My words trail off as he methodically rolls each sleeve, exposing forearms that feature prominently in my less-professional dreams. The smooth skin, dusted with dark hair, flexes as he adjusts the fabric. I forget what I was saying, forget why we’re even here, forget everything except how much I want to trace those forearms with my fingers, my lips, my tongue.
“That I what?” he prompts, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“That you’re making it very hard to focus on…everything,” I admit before I can stop myself.
His lips curve in a smile that transforms his whole face. “Now who’s being observant?”
I duck my head, pretending to sort through venue photos while my cheeks burn. “We should probably look at the timing options,” I say, reaching for a safe topic. “The space is available on either the fifteenth or the twenty-ninth.”
“The fifteenth,” he says immediately, and when I look up in surprise, he adds, “You have that convention on the twenty-ninth. The one in New York.”
Now it’s my turn to stare. “You know about that?” I haven’t even decided whether to ask Pierce for time off.
“I notice things too,” he says softly, his dark eyes piercing through my soul. “Like how you light up when you talk about your art. How you see big stories in the smallest moments. How you transform ordinary things into something…extraordinary. And you left a brochure with sticky notes on your desk a week ago.”
The compliment hangs in the air between us.
“We should…” I gesture vaguely at the papers spread across his desk, though I can’t remember what we’re supposed to be doing with them.
“Yes,” he agrees, but neither of us moves. His hand remains close to mine on the desk, our fingers almost but not quite touching. “The venue needs…”
“Right,” I say quickly. “Venue. Date. Food. Got it.”
His laugh, soft and intimate in the quiet office, makes me look up.
“Thatcher,” he says softly, and my name in his mouth sounds different here in the dark office, carries a weight I’m afraid to examine too closely. “I’ve been meaning to tell you…”
His hand moves from the paper to my wrist, his fingers wrapping around it softly. “About the other night,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “At Lior’s…”
The air between us feels heavy, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. Pierce leans closer, and I hold my breath, watching his lips part as if in slow motion. His other hand rises toward my face, and I’m already tilting into the touch before it lands.
The sudden burst of fluorescent light makes us both jump. The cleaning crew bursts through the door with their cart of supplies, chattering happily, ready to start work on this floor. Pierce jerks away from me as if he were burned, his professional mask snapping back into place.
“Today’s meeting notes,” he says loudly, unnecessarily, straightening papers that don’t need straightening. “Make sure they’re on my desk first thing tomorrow.”
I fumble with scattered documents, trying to hide the flush I can feel burning across my cheeks. “Of course,” Imanage, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. “First thing tomorrow.”
The cleaning staff moves around us cheerfully, oblivious to the moment they’ve shattered. Pierce won’t meet my eyes now, his attention firmly fixed on his computer screen as if the last few minutes never happened.
“I should probably go home. It’s getting late,” I announce, even though most of the cleaners have earbuds, probably listening to music or audiobooks, and can’t hear us.
I retreat to my desk, gathering my things with hands that still tremble slightly.
“Goodnight,” I call, aiming for casual and probably missing by miles. “See you tomorrow.”
As I get down to the lobby, a guy wearing a T-shirt for a local Chinese restaurant and holding a bag filled with takeout boxes walks past me. The delicious smell makes me want to follow him up, but I don’t think I can face Pierce again. Not today. Not until I get rid of the big problem in my pants.
By the time I’m safely inside my apartment, my skin has gone from tingly where Pierce touched me to a burning inferno. The shower calls like salvation, promising relief from the tension I’ve been carrying since his fingers wrapped around my wrist. Hell, it’s become a daily need since that first time.
I drop my messenger bag by the door and head straight to the bathroom. My clothes, discarded on the floor, somehow carry traces of Pierce’s cologne from when he leaned close.
The water heats quickly and steam rises, fogging the mirror before I can catch my reflection. Better that way. I’m not sure I want to see how obviously affected I am by memory and want. My cock is already hard, has been sincePierce’s fingers traced my knuckles in the dark office, since his voice dropped low and intimate while saying my name.
I step under the spray, letting hot water sluice over my tired muscles and heated skin. My hand moves automatically to my cock, drawing a gasp that echoes off the tile walls. The first stroke sends electricity through my whole body, making me brace my other hand against the cool tiles for support.
More than on any other day since I started working for Pierce, memories flood back unbidden. I remember how he tasted when I dropped to my knees, how his fingers tangled in my hair with surprising gentleness even as his hips jerked forward with need. The weight of him on my tongue, thick and heavy, making my jaw ache in the best possible way.
My hand moves faster now, remembering how he felt, how he sounded when I took him deeper. The way his control cracked just a little.
