But I know what he looks like when he falls apart now. I know the sounds he makes when he comes. That knowledge feels like a secret weapon, something I can carry with me even when he's pretending to be made of ice.
"We said we'd go through the files today," I remind him. "The Kreiss stuff."
"I remember."
"So let's do that. We can work, we can investigate, we can pretend to be professional." I set down my mug and cross to him, stopping close enough to touch but not touching. "And then tonight, if you want, we can be unprofessional again."
His breath catches. Just barely. Just enough for me to notice.
"This is a terrible idea," he says.
"You mentioned that. Several times." I reach up and straighten his collar, letting my fingers brush the skin of his neck. "And yet."
"And yet," he repeats.
I smile. "See? We're making progress."
He catches my wrist before I can pull away. Holds it there, my hand against his chest, his pulse steady beneath my palm.
"If this goes wrong," he says quietly, "people will get hurt."
"People are already getting hurt. That's kind of the whole thing with your evil shadow organization." I turn my hand over, lace my fingers with his. "At least this way, we get to feel something good while we're trying to stop it."
He stares at our joined hands like he's never seen anything like it before.
Maybe he hasn't.
"Okay," he says finally.
"Okay?"
"Okay." He lifts his gaze to mine. "Let's go look at those files."
I grin. "Is Daddy J taking orders from me now?"
"Oh shut up."
But he doesn't let go of my hand.
Chapter Seven: Jagger
JonahreadsfasterthanI expected.
We've been at this for three hours, side by side at my desk, splitting the Kreiss files between us. He's got a system I don't fully understand—sticky notes in four colors, a legal pad covered in shorthand, documents arranged in piles that look chaotic but apparently make sense to him.
Watching him work is distracting. Both mentally and the growing ache in my cock to slide it between those pursed lips.
He sits cross-legged in my office chair, shoes kicked off somewhere, pen tucked behind his ear when he's not chewing on it. Every few minutes he makes a noise. A grunt of frustration, a hum of interest, occasionally a triumphant "ha!" when he finds something useful. It's like working next to a very intelligent, very annoying radio.
"This is wrong," he says, tapping a transfer record. "The dates don't line up."
I lean over to look. His hair smells like my shampoo, and I push that away in the part of my brain I'm trying to ignore. It's getting crowded in there.
"What do you mean?"
"This wire transfer is dated March 2019. But this invoice—" he pulls another document from his yellow pile "—references the same account number, and it's from six months earlier. September 2018."
"Could be a clerical error."
