"No."
"Wow. Fast. You don’t want to think about it."
His mouth tightens, and for one treacherous second, I think he might smile. "Submit the request to my secretary."
"Like everyone else?"
"Yes."
"And will you accept it?"
"No. Probably not."
"Probably?"
He leans back in his chair. The movement should not be intriguing. My eyes should not be glued. My body does not care. His shirt pulls across his shoulders, the dark fabric cutting hard lines over all that alien strength, and my attention falls apart for half a second before I drag it back with both hands.
"Ordinarily, I would say no.Definitely not."
His words slide across the desk and settle between us. I narrow my eyes. "What makes this less ordinary?"
He studies me for a long moment. Too long. Long enough for the anger under my skin to find another heat and curl around it. "You have an advantage other journalists do not," he says.
My fingers tighten around the notebook. "Because I work for you?"
"No."
"Because I’m short enough to sneak past security and hide under your desk until you answer my questions?"
His gaze drops to my mouth. A quick half-smile forms on his lips. Not quick enough.
"That would be unwise." His eyes shift. Gold flame licks through the soft yellow around those black pupils before he blinks, and it vanishes. My pulse slips and stumbles.
"What's my advantage?" I ask. He says nothing. "Skylor?"
The sound of his name changes him. Not in any way I can prove, but his shoulders lock, his pupils widen, and the angle of his ears sharpens toward me. I have known him for a few days and have no business reading any part of him, but his body keeps broadcasting words he doesn’t say. "My advantage?" I press.
His voice drops. "I do not know that I would be able to deny you anything."
Oh.The notebook almost slips from my hand. That sentence does not flirt. It does not wink, tease, or show off for a woman. Itis stripped of performance. My heartbeat moves into my throat, racing there like it wants out.
"You should not say things like that to employees," I manage around the lump in my throat.
"No."
"Or journalists."
His gaze holds mine. "Especially not them."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Not a real laugh. More of an"oh shit, does he mean what I think he means?" laugh. His eyes brighten again, gold flame pushing through the yellow, and even an attempt at a laugh dies.
He stands. I take one step back. He braces his weight with his hands on the desk. He does not come around it yet. That should help. It doesn’t. The desk is not a barrier. And we both know it. I feel my slick seeping out despite every effort to hold it in. Leaking out in a steady drip. I pray he doesn’t notice, but his nose is twitching before I can get to amen.Oh shit.
"You asked why this is less ordinary," he says in a sandpaper voice.
"I'm starting to regret that."
"You should."
