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“It won’t take long,” she teases. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

It suddenly hits me that I don’t want to leave. I want to stay right here and watch her all damn day. My cock is granite, and my brain is soup, but I can’t make myself look away from the sweet curve of her ass as she bends over to grab something from the pastry case. Fuck, does she know what she’s doing to me? Or maybe she just always moves like that, hips swaying, every motion loose and tempting. Cydney. I roll her name across my tongue, savoring it. The way she glances up through those thick lashes lets me know she caught me staring, and she loves it. A slow smile spreads across her gorgeous mouth, and, holy hell, my cock nearly tears through my pants. I’m not even embarrassed about it. I want her to know exactly what she’s doing to me.

She straightens, box in hand, and hip-checks the register closed. “You gonna need a bag for these, or do you like to live dangerously?” She arches a brow, pure sass. I want to bend her over the counter and show her what dangerous really looks like.

“Barehanded is fine.” Christ, my voice is low and way too fucking needy.

She grins, all dimples and challenge. “Man after my own heart.” She slides the box and my coffee across the counter, her fingers brushing mine, and I swear to God, I get a jolt straight down my spine. Fireworks. I’m not even ashamed.

“Oliver,” I blurt, because, apparently, the last of my dignity is now six feet under. “Oliver Burkhardt.”

She leans in, her laugh like warm honey, eyes sparkling as she tests out my name. “Oliver.” Jesus. I want to hear her say it a hundred different ways, the way her lips wrap around every syllable. “Nice to meet you, Oliver. I’m Cydney. I own this circus.”

“Nice to meet you, Cydney.” My voice comes out rough, hungrier than I want to admit. I can’t stop staring at her mouth. I have an MBA, I’ve built three companies from nothing, and here I am, feet glued to the floor, completely at her mercy.

She grins wider, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Hell, maybe she does. “If you survive my vanilla bourbon cold brew, you can come back tomorrow and let me try to top myself.”

I drag my gaze back to her mouth, and my cock throbs so hard I see fucking stars. I want to bury my face between her thighs and make her say my name until her voice is gone. Instead, I wrap my hand around the coffee cup and try not to crush it to dust.

“Careful, Cydney,” I murmur, my tone so low it’s basically a threat. “That’s a dangerous offer to make.”

She laughs, and I swear it vibrates right through my chest. “I like danger,” she fires back, her tongue darting out to swipe a sprinkle off her thumb as she closes the pastry box. “It keeps the day interesting.”

I can’t stop staring at her mouth. I want to taste every inch of her. I’d trade every conference call this week for just five minutes alone with her in my penthouse. Hell, maybe I want more than five minutes. I want her in my bed, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed… and my cum dripping down her thighs. Jesus. I need to get the fuck out of here before I do something insane like ask for her phone number in front of half the building.

I grab my coffee and the pastry box. Our fingers brush again, and that jolt nearly buckles my knees. “I’ll try not to get arrested for indecent cinnamon roll consumption in the lobby,” I mutter, my voice so low and rough I barely recognize it.

Cydney laughs, and it’s the best fucking sound I’ve ever heard. “No promises, Oliver. We get a lot of inappropriate baked good behavior around here.” She flashes me a wink I feel straight in my cock. Damn near makes me want to strip off my jacket, throw her over my shoulder, and drag her up to my penthouse like a caveman.

Instead, I force my feet to move. I’m still staring at her when I back out the door, brain completely short-circuited.