Good, let them talk. She isn’t theirs, she’s mine.
I roll my sleeves down, not to hide the tension but because I don’t want to intimidate the entire floor with the way my body reacts to her, but even being buttoned up doesn’t help.
I can still smell her perfume. I can still hear her soft gasp when I touched her wrist, and I can still taste the way she said no, even though her body said yes.
I move around the desk, pick up my phone, and pull up the internal directory. I don’t need it, but I want to know everything about her.
Position: Senior Features Writer.
Education: Literary journalism.
Years at company: Four.
Performance notes: Creative. Provocative. Reliable.
Feedback from editorial:“Ruby gets reactions other writers can’t.”
I smile.
I’ve noticed.
I scroll down further and find a tiny digital ID photo. She looks cute in it, her hair is messy, her expression a little sarcastic, and her eyes are bright and defiant.
I want to see every version of her: the one from the bar, the one from my bed, and the one from five minutes ago, trying to convince herself she can resist me.
But I know she can’t resist me. I could see how hard she was trying to show me she didn’t want me.
I slip my phone into my pocket and leave my office, ignoring the way the staff parts around me like I’m a storm they don’t want to get caught in.
I’m not thinking about numbers or projections or the acquisition meeting. I’m thinking about the way Ruby licked her lips when she tried to argue with me. I’m thinking about the heat creeping up her neck when I said her name. I’m thinking about last night.
And the night I want next.
She’s at her desk when I find her, pretending to type, and pretending not to notice I’m approaching her desk. Her friends scatter like terrified birds. She doesn’t look up, but the way her fingers freeze on the keyboard gives her away.
She feels me, I know she does.
“Ruby,” I say softly, stopping at the edge of her desk.
She inhales sharply, then looks up with forced calm. “Do you… Need something?”
I want a lot of things, but I start with control.
“Yes,” I say. “Your availability.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Availability?”
“For the interview follow-up.”
“The follow-up we just did?”
“The follow-up to the follow-up,” I clarify.
She drops her pen. “That’s not how interviews work.”
“That’s how this one works.”
Her eyes narrow just enough to delight me. “Jaxon, this is not appropriate.”
