I sigh. “Leoni—”
“No.” She stands, finally meeting my eyes, and what I see there makes my chest feel tight.Not anger or disdain. Buthurt.“I told you,” she whispers. “I told you today at lunch, I don’t want whatever this is between us. It’s confusing and messy, and I can’t afford messy, Warren.”
I feel something sharp twist in my stomach.
“You liked it better when we argued,” I shoot back before I can stop myself. “Isn’t that what you said? That you need me to hate you because it’s easier?”
“Exactly,” she spits back. “Like this, we both know where we stand. It’s not complicated or confusing.” She sits back down slowly, hands trembling as she reaches for her keyboard. “We should keep things professional.”
Professional.The word feels like a knife.
I swallow hard. “Right.” I turn and walk into my office, slamming my door in frustration.
Chapter Eight
LEONI
The door slams behind him, and the sound vibrates through my bones. I stare at the wood, chest rising and falling too fast, hands shaking in my lap. I don’t cry. Iwon’tcry. Not again.
Then, without warning, the door rips open again, and Warren fills the doorway like a storm rolling in. My breath catches as I stare back wide-eyed, waiting for him to speak.
“Office,” he growls. “Now.”
There’s no room for argument, and so I move. Sliding out of my seat. I slip past him, my shoulder brushing his chest. He doesn’t move aside, forcing me to movearoundhim. The contact steals my breath, sending a buzz of excitement through me.
He closes the door, the click ringing out in the silence. And then he turns the lock, and my heart slams harder. “Warren—”
He ignores me, moving with slow, deliberate steps around the office, closing each of the blinds one by one.The room darkens in stages. The privacy wraps around me as my mind races.
Is he angry? Is he hurt? Does he regret everything? Does he hate me now?
His hand drops from the last blind, and he turns toward me. He’s breathing hard.
“I don’t hate you,” he eventually says, his voice rough. “That’s the problem.”
My throat goes tight. “Warren…”
“No.” He steps closer. “You can’t order me to hate you.”
Another step. I feel the heat of him before he touches me.
“And you don’t get to cry in his arms,” he breathes, “when I’m right fucking here.”
And then his hand is in my hair, his fingers curling at the base of my neck and gently tugging me closer. I gasp, stepping in to him. Giving him silent approval.
His mouth crashes into mine, hungry, hot, months of tension breaking all at once.
I grab fistfuls of his shirt, dragging him closer. His other arm wraps around my waist, lifting me off the floor like I weigh nothing. My back hits the office door, and I moan against his lips, the sound torn from somewhere deep.
He kisses me like he’s starving. Like I’m oxygen.
His hands slide down, gripping my thighs, pulling me up so I’m wrapped around him. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan—a low, rough sound that shoots straight through me.
“Christ, Leoni,” he pants against my neck. “I’ve tried; I’ve tried so fucking hard—”
“Stop trying,” I whisper, breathless.
He freezes for half a second, just long enough for meaning to sink in, and then he’s tearing his suit jacket off, tossing it blindlyacross the room. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, knuckles brushing my skin, and every cell in my body lights up.
