And turns.
Just one second. Just long enough for me to see the truth in her eyes.
Fear. Want. And inevitability.
She looks away first.
I swallow, slow and certain.
She may have walked away.
But her body remembers mine.
And next time?
She won’t stop it.
Chapter eleven
Annabelle
“We are not talking about the couch. We are not thinking about the couch. We are pretending the couch never happened.”
I say it out loud. At full volume. To my stapler.
“Uh… you okay, Annabelle?”
I jolt so hard I nearly fling my pen across the room. One of the interns stands in my doorway, clutching a stack of folders, eyes wide.
“I… yes.” I force a smile that feels like it might crack my skull. “Everything is great. Just, you know, having a very normal conversation about furniture. Like people do.”
“Right.” He blinks. “Should I… come back later? When you’re not mad at the couch?”
“I’m not mad at the couch,” I lie. “The couch and I are on excellent terms.”
“Cool,” he says slowly. “Happy New Year… almost.”
He backs away like I am a wild animal someone tried to train with spreadsheets, then disappears down the hall.
The moment he is gone, I drop my forehead to my desk.
Perfect. Totally fine. Nothing to see here except a woman who almost had sex with a player on office furniture and now cannot look at upholstery without blushing.
I blow out a breath and try to focus on my monitor.
Emails. Schedules. Sponsor reports. All very professional, very normal, absolutely not related to Bryce Blackhorn’s hands anywhere near my body.
Unfortunately, my brain does not cooperate.
It offers a slideshow instead.
Bryce’s mouth on my neck.
His hands under my blouse.
The feel of his chest under my fingers.
“You’re a hot mess I want to taste and ruin slow.”
