I half expect a lecture about how working that late at night results in shoddy press releases, but instead, I feel his stare burning into the side of my skull.
When I glance at him, he looks like he’s trying to decide whether to fire me or walk away.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” he says, and that gives me pause. It’s not accusing. It’sobserving, and that somehow feels worse.
I swallow and play it off with a shrug. “Maybe I’m just bored,” I say. “Rewriting the same words aboutluxuryandlegacyfor a man allergic to giving praise tends to wear a girl…”
“Watch your mouth, April.”
There it is.The low warning that’s meant to put me in my place.
It never really does.
“‘Kay,” I mutter, my knee bouncing as I set the pen down, turning my chair back toward my desk properly and sitting forward again.
His shoes clack against the marble floor as he stepscloser, not away, and I swear the temperature drops.
He stops just beside my desk, and I feel the shift in the air, the warning that he’s done putting up with my backtalk for now.
“Rewrite it,” he says, folding the paper and placing it neatly beside my mouse like he’s bestowing judgment on me.That fucking hand, my God.“And this time, make it believable.”
And then he’s gone.
He’s halfway over the threshold into his office when I look to see his hand wrapped around the door handle before he pulls it closed. I wait until it clicks into place to let myself breathe properly.
“Asshole,” I mutter, grabbing the paper and dropping it into the metal trash can under my desk. I stare at the draft on my computer, trying not to think about the way his hand looked as his fingers lingered a second too long. Or the way he’d said my name, but it’s hard. It’s hard not to think about him at all.
The way he watches me sometimes—not with interest, not exactly, but like he’s trying to pin me down and dissect the parts that don’t make sense to him. It makes something low in my stomach twist. He’s always composed, always cold. But I’ve caught him looking before, once, twice, maybe more. Every time it makes my head spin, makes me struggle to concentrate, and that’s not even what he did this time and I’m still…
God help me.
I blink hard, trying to focus, but my mind’s halfway gone. It’s been a long day with not enough sleep, and frustration does strange things to my head. I try to make the words on the page make sense, but I can’t stop picturing those hands, thosegoddamnhands.
“Perhaps you need a demonstration of the authority you so carelessly omitted.”
I’m gone. The daydream takes hold. My brain can’t even resist the imagined words.
In my head, I’m bent over the polished mahogany of his desk, the cool wood a shock against my flushed, bare chest. My press release is flattened beneath me, the edges crumbling against my stomach. He’s close, leaning over me, and his scent washes over me. Clean linen and spice. It makes my head swim.
One of his hands splays across the small of my back, a brand of heat that pins me in place. The other pulls my skirt up, the fabric sliding easily up my thighs and over my hips, until it’s bunched around my waist.
He doesn’t ask in my mind. He justtakes.
“Such a sloppy press release, April,”he murmurs, his fingers hooking on the gusset of my underwear, ghosting across slick, sensitive skin, and pulling it to the side. The lace is damp, and I know damn well he can feel it on both me and the fabric.“And to think you were up all night working on that?”
The air hits my bare skin before his fingers dip between my lips, and my breathing stutters, a broken little moan escaping. My back arches instinctively, offering myself to him. His hips press against the side of my rear, and I can feel the thick, rigid line of him, heat blooming in my cheeks.
“Look at you,”he mutters, his voice pleased, almost predatory.“So fucking wet for me. Is this what you were thinking about when you wrote this? When you left out all the important bits?”
My lips part, but words catch in my throat as his fingers dip in, filling me, curling.
“April.”
God, my name sounds likefilthcoming out of his mouth?—
“April.”
Oh, fuck. The voice isn’t in my head this time. It’s him. Real, live, standing-too-close-him.
