, clattering to the floor.
We both reach down at the same time. My hand brushes his, heat sparking like a live wire. Our faces are suddenly inches apart, our noses nearly colliding. My breath stutters, my chest tight, my pulse screaming in my ears.
I look up. Straight into his eyes. And God, they’re molten. Blue and sharp, but burning like they’ve been waiting for me.
He doesn’t move right away, and neither do I. It’s like the world holds its breath with us.
Then, his gaze drops to my mouth, and something inside me snaps. Or maybe it’s him. Because in the next second, his handcurls around the back of my neck and he crushes his mouth to mine.
It isn’t polite. It isn’t careful. His lips part mine, his tongue sliding in deep, demanding, ruthless. My knees nearly give out as the taste of him floods me—coffee, heat, the kind of hunger that makes a woman forget her own damn name.
A whimper escapes my throat, traitorous and needy, and he swallows it whole, angling my head so he can kiss me harder, deeper, like he wants to consume every last bit of me. My fingers clutch his shirt, anchoring myself to him, because this isn’t some boy fumbling in the dark.
This is aman. A man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
By the time he finally drags his mouth from mine, I’m shaking, breathless, lips swollen, my heart sprinting so fast it hurts.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, as if claiming the mess he made, his voice rough and low when he mutters, “Now that was inevitable.”
5
JONATHAN
The rearview mirror throws back a face carved by four nights without sleep. Shadowed eyes, jaw a little rougher than usual. I drag a hand over my mouth and mutter, “Perfect. Just the look of a man who owns half the city.”
But there’s no fixing it. Not when every time I close my eyes, I see her. That kiss. The taste of her mouth. The way she trembled but still met me with fire.
It’s been branded into me, and now my body refuses to forget.
I step out into the wind, collar up, coat tugged tighter, and let the bite of December slap me awake. New York air has always been like a fistfight—cold, sharp, and oddly cleansing.
I move through it fast, shoulders squared, already running the numbers for year-end in my head. Meetings. Contracts. Closures. The rhythm of my life, the discipline that keeps me king of my own empire.
Inside, the lobby heat fogs my glasses. I nod at the stragglers still working through the holiday lull. No small talk. Just a clipped“morning” here and there, the kind that keeps people moving but doesn’t invite them closer. They know me well enough not to.
Upstairs, I push into my office. Coat on the rack, cufflinks straight, briefcase against the chair. My ritual. Always the same. Until it isn’t.
Because waiting on the desk is a steaming cup of coffee, black, exactly how I take it. And standing in the doorway is Lizzy.
Hair tied back in a careless knot that makes me think of undoing it. A skirt that hugs every curve like it was stitched for her alone. A blue blouse tucked in sharp, the color so bold it drags the breath out of me because it turns her eyes into something dangerous.
She smiles, and for a second I forget the routine, forget the world. I just stand there, caught between professionalism and the undeniable truth already burning in my gut:I want her.
