Page 70 of Twisted Knight

Guess I need to try harder next time.

“Look who’s finally back in the office,” I murmur without looking up.

“Back in the office?” she asks, her voice riding that fine line of irritation and frustration. “Says the man who hasn’t picked up his phone or shown his face in here since last week.”

I glance up, a smart quip getting lost on my tongue when it ties itself up.

That damn sweater.

Jesus Christ. How many fucking colors does the woman own it in? My eyes stutter over her cleavage. It’s hard not to when her nipples are hard and pressed against the cashmere while her crossed arms only serve to push her breasts up higher.

Images of me clearing off the desk in one swoop of my arm and fucking her on it flash through my head. The soft sigh of her moan. Her pussy tightening around me. The half-hooded eyes as we watch each other. The goddamn rush of emptying myself into her.

It’s Rowan I suddenly want.

There’s a reason I’ve made myself scarce in the office this week. Her presence and my thoughts that suddenly spiral out of control when I think of her. That’s one of the major reasons.

“I’ve been busy.” My smile is smug, my expression nonchalant, and my gaze lingers longer than it should on her lips.

You’re only prolonging the torture, Knight.

“What the hell did you mean?”

“What the hell did I mean about what?” I say innocently. How much longer until you’re beneath me, Rowan Rothschild?

Her eyes dart down the hall and then back to me. “In the parking lot. At the gym.”

She’s talking about a seat at the table, Holden. You set the hook. Now she wants the bait.

Get her fucking out of here.

“I have a long list of shit to do and a conference call waiting for me.” I wave dismissively to her as I pick up my cell. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

She huffs. “Yes, you do.”

I push a button on my phone—calling my own voicemail—and pretend. “Yes. Holden Knight calling in for the meeting.”

Rowan remains standing there, arms still crossed, jaw still clenched, eyes still glaring.

I point to the door. “Shut it on the way out.”

Sometimes playing hard to get makes the other person want it that much more.

Her expression—irritated, impatient, furious—says I’m getting exactly what I want out of this stunt. Her to want me.

I lift my eyebrows to her and mouth, You’re still here.

Our eyes hold, battle, challenge.

She remains a few more seconds before emitting a strangled groan and stomping back out of my office.

I track the exaggerated swish of her hips as she stalks down the hallway. It’s not until she enters her office and slams the door shut that I chuckle and drop my phone on my desk.

Mission accomplished.

And as if on cue, Audrey walks right through it with a disapproving tsk on her lips. Ever ready with her notepad and pen in hand, she takes a seat opposite me.

“What?” I ask like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.