Page 91 of Saved By the CEO

“Yeah,” I say. “Probably.”

He pauses by the door with one hand on the handle. “Rest.”

Then he leaves.

I lock the door behind him and stand there, forehead almost touching the wood. My heart is still pounding, my lips feel swollen, and nothing feels the same as it did before he came.

TWENTY-THREE

It’s been four days since I almost died.

We’re in Andrew’s car, on our way to the hospital for another treatment. We’ve decided to have them done there from now on to prevent anything further from happening.

The conversations about this have beensorelaxed and comfortable. Not once have I thought about how hard you’d have to throw a chair against a window in order to crack it so that I could jump out and escape.

The drive is only twenty minutes, which feels both too long and nowhere near long enough. Long enough to dread what is coming. Not long enough to prepare for it.

Andrew drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road, jaw tight enough to crack a molar. I sit in the passenger seat with my hands folded in my lap like a child being delivered to boarding school. Both of us know there is something more here now. Both of us know we can’t acknowledge it. Not while he is still my boss, and I am still his assistant.

And yet, in about twenty minutes, he will have to put his hand down my pants and make me come.

The fact that I am not currently wandering the halls of a psych ward wearing grippy socks and a nightgown is nothing short of a miracle.

We arrive at the hospital and make our way to our designated room. Dr. Shaw greets us and lets us know that she’ll be right outside.

Yippee.

I lie down on the bed and look away. Andrew does his thing.

Just like the last time, it takes a while. I almost feel ashamed of it. But Andrew doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t sigh, shift impatiently, or make me feel like I’m taking too long. He’s patient, gentle, and all those horrid things that send a reluctant warmth through me.

Minutes pass like that.

Then, because I can’t fucking help myself, I turn my head a little. Just enough to see him.

He’s looking away, respectfully, but I can see the flush high on his cheekbones. I can see the way his throat moves when he swallows.

Touching me does something to him.

And seeing that definitely does something to me.

The tightening starts low in my abdomen, and my hand curls into the sheet as my breath catches.

Andrew’s breathing changes too. He shifts in his chair, just slightly, and that is what finally pushes me over the edge.

I come less than a minute later.

The next morning,I’m back at my desk, pretending to be a normal person with a normal job and a normal amount of knowledge about my boss’s hands.

I’m halfway through moving a finance call when a message pops up.

Marissa Kane: Do you have a few minutes to swing by my office today?

Carly Michaels: Sure. What is it about?

Marissa Kane: I wanted to talk to you about Westbrook.

Oh no.