“It is,” I say, breathless.
His eyes drop briefly to my hands.
Then back to my face.
“Victoria,” he says.
Just my name on his tongue, in that gorgeous accent, backs my lungs up.
“Tell me what you dreamt.”
The room falls completely silent.
For one second, I am certain I misheard him or that I’ve gone deaf.
Then heat rushes through me so fast I nearly grip the tablet hard enough to crack it.
“What?” I say, my voice a little higher than I’d like.
He does not move a muscle.
“You heard me.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
His gaze stays on mine, dark and steady and impossible to escape.
I should stand and remind him that we are in his office and that I came here to discuss access protocols and executive oversight and all the many professional reasons I should absolutely not answer that question.
Well, no. That’s what I assumed I came here for.
He might’ve had a different idea altogether.
Then, my mind gives me exactly what he asked for.
The dream from the first night after we met.
The conference room we had sex in.
How we had been standing near the door, the table between us.
Then I was on it, spread-eagle, his body between my thighs.
One finger buried inside me.
Two.
I was shaking, and he was murmuring something in Italian, something dirty and filthy and sweet.
My back arched, and I opened my eyes to find him watching me, and—
Then another. This one in his office, which I hadn't been in yet, and he had me pressed against the wall, arms pinned above my head with one hand, the other between my legs.
Then another. His chair, his lap. My skirt bunched around my hips as I ground against him desperately.
I inhale too sharply.
