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Then he opened those pouty lips and called me by a name that's not mine. And the mystery was broken. He may have fought for his country, but he remains a rich, privileged, born-with-a-sliver-spoon in his mouth, bastard who belongs at the top of the food chain and has no idea how the rest of the population lives. He didn't look at me once as he tossed a few questions at me, yawned through my answers, and dismissed me. I walked out of his office in a rage, certain I wouldn’t get be hired. Only I did, along with the perks associated with it. And to this day, I'm not sure why.
Not that it matters. To have an address in a post code that boasts more billionaires per square mile than Manhattan, and a monthly salary that helped me pay off most of my student loans within six months, and take care of my siblings’ college education, is more than I expected. So, I grit my teeth and hang in there. It also helped that my boss was serious eye-candy.
Whether dressed in a fitted suit that shows off the breadth of his shoulders, or grey sweatpants that encircle his lean waist and hint at the package tenting the crotch, or the gym-shorts he's wearing now, which outline every coiled muscle in those powerful thighs.
He drops down on his palms and feet and proceeds to pump out a hundred push-ups before he springs up and holds out his arm. I slide the bottle of water into his waiting palm. He throws his head back and chugs the contents, then tosses me the empty bottle. I walk over to the recycling bin, drop it in, and grab another from the refrigerator before walking back to him. He’s at the push-board bench, pressing weights many times his own. I stand with the fresh bottle of water and a towel, trying not to ogle the way his abs flex, his shoulder muscles bunch, and his thigh muscles ripple each time he pushes up the weights. Beads of sweat glisten on his torso. One slides down his concave stomach toward his waistband.
I gulp. Feel my own forehead moisten. Is it hot in here? I glance around the almost empty gym. The only other occupant is a man on the treadmill, and he's wearing a pair of headphones while focusing on the console in front of him. It’s air-conditioned in here, but you wouldn’t know it, given the way my palms are sweating. I raise the bottle of water and press it to my heated cheek, and I’m not even working out. Still, I’m dressed in sneakers and yoga pants, combined with an oversized sweatshirt. Maybe I should take it off? I hesitate, shoot my boss a glance and find his jaw hard, forehead wrinkled as he glares at the weights, he’s busy grappling with. The scars on his cheek seem to protrude with the effort.
He looks fierce, like he’s fighting a battle or about to start a war. The tendons on his throat pop, the veins on his forearms stand out in relief. And his biceps… Good god, they’re as big as my thighs, and I’m not a skinny person.
I love my curves, love dressing to show them off. But also, I want to keep my job. It’s why I prefer to wear clothes two sizes too big and tie my hair back in a bun. So far, combined with my eyeglasses, it’s helped me stay nondescript. Maybe, it’s working too well—my boss has no idea of my name. No idea that I exist. I might be part of the furniture, for all the times he’s noticed me… Which, at this stage, is a big fat zero.
So why, why, why am I so drawn to him? Why, oh why can’t I tear my gaze off the way his chest heaves and his shoulders swell, and the way his biceps bulge, and the way the muscles of his forearms inflate as he pushes up the barbell with a grunt that rolls over my skin and arrows straight to my clit? Goosebumps pepper my forearms. The sweat on my throat dries in the air-conditioning, and I shiver.
Great! First, I’m too hot, now I’m too cold. Maybe I’m coming down with something? Maybe, I need to take a break from the cloud of testosterone that’s pressing down on my shoulders? "I, uh… I’ll only be a minute. Just need to… uh… Use the little girls’ room." I cringe. Little girls’ room? Couldn’t I come up with a better excuse?
I turn, and promptly trip on a plate weight, which I didn't see. The water bottle in my hand hits the floor, and the towel slips from my fingers. I throw my hands out to break my fall, then find myself suspended an inch from the floor. The breath whooshes out of me. Then suddenly, I’m upright, and my feet don’t touch the floor because two big broad palms are squeezing my waist.
Heat sizzles my back, the scent of sweat and something musky under it—sandalwood?—teases my nostrils. The fine hair on the back of my neck rises and I realize, it’s him. He caught me? But how did he even see me? He was on his back, bench pressing, when my feet brushed against the weight. "You... you can put me down," I squeak.
His hold on my waist tightens, then he gently lowers me until my feet touch the floor. Only he hasn’t let go of me. Instead, he spins me around to face him. Our gazes meet, and I swear, the world stops. My heart descends to the space between my legs. The pulse blooms there and travels to my fingertips, and my toes, and my scalp, which tightens. Silver sparks light up those colorless eyes, the heat from his body a lasso pulling me toward him. Then my nipples graze his wall-like chest and I realize, we’ve leaned in toward each other.
A thousand little hummingbirds whirl their wings in my chest. I raise my head; he lowers his. I draw my gaze down the raised scar bisecting his cheek. Then, because I’ve wanted to for so long, I raise my hand and graze my fingers over the puckered skin. Shock sears his features, and he pulls back so quickly, I stumble. This time, he doesn’t right me. He takes a few steps back, then sinks down on the weight bench. I open my mouth to apologize for touching him, when he scrunches up his forehead. "Ah, Melanie, is it?"
What the—! I narrow my gaze on him.
He scrunches up his forehead, then his brow clears. He snaps his fingers. "It’s Renée." He nods. "Yep, Renée. Get me an energy drink, will you?"
Remember all those sensations crowding me? Remember how I could have sworn there was an electric connection between us? All of it dissipates in a flash. I shake my head. What an ass! "It’s June," I snap.
He raises a shoulder. "That’s what I said."
I curl my fingers into fists at my sides. "No, you didn’t."
"Sure, I did." His tone is condescending. He has a smirk on his face, implying I'm the one who doesn’t know my own name.
Anger squeezes my guts. I grit my teeth. "My name. Is. June. I’ve worked for you for almost a year. The least you could do is remember my name."
My stomach churns, and my vision narrows. Before I can stop myself, I’ve closed the distance to the fallen bottle of water. I snatch it up and lob it at him. It hits his forehead and bounces off, and it’s as if the world stops. Again. OMG, I did not mean to do that. Okay, I lie; I totally meant to do that. But I didn't think my aim would be this accurate. Or that he’d freeze, then slowly raise his head and stare at me. And that those grey eyes of his would turn almost silver with rage. Or that his nostrils would flare, and he’d rise to his feet, so I'd to tilt my head back, then further back.
He takes a step forward. I gulp. He scans my features, and a furrow appears between his eyebrows. Then his gaze widens. I swear, he’s noticing me for the first time. He drapes the towel over his shoulders then prowls closer. He steps over the weight, then stops in front of me. A cloud of heat spools off of his body and slams into my chest.
I gasp. I want to turn and run out of there, but my feet seem to be cemented to the ground.
He holds my gaze, golden sparks flaring in the depths of his eyes as he bends his knees and peers into my eyes. "Run," he growls.
"What?" I gape.
"I’ll even give you a head start."
"Excuse me?" I blink rapidly.
He bares his teeth like he hasn’t heard me speak. "You have until I count to five." He jerks his chin toward the doorway. "Go."
Knox
"Go, before I change my mind," I bite out.
