His voice softens. “Look at me.”
I do. And I wish I hadn’t. His eyes are warm, dark, and hungry. They’re not predatory, more intentional, purposeful. He looks like he’s already decided what he wants.
“Ruby,” he says slowly, “I want more than one night.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It will be,” he says, like that choice is already made.
“I’m serious,” I whisper. “It can’t happen again.”
He leans closer. “Why not?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“I wasn’t last night.”
“That was different.”
“That was the real us.”
I swallow hard. “You’re too confident.”
“I’m confident,” he says, “because I remember how you sounded when I touched you.”
My thighs clamp together under the table.
He notices, of course, he notices.
His voice drops, velvet and wicked. “I remember every sound, Ruby. Every gasp, every moan, and every time you begged for…”
“Stop talking,” I whisper, cutting him off before the barista dies of embarrassment.
He smiles slowly. “Then answer my question.”
“What question?”
“Do you regret it?”
I hesitate.
He waits.
And then, because I can’t lie to him the way I lie to myself, I whisper….
“No.”
His entire expression shifts; heat, satisfaction, something dangerous and intimate flickers through his eyes like a match being struck.
“Good,” he says.
Because I needed to hear you say it.
He doesn’t say the words out loud.
