I pulled my legs up and turned to face him. “Tell me about the bond. From your side. What does it actually feel like?”
He was quiet for a second, jaw working like he was choosing his words. “Constant. A pull in my chest that never stops. From the second I wake up, I know where you are. Not exact location, but direction. When you’re close, my wolf settles. When you’re far, it pushes.”
“At the office?”
“Worse.” His voice dropped. “You’re right there. I can hear your voice through the glass, smell your perfume when you walk past, watch you at your desk all day. My wolf shoves at me every second to go to you. And I can’t.”
I sat with that for a minute. Two years of him behind that glass wall, every second, holding himself back.
“Did you like it?” I asked. “Being Fin?”
He looked at me then, really looked, his expression shifting into that unguarded thing I used to catch through the glass. “It was the only time I got to be with you without performing. No CEO, no King. Just me, sitting on a porch listening to you read in a terrible Scottish accent.”
“My accent is excellent.”
“Your accent is a crime.”
“You loved it.”
“I did.”
The honesty in his voice hit me somewhere soft. I looked away because if I kept looking at his face while he said shit like that I was going to climb into his lap.
“I feel it too,” I said. “Didn’t know what it was. Thought it was just a crush, a stupid won’t-go-away crush on my boss who communicates through grunts and hand gestures. But it’s more than that. Has been for a long time.”
He didn’t say anything. His jaw worked, hands pressed flat on his knees, the muscles in his forearms taut, fingers digging into his own kneecaps. The self-control rolling off him was so thick I could practically taste it.
So I closed the gap.
I shifted on the couch until my knee touched his thigh. His whole body went rigid, every muscle locking, and I felt the tension roll through him.
“You can breathe,” I said.
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder. You look like you’re about to snap the armrest off my couch and I can’t afford a new one.”
His mouth twitched. I watched his hand lift off his knee, slow, careful, and land on mine. Warm and large, his palm covering my whole kneecap, the contact sending a jolt up my spine. His thumb traced a small circle on the side of my knee and my breath caught so hard he heard it. Those dark eyes flicked to mine. Intent. His thumb stopped.
“Don’t stop,” I said, and I didn’t recognize my own voice.
His thumb moved again. Another circle. Then his hand slid up my knee to my thigh, just an inch, and the warmth of his palm through my clothes made my whole body flush.
Here’s what I was thinking in that moment: I’d spent two years wanting this man. Two years of pretending I didn’t, of telling a dog about it instead of telling him, of going home alone every night to an empty porch and an empty bed. Then I spent another week being angry about the lying, another week being confused about the bond, another week trying to keep my distance while he dismantled me with lattes and elevator whispers. And now he was sitting on my couch with his hand on my thigh, shaking with the effort of not kissing me, giving me the choice because that’s what he always did, and I was tired. Tired of fighting it, tired of being careful, tired of being the responsible one who thought things through.
Fuck it. I’d been responsible my whole life. Tonight I wanted to be reckless.
I grabbed his collar with both hands and pulled him in and whatever restraint he’d been white-knuckling just broke.
His hands went to my waist. He lifted me onto his lap and I straddled him on my couch, knees digging into the cushions on either side of his hips. His forearms flexed under those rolled sleeves, the ones I’d been fantasizing about for two goddamn years, and our kiss turned frantic. Tongues, teeth, his hands gripping me like I’d disappear if he let go. Two years of stolen glances and accidental touches in the office and we were finally snapping.
“Bedroom?” I gasped against his mouth, fingers tangled in his dark hair.
He didn’t answer with words. Just scooped me up, muscles bunching as he stood, and I wrapped my legs around him, laughing breathlessly as he carried me down the hallway. We didn’t make it. Halfway there he slammed me against the wall, his body pinning mine, those amber eyes locked on me, intense and wild, like the wolf side of him was clawing to get out.
“Fuck, Andrea,” he growled, his stubble scraping my neck as he kissed down my jaw. His hands shoved my shirt up, palming my breasts, rough but not too hard, attentive, like he was memorizing every hitch in my breath.
I arched into him, overwhelmed by how solid he felt, how hard he was pressing against me through our clothes. “Don’t stop,” I muttered, yanking at his shirt buttons. They popped open and there was that chest, the one I’d only glimpsed through dress shirts, all muscle and warm skin. My hands roamed, nails scraping.
