“Oh. Totally.” I fidget where I stand, unsure what to do about the fact that my heart is racing a mile a minute at the way the firehouse captain is prowling toward me. “In that case, please call me Lila, not Ms. Hart.”
“Okay, Lila.”
Is it dark in here? When did it get so dark in here?
He’s coming closer, dark eyes somehow gleaming through the shadows, looking at me like he’s never seen anything quite so enticing. Heat slithers down my spine.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
His eyes flash with amusement, the closest he probably ever gets to a smile.
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“What does it look like, then?”
I swallow hard, my legs going wobbly as he comes to a halt mere inches from me. On some oddly polite instinct, I pressback into the cool window behind me, but Hale only moves closer, caging me in with his strong arms.
Should I be shoving him away or something? Is this the part where I remember I have pride and morals, where I remember he’s my client and our relationship is meant to be purely professional?
Unfortunately, I think I’m drooling a little bit.
“Hm?” he prompts me, leaning in close so that the tip of his nose brushes against my temple. “What does it look like I’m doing, Lila?”
“Um.” I smell the heady scent of his cologne, woodsmoke and spice. Then, at last, I manage, “I was under the impression you didn’t like me very much.”
A soft breath of something akin to laughter ghosts along my cheek. “Why’s that?”
“You unfairly accused me of tardiness. And you wouldn’t even smile at me.”
“Do you want to know what I was really thinking when I first saw you today?” His voice is quiet. Ruined.
“Yes,” I breathe, and my answer sounds like it’s been waiting in my throat for weeks.
Hale’s mouth brushes my ear. “I was thinking you don’t belong in a place like this.”
His hand slides to my hip—firm, claiming—pinning me to the window like he’s bracing me against a storm.
“And then I thought,” he murmurs, “that I’d like to see you try to pretend you do.”
My skin prickles. My knees threaten to fold.
His gaze drops to my skirt slit like it’s a personal insult. “That little blue skirt,” he says, rougher now. “You wore it like you didn’t know what it would do to a man who’s been holding the line too long.”
Hale’s knuckles skim the inside of my thigh through the slit—just once—enough to make my breath snag.
“Tell me,” he whispers, “did you put on underwear for me… or did you come in here already dangerous?”
My head drops back against the glass. I don’t feel the pain, but I hear the quietthump.
“Of course I was wearing underwear,” I respond somewhat breathlessly. “It was a business meeting, for fuck’s sake.”
He kisses my collarbone, letting out a low groan. “Is that so?”
And, sure enough, when I really think about it, I’m still wearing my favorite navy pencil skirt, even though I’m almost certain I changed into something more comfortable before returning to the firehouse this evening.
Also, when I press my thighs together, I discover that I am not, in fact, wearing even a single scrap of lace underneath the aforementioned skirt.
