I clench my jaw tightly to steady myself, and swallow.
C’mon Bella, it’s time to leave. Just get up, turn around, and walk out of this office.
Slowly, I manage to get up from my seat, and that’s when he mirrors my motion.
"One more thing."
Uh oh.
He rounds the desk, blocking the way out, and approaches me. Distance slowly closes, and I step back instinctively in a desperate attempt to keep a semblance of professional distance between us.
Each step he takes is another step I retreat. And we keep at this dance until the edge of the desk hits the back of my butt and there's nowhere else to go.
He finally stops. And although he’s not exactly touching me, the proximity is suffocating. Heat rolls off his body in waves, seeping into my blouse. The heady scent of his cologne mixed with that familiar clean and soapy smell fills my nostrils. It travels deeper into me with every trembling breath until the deepest part of my lungs, where I know I’ll never be able to dig them out.
Little bits of Slava forever embedding themselves inside of me.
My nipples tighten against the fabric of my bra and a smear of heat burns its way up from my belly to my face.
I pray he doesn't notice.
"I need the final plans for the Milerovo fundraiser gala," he says.
His voice has dropped—not all the way to that delicious low register my ear craves, but enough that I can still feel him rumbling in my chest.
“Already on it.”
Does my voice always sound this breathy?
Fuck, I’m a mess.
I hate myself for it. The breathy voice might as well be a giant “fuck me” sign that I’ve plastered to my head at this point. Why? Why are my voice and my body so goddamn intent on betraying me?
“Good. This thing with Vanessa was an unexpected distraction, and it’s finished as far as I’m concerned.”
He reaches past me and I hold my breath as my entire body tenses with anticipation. But to my surprise, all he does is toss the folder onto the desk behind me.
But instead of pulling back, his hands come down on the desk on both sides of my hips, palms flat against the wood, and cages me in front of him. His eyes are setting me on fire as he looks, and I can’t help but feel like he’s staring directly into my soul.
“I can’t risk you being distracted. Is that understood, Ms. Creminelli?”
And just like before, he says my name with that intimate knowingness, like he's peeling back my clothes to expose my lies and my skin.
His mouth is inches from mine. Our lips can touch if I just step forward onto my toes. I wonder how he’d react if I were to close that distance.
Will he kiss me back? Will he match my intensity? Will he lift me up in his powerful arms before pushing me against his desk like in my fantasies, push my skirt up past my waist, and spread my legs? And what would I do in response? Will his hand reach up to wrap around my throat as he fucks me?
Will I stop him?
Will I even want to?
"I asked you a question, Ms. Creminelli."
His voice hardens and snaps me out of my spiraling fantasy. It gives me just enough reprieve to gather myself and reply.
"I understand," I whisper.
"Good."
