"I'll eat later."
He doesn't push it. I hear him move again, closer. He's behind me now. I can feel the warmth of him at my back, the way the air shifts when he's nearby. My spine straightens.
"You found anything yet?" he says. He's looking at the screen over my shoulder.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Not going to tell you that yet. I want the full picture and I want to make sure you’re going to hold to your word."
He's quiet. I can hear him breathing. His breath stirs the hair at the back of my neck and every nerve in my body lights up. My fingers press hard against the keyboard.
"You're good at this," he says.
"I know."
"You're also not eating, not sleeping, and you've been staring at a screen for fourteen hours. You need sleep."
I shiver. He’s been watching me. The thought sends warmth flooding through my core. The thought is both enticing and terrifying.
"I'll sleep when I'm done."
"You'll sleep when I tell you to."
The words land and my whole body goes still. Not the content. It’s the tone, low and certain.
It’s the voice of a man who is used to being obeyed and who expects it from me specifically and the worst part, the very worst part, is what it does to the space between my legs. The slick comes fast and hot and I clench against it and I know he can smell it because his breathing changes behind me.
I turn in the chair. It's a mistake. He's closer than I thought. Close enough that my knee brushes his thigh when I turn and the contact sends a jolt up my leg that makes me gasp.
He's looking down at me. His eyes are dark and the pupils are blown wide and his scent has shifted into deep honeyed whiskey. He's hard. I can see it, the press of him against his pants, and I should look away and I don't.
"Don't," I say. But my voice is wrong. It comes out low and rough instead of sharp and the word doesn't sound like a warning. It sounds like the start of something.
"But your body says something else." His voice is quiet.
"My body doesn't get a vote."
"Your body is the only honest thing in this room."
He doesn't touch me. His hands are at his sides. He stands there and he looks at me and he waits. The waiting is worse than if he'd grabbed me because it puts the decision in my lap and I don't trust myself to make it.
I stand up. The chair rolls back and hits the desk. We're close now, inches, and his scent wraps around me and my pulse is hammering in my throat and I can feel the slick soaking through my underwear.
I’m planning to walk away. Somehow, sidle past him and into the living area where there is a lot more space between us.
Instead, I kiss him.
I don't decide to. My hands are on his chest and my mouth is on his and I'm kissing him hard, angry, my teeth catching his lower lip. He makes a sound, deep in his chest, and his hands come up to my waist and his grip is firm and sure and his thumbs press into the hollows above my hip bones.
He kisses me back. He tastes like scotch.
His hands tighten on my waist. He pulls me closer, up out of the chair, and the full length of his body presses against mine and I can feel him, hard and thick against my stomach, and my hips roll forward without permission. The friction makes both of us groan.
His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck. His lips find the place below my ear and his tongue presses against my pulse point and I shudder so hard my knees buckle. His arm locks around my back, holding me up.
"Theo." My name in his mouth, against my skin. His teeth graze my throat and I make a sound I will never forgive myself for, high and desperate and needy, and my hands fist in his shirt and pull.
