She sets the tray on the desk, and our hands brush as I reach for a mug.
The contact sends heat straight through me, and I watch her breath catch.
Her hazel eyes, more green than gold in the afternoon light, hold mine for a moment too long.
I can see the pulse hammering in her throat, can smell the vanilla scent that clings to her skin.
Dios mío.I want to pull her close, to bury my face in her neck and forget everything except the way she feels against me. To slide my hands under that dress and discover if she’s wearing anything underneath.
To claim her right here on Adrian’s desk while Elijah watches with those hungry eyes.
Instead, I force myself to step back. But my body doesn’t care about propriety. I’m already half-hard just from that brief touch, from the way her dress gapes slightly at the neckline, revealing the curve of her collarbone.
Charlie moves around the desk, passing mugs to Adrian and Elijah.
I watch the way her hips sway with each step, the way the fabric of her dress shifts across her ass.
Adrian’s gaze tracks her movement with barely concealed hunger, and I see his jaw clench as he fights himself.
Elijah’s fingers drum against his thigh in that nervous gesture he has, his gaze following the line of her legs.
We’re all thinking the same thing. All wanting the same thing. And the sexual tension in the small office is suffocating.
“What did I miss?” Charlie settles into the chair Elijah vacated. Her hand moves unconsciously to rest on her still-flat stomach, protective and tender. The gesture makes something fierce surge through my chest.
“Everything we need to destroy Whitmore,” Adrian says, his voice rough. He gestures to the documents spread across his desk. “Financial fraud. Affairs paid for with church funds. Money laundering. It’s all here.”
Charlie leans forward to study the evidence, and the movement makes her dress ride up slightly, revealing more of her thighs. I force my gaze back to the documents, but not before I catch Adrian and Elijah doing the same thing.
We’re pathetic, the three of us, unable to focus on anything except the way she looks, the way she moves, the way she exists in our space.
“We need to call a press conference,” Adrian says, his voice dropping to something cold and precise. “Tomorrow. We’re done playing defense.”
Elijah stands, moving to the window. “Are we sure? Once we go public with this, there’s no taking it back. Whitmore will retaliate.”
“Let him try.” Adrian’s jaw clenches. “We have irrefutable evidence of corruption. The media will destroy him. The authorities will investigate. Victory Life will collapse under the weight of its own rot.”
I think about JT, about the fear in her eyes when she handed over that envelope.
About the women Whitmore paid off to keep quiet about his affairs.
About the parishioners who gave their hard-earned money, thinking it was going to help people, only to fund his expensive lifestyle.
“Adrian’s right,” I say, my accent thickening with conviction. “We strike now, while we have the advantage. While Whitmore thinks he’s winning.”
Charlie’s hand finds mine on the desk, her fingers cold and trembling.
I squeeze gently, trying to offer comfort I don’t entirely feel.
Her hazel eyes hold mine, and I see the same fierce determination reflected there that I’m feeling. She’s not afraid. She’s ready to fight.
Adrian picks up the email again, the one where Whitmore jokes about stupid sheep. His gray eyes burn with rage as he looks up at Elijah and me.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, his voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath. “We call a press conference. We expose everything.”
44
ADRIAN
