Once I get to his office, I gently rap on the door.
A few seconds later, there’s a gruff “Come in,” so I open it and step inside, shutting it behind me.
He’s sitting behind his desk, laptop opened in front of him, fingers tapping at the keys, face set in tight concentration.
God, he looksdelectable.
He still hasn’t shaved, and I’m glad that I told him how much I like his facial hair because he kept it.
It’s a little more than a shadow now, and I can’t help but think about how it felt between my thighs.
I gnaw on the corner of my lip to bite back a smile.
Today, he’s wearing his coaching jacket, the black one that’s a half zip with his name in big, white block letters over his chest. And he’s got on his whistle.
I know it’s a bit irrational but that stupid whistle somehow makes him even hotter. Like it’s the final piece of his official “coach” uniform, part of his authority, and it’s so damn hot.
“Maisie?” he murmurs when he finally looks up, surprised.
“Hi. I know you weren’t expecting me, but I had some time between classes, so I just wanted to drop by.”
His mouth quirks, one of his brows matching the movement. “I have a Zoom meeting in a few with management.”
Oh. Right.
This was stupid.
I shouldn’t just show up here like this in the middle of the day when he’s supposed to be working.
We’re just hooking up; I can’t show up here unannounced. That’s probably not what hookups are supposed to do. I think? I don’t know.
“Oh, that’s okay, I can go. I ju?—”
“Come here, Maisie,” he says, cutting me off, his tone low and commanding.
Jeez. Why the hell is thatso hot?
Possibly three of the hottest words in the entire English language, and there are so many words.
Somehow, I pull myself together and walk across his office, around the desk, and stop next to his chair.
I have no idea why sometimes I feel so confident and sure of myself when it comes to him, and others I feel like a blubbering, silly girl who’s way too far out of her element.
Now isdefinitelyone of those times.
Wilder takes a long, lingering look at my lips, one that makes me wonder what it is that he’s thinking. And then he slowly drags his eyes down the length of me as if he’s cataloging every tiny detail, all the way to the tips of my toes.
He leans back in his chair and slowly swivels to face me, his legs spread wide in thatmanspreadthing that men do.
Reaching for me, his large palms curve around the backs of my thighs, just below the hem of my dress, and he tugs me forward.
Until I’m fit between his thighs, blinking down at him like I’m not actually about to swoon on my feet.
He doesn’t let go once I’m there, just keeps holding my thighs, his thumb running unhurriedly along my skin.
“Like this dress.”
I know he does. It’s one of his favorites, even though he’s neveractuallysaid that before. Only with his eyes.
