Yeah. That would be me.
I want to crawl under his desk and die.
Or maybe just crawl under his desk and show him exactly what my mouth can do besides fumble over excuses. See if those custom-tailored pants hide as much as I think they do.
No. Bad Bella. Focus.
I am one second away from combusting.
“Ms. Marquez.”
I flinch.
“Sit.” He does this tiny head tilt thing toward the chair across from his desk. Like he can’t be bothered to waste actual energy on gestures when he’s used to people jumping at his slightest twitch.
I recoil like I’ve just been slapped. The way he says it—slow, deliberate, with toomuch fucking satisfaction curling at the edges—sends a jolt down my spine.
I hate it.
I hate that he’s watching me like this.
Like I’m a deer caught in the crosshairs.
Like he’s enjoying this.
His gaze drags over me, slow and lazy, from my ridiculous office-appropriate dress to my heels that suddenly feel way too high.
And then—
Oh, fuck.
He lingers. Right there. At my waist.
Then lower.
I swear I feel his stare through my clothes, stripping me layer by layer until I might as well be completely naked.
My cheeks burn.
His eyes darken.
And they stay there.
Lingering. Unapologetic.
I should look away. I should. But my brain malfunctions, firing off thoughts I do not need right now.
Like how easy it would be to slide to my knees, crawl across the floor, and—
Oh, my God. Stop.
Fucking stop.
I clear my throat and dry cough like I’m choking on my own depravity, and finally—finally—collapse into the chair like my knees have just given up on life.
I cross my legs.
Defensive.
