When our eyes meet, the air between us shifts. Like static before a storm. He towers over me, silent. Waiting.
The space between us feels too small. Too warm. My skin prickles with awareness.
I swallow hard.
I should apologize. Say something sensible. Something professional. Something that is not, Can I feel your biceps again?
Professional thoughts. I need professional thoughts.
“I—”
My voice cracks. I drop my hands to my sides and try again, but my throat is dry. I lick my lips.
His gaze flicks to my mouth. Just for a second. So quickly, I might have imagined it.
Great.Now, I can’t think about anything except him kissing me. I shove the thought out of my head.
"I owe you an apology," I choke out.
His expression settles into something cool and distant again. "You do."
It's not a question. It’s a statement packed with the full force of his authority.
He’s the master and I’m his…slave? To do as he commands. To bend to his will. To allow him to use me for his pleasure. To do with me as he wants.
As if he reads my thoughts, those blue eyes turn darker, deeper. Almost cobalt in color. The force of his personality seems to grow heavier, darker, infiltrated with a hunger which licks at my nerves and holds me in place. It feels erotic and, strangely, also reassuring.
Like I was born for this role. Born to sink to my knees in front of him and… Where did my thoughts go?
Why do I seem to lose control of my body when I’m with him? This is just fanciful thinking.
Yet, the knowing glint in his eyes tells me, perhaps not?
That it’s only a matter of time before he makes me submit to him. That he’s coming for me, and there’s no escape. I have a sense that we’re dancing some kind of ancient ritual that the oldest part of me recognizes, but which the rest of me is still struggling to catch up with. My survival instincts blare an alarm. Get out of here, they say. Leave. Run as far away as possible from this predator. Do literally anything except stand here drowning in those impossibly blue eyes.
And yet, there’s also the thrill of the chase that sings in my veins and fires up every cell in my body. My God. I’ve never felt as alive as I do in this moment.
I force myself to hold his gaze: "I was wrong. About Ollie. About—" I swallow. "About you."
Something shifts in his face.
"Go on," he growls.
And the way he says it, low and rough and commanding, makes heat pool in places that have absolutely no business responding to my boss's voice.
I am so profoundly screwed.
I manage to gather my thoughts enough to string together the gist of a sentence. “Ollie. He told me what you did for him. Th-that’s admirable.”
His shoulders tighten. His jaw firms. “Glad you approve.”
Each word lands like a blade.
“If you’re done skulking outside my office, can you return to your line?”
“Of course.” I pivot, begin to walk away, glad he’d let me off lightly.
Then he calls out: “Richie?”
