She has no idea who I am to her. No clue of the history that binds us together.
The doors swing open.
I should sit. I should compose myself.
But I don’t.
I watch.
She walks in slowly, scanning the office, taking in every detail. She’s not trying to impress me. She’s not licking her lips, batting her lashes, leaning forward to push her tits together.
She looks nervous.
Like she’s trapped.
Like she knows she just stepped into the lion’s den.
I move without thinking.
Coming up behind her, I let my chest brush against her back, pressing just enough for her to feel me.
Her breath hitches.
Good girl.
I let my lips brush her ear, my voice dropping low. “You like it?”
She inhales sharply. “It’s beautiful.”
Not as beautiful as you.
I think it.
Then I say it.
Fuck.
That wasn’t planned. That wasn’t me.
She spins around, and my eyes devour her.
Her gaze crawls up my body, slow, hesitant, innocent—but dangerous.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
She doesn’t know that every second she spends not looking away is making it harder for me not to touch her.
Our eyes lock.
Emerald green.
I stop breathing.
My entire world tilts.
Then—recognition.
“Brooklyn.”
