I pretend.
Dean doesn’t.
He moves with this quiet command that makes the entire room rearrange itself around him. Standing to pour another coffee even though his is still half full, with the press of his hand flat on the desk as he leans over some document I know he already read twice. The sound of his shoes across the hardwood floor—too slow, too deliberate—as if he wants me to track every step.
I keep my eyes on the screen, but I feel him.
I feel him watching.
I feel him waiting.
“Read that last line back to me,” he says suddenly, voice sharp enough to slice through the silence.
My throat closes. “What?”
“Read it.”
I glance down at the contract. Words blur. My palms sweat against the keys. I clear my throat and force them out; every syllable trembles: “…all pending client files must be submitted before the close of business Friday.”
His head tilts. “You sound nervous.”
“I’m not.” Too quick, too defensive.
The corner of his mouth lifts as if I just played right into his hand. He says nothing, just lingers in the space between us, letting my lie hang in the air like smoke.
I shift in my chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs, desperate for something that feels like control. It’s useless. The heat rolling off him, the weight of his stare—it pins me harder than any ropes ever could.
“You’re flushed,” he murmurs finally, voice low enough that it doesn’t feel professional at all.
“It’s hot in here.”
“Is it?” He leans against the desk, one hand braced near my laptop, the other sliding into his pocket. He’s close enough that I catch the faintest trace of his cologne, sharp and clean and infuriatingly male. “Because I’m perfectly comfortable.”
My pulse stutters, betraying me.
“Maybe you should take your jacket off.” The words are out before I can stop them, reckless, sharp.
His smirk spreads slow. Predatory. Dangerous.
“Careful, Brooklyn.” His voice drops, just for me. “You sound like you’re daring me.”
The screen in front of me might as well be blank now. All I see is him. All I feel is the thrum between my thighs, the ache that no amount of typing or pretending can erase.
But I don’t look away. Not this time.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there like he owns the air I’m breathing, like my lungs only work because he allows it.
“You’re staring,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can catch them.
Dean leans down, mouth grazing my ear without touching. “I’m working.”
“On what?”
“You.”
The word knocks the breath out of me. My fingers freeze on the keys, a half-written sentence blinking on the screen like a heartbeat.
His hand ghosts over the edge of my chair, not quite touching, but the threat of it is enough to make my body light up. “Keep typing,” he orders softly. “Don’t stop, no matter what.”
