Her chin lifts as she meets my gaze across the expanse of my office, wary and defiant and curious all at once. She's waiting for me to make the first move, to set the tone for whatever this evening is going to become. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she's holding herself, the rapid flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat.
She wants me. She's fighting it with everything she has, but she still wants me.
And God help me, I want her more than my next breath.
"Come in." My voice comes out rougher than I intend, scraped raw by hours of wanting and waiting. "Close and lock the door, Katriana."
She hesitates for just a moment, her eyes searching my face for reassurance I'm not sure I can give. Then she steps inside, pulls the door closed behind her, and turns the lock with a soft click that echoes through the silent office like a gunshot.
"Yes, Mr. Moses."
The formal address sends a spike of heat straight to my groin, but I keep my expression neutral. "Katriana. What did I say about calling me Mr. Moses?"
Her chest expands with a deep inhale, the silk of her blouse pulling tight across her breasts in a way that makes my mouth water. But it's the blush of pink spreading across her kissable cheeks that has my cock raging hard behind this desk, straining against my zipper with an urgency that borders on painful.
"Yes…Drake."
I smile, slow and satisfied, knowing exactly what's coming next.
Dinner alone. No witnesses. Nothing between us but the heat we're both pretending doesn't exist.
This should be interesting.
Thirteen
Katriana
The takeout containers spread across Drake's desk look almost comically out of place against the polished mahogany and leather accessories. White cardboard boxes stamped with the logo of a restaurant I've only ever read about in magazines sit open between us, steam curling up from dishes. I haven’t seen so much food on a table in a long time.
Drake insisted on eating here rather than the conference room. Something about wanting privacy. The word sent a shiver down my spine that I'm still trying to ignore.
"You're not eating." He gestures toward the container of pasta in front of me with his chopsticks from the chair beside me. "The carbonara is excellent. I promise they didn't poison it."
I roll my eyes and twirl my fork through the creamy noodles, bringing a bite to my lips. The flavors burst across my tongue, rich and decadent and absolutely sinful. I close my eyes for a moment and let myself enjoy it.
When I open them, Drake is watching me with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Good?" His voice carries a roughness that has nothing to do with the food.
"Very." I take another bite to cover the flush I feel creeping up my neck. "Where did you learn about this place?" I’m not good at small talk and I’m afraid it’s glaringly obvious.
"Rafael." He settles back in his chair and picks up his own container, something with delicate fish and vegetables arranged like artwork. "He has expensive taste in everything. Food. Wine. Women, apparently."
I can’t hold back a smile. "You mean Persia?"
"I mean the woman who crashed into his life and turned everything upside down." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, too. "Sound familiar?"
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
I don't know how to answer that, so I focus on my pasta instead.
A strand of hair slips free from behind my ear and falls across my cheek. Before I can reach for it, Drake leans forward and tucks it back into place, his fingers grazing the shell of my ear with a touch so light it might have been accidental.
My racing heart says it wasn't.
My breath catches in my throat, and I feel another wave of heat bloom across my cheeks. His gray eyes hold mine for a beat too long before he settles back in his chair like nothing happened.
The conversation flows easier than I expected as we eat.
