A flicker of awareness crosses her face, that quick flashof memory—Miami.
My thumb against her clit.
Her breath in my ear.
I lean back against the conference table, deliberately casual. “You’re right, though. I’ve been avoiding you. You want to know why?”
She crosses her arms. “Can I guess.”
“Take a stab at it.”
“Because you can’t stand being reminded that I exist.”
“No.” My voice drops, rougher now. “Because every time I see you, I think about bending you over and fucking you against this table. And I can’t decide whether that’s unprofessional or inevitable.”
Her breath catches, and the sound is quiet, but I hear it. Feel it.
“Donovan—”
“Don’t.” I push off the table, closing the space between us in two strides. “Don’t say my name like that. Not here.”
“We said we’d be professional,” she manages.
“I’m trying.” I stop just short of touching her. “But I don’t do halfway. Not in business. Not in bed. And right now, every time I walk into a room and you’re in it, I have to remind myself which side of that line we’re on.”
She swallows, hazel eyes dark. “And which side are we on?”
“The one where I have to keep my hands to myself.”
Her lashes flutter, and she gasps softly, pink lips parting. “You think saying things like that makes it easier?”
“No. But it keeps me honest. And to be clear, Ms. Sinclair, just because I’ve been giving you space doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention.”
She’s breathing faster now. “So that’s what this is? You showing me that you’ve been paying attention?”
“Not exactly. This is me warning you.”
Her brows lift, barely. “Warning me?”
“That when I stop holding back, you’ll know.” I glance down at her mouth. “You won’t have to wonder.”
She sways—just slightly. Her fingers grip the edge of the table like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the floor.
The seconds drag, heavy and electric, until I finally step back, breaking the tension like glass underfoot.
“Now, go home, Ms. Sinclair,” I tell her quietly. “Before I stop staying on my side of the line.”
She stares at me for another heartbeat, then turns for the door. Exhaling just once, she walks out, and for ten seconds, I don’t move.
Then I sit back on the edge of the table she was standing against, jaw tight, and drag a hand through my hair.
Because if this is what “staying on my side of the line” feels like…
I don’t want to imagine what happens when I finally stop pretending there’s a line at all.
Chapter eight
~DONOVAN~
