I am a man with no sense at all.
“What are you doing here so late?” Olivia asks. Her voice is soft, and her eyes hold no alarm. That’s the trouble. She’s too good for this place. Too good for me.
I could lie. I could say I had to check something. I could say I forgot a file. I could say a dozen things that would turn me around and take me out of her orbit.
I am not that man tonight.
She stands, pushing her desk chair back. It rolls a few inches and stops. Her hands are on her desk, one of them still curled around a pen.
She's looking at my face, awareness alive in her expression.
I am a man of decisions. I make them, and I live with them. I decide now. I take another step. And then another. I don't stop until I'm standing directly in front of her, close enough that the hem of her sweater brushes against my jacket.
Close enough that if I just lifted my hands, I could touch her.
Her breath catches a little. A tiny, inaudible sound that tells me everything I need to know. Her lips part slightly. The skin of her throat, I remember it.
I lift a hand. Slowly.Letting her see it coming.
Her eyes never leave mine.
My fingers trace the line of her jaw. Her skin is soft. Softer than the memory of it. I feel her pulse flutter under my thumb. It beats as fast as mine. She doesn't pull away.
I slide my hand down to her throat, my thumb resting over the pulse point. She swallows, a nervous little motion against my palm. It sends a jolt of fire through my blood.
Her breath comes faster now, a soft, uneven rhythm. Her eyelids droop, just a fraction. She leans into the touch without realizing she's doing it, a small, instinctual surrender that says more than words could.
I let my other hand find her waist, the way I did in that shop. My thumb rests just above the curve of her hip, right where the bone pushes against skin. I can feel the heat of her through the sweater, feel the slight tremor that runs through her.
She smells of clean soap and something uniquely hers that drives the thoughts right out of my head.
I tilt her head up with my hand at her throat. Just enough. Just to see her eyes better, to see what's in them. It's all there. The desire. The fear. The same battle I've been fighting in myself all the way here. She's fighting it, too. But her hands are loose at her sides.
She's not pushing me away.
She wants this.
I lower my head.
My lips brush hers. Just a taste. A question. A test.
Her answer is a soft sigh that I feel as much as hear. Her hands come up to rest on my chest. The pressure is light. More of a plea than a protest. Her lips are soft, so soft. The kiss is gentle, but it doesn't stay that way.
The next kiss is not the soft kiss of a gentleman. It's not the careful, respectful kiss I should give her. It's the kiss of the man in the elevator. A hungry, desperate kiss that says I have been waiting for this.
I taste her. I devour her. My hand at her throat keeps her exactly where I want her. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, her fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket. She returns the kiss with the same fire, the same need.
The pen falls from her desk, clattering onto the floor. Neither of us notices.
Her hands leave my shoulders. I think she's going to push me away. I brace for it. But instead, her fingers find the knot of my tie. She pulls it loose, her movements clumsy with urgency.
My hands are not clumsy. My hands know exactly what they're doing. One slides from her throat to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair. The other moves from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her flush against me. There is no space between us now. Only heat and the frantic beat of two hearts.
She makes a sound against my mouth, a small, needy whimper that is my undoing.
I break the kiss.
Her eyes are dark, wide. Her lips are swollen, parted. She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling against mine.
