I slip the heels off, reveling in the flat ground below me. Flexing my toes a few times, I get comfortable on the floor. He shoots me a questioning look before joining in. With the height of the coffee table, it just makes sense for us to be on the floor, but it’s still weird to see this huge, powerful man sitting on the floor of his office.
The knife slices through the steak as if slicing through butter, and saliva pools in my mouth. It’s soft, juicy and the flavor fires my taste buds as soon as it reaches them. I let out a small moan, closing my eyes, only to find him staring at me with a tip of his lips.
“Good?” he asks.
“Amazing.” I lick my lips to savor every drop of the taste.
With a smile and a small shake of his head, he cuts into his own food. We continue eating in silence, which isn’t new, but this gentle, comfortable silence is one I’m certainly not familiar with. With my ex, I was used to silence acting as the calm before the storm. It was dangerous. It hovered over me like a dense cloud, waiting to pour. In a way, silence was worse than screaming. Anticipation used to gnaw at me from the inside. My heart would race, hoping to avoid the inevitable. But no, he used silence as a weapon, wielding it to create fear, and he succeeded in doing it.
My chewing slows, the steak turning sour with my memories. I guess Leon notices the empty stare and the slump of my shoulders, and he asks, “Something wrong? I can order you a new one.” He looks at me with warmth in his dark eyes, the intense gaze wrapping itself tightly around my chest.
“Just got lost in my thoughts.”
A beat passes. “It’s not the steak then?”
A chuckle escapes me. While I’m relieved to have told him a tiny part of my story, I’m grateful he changed the subject. I knowhe must be dying to ask more — he’s used to being in control — but I appreciate him respecting my pace. “Definitely not the steak. Matter of fact, this is the second-best steak I’ve ever eaten.” Talking about my trauma feels impossible, but I can still share some of my life.
“Second best, you say? I guess I’m firing my chef.” He smirks and reaches for his phone.
My hand wraps around his fist, chuckling. “No firing on my behalf.”
He shoots me a sheepish look, dropping his fork onto the plate. “Too late.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He pats a napkin over his mouth.
“No, no. You’re not getting off that easily.” I wave my finger at him. “What did you mean by that?”
His tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth. “I might have fired a surveillance officer.”
My eyes widen. “What does that have to do with me?”
“He might have spent his working hours zooming in on the feeds that captured you.”
“Isn’t that the same thing you’re doing?”
“Irrelevant.”
I scoff. “Hardly irrelevant, since I don’t want people losing their jobs because of me.”
“He lost his job because of his actions, not you.”
“For doing the same thing you do day after day.” The pitch of my voice rises.
The calm expression drops from his face, replaced by the fire in his eyes. Within a second, his face is an inch away from mine, his fingers holding my chin. “I think you’re forgetting who makes the rules here, sweetheart.” His voice is so low that I feel the vibrations in my nipples. “I’m the boss. I decide which rules can be bent,” his gaze darts to my purse, “and which can’t. And this, drooling over the feed while imagining you naked, is not a rule I’m willing to bend.”
“Y-you do the same,” I say in a breathy voice.
“You gave me the privilege of seeing this perfect body naked. Not my fault it’s an image I can’t get out of my mind. Not my fault I can’t look at a poker table without getting hard because it reminds me of you.” His lips brush over mine, and I release a soft sigh. He turns my chin to face his desk, which has a mess of papers strewn around it. “You see this? This isn’t me. My type A personality can’t handle clutter or unfinished business. But you have distracted me to the point of not being able to focus.”
His lips land on my neck, trailing down to my collarbone, and I let out a whimper. “I-I’m sorry,” I breathe out.
“I’m not.” His words are a warning before his lips crash onto mine.
This shouldn’t be hot. The possessive alpha-male bullshit should be toxic, not hot. Still, the reptilian parts of my brain are reeling, along with my nether regions, which are currently on fire. His mouth works over mine, while my heart beats a steady rhythm as if whispering ‘Safe’ with every beat. I moan into his mouth, eliciting a growl. He bites my bottom lip before kissing it better. Finally, he pulls away, leaving us both panting.
My mind is still a mess. Possessiveness isn’t new to me. I was used to possessive outbursts and jealousy. But somehow, they were always my fault. My clothes were too revealing, my gaze too seductive. My words were too flirty, or my breasts too large. This — Leon blaming the man — is something else entirely. It warms my blood in a way not even his kisses can.
