Page 4

Without warning, his hand finds my waist and pulls me closer. I stumble against him. “Kir…!”

I should say more than just his name, because from a certain angle, it almost sounds like I’m kinda moaning it. Like,Come on, Kir; I’ve been waiting for you, baby.

I’m aware that there are more forceful words in the English language. Words like “hell no” and “I don’t want this” and “please go fuck yourself with the wrong end of a stapler, you birthday-ruining bastard.” But my brain is fritting out, and his hand is moving lower, pawing at my hip, and I don’t understand what’s happening.

“I’ve watched you for months,” he murmurs against my hair.

His fingers find the hem of my blouse and slip underneath. Warm skin against warm skin.

I make a feeble squeak.

He presses closer. I can feel him against my stomach. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this? About you?—”

“S-stop…” It comes out weak and breathy. “This is… I don’t…”

But I’m not pushing him away. Why am I not pushing him away? Is it just that, despite him being an asshole, there’s no denying he’s a very good-looking asshole? Can it really be as simple as that plus the fact that I haven’t yet had a man take me all the way, so I’m desperate for any scrap of his attention? Am I truly that pathetic?

His lips brush my neck. His hand sneaks higher, fingers tracing my ribs.

“Kir.” I try again, firmer this time, channeling my best Bulldog Jillian impression. “We can’t.”

“We can.” His mouth drags along my jaw, hot and open. “We already are.”

His other hand comes up to cup my face and tilts it toward him. His lips hover over mine. Close enough that I can feel his breath. That’s cinnamon-y, too.

Say it, dammit!screams the voice in my head.Say literally anything that doesn’t sound like an eager invitation or a porn star’s come-on!

This is all new territory. I’m simply not the girl this happens to. I’m no willowy supermodel; I’m five-foot-four on a good day. My dirty blonde hair can never decide if it wants to be tropical-breeze-tousled wavy or justdamn it’s humidfrizzy. My eyes are brown, plain as mud, nothing special. I have a face that gets described as “cute” by people who are being generous and “forgettable” by people who aren’t.

Add all that up and you get a twenty-five-year-old executive assistant who’s never had sex.

Not for lack of opportunity, exactly. More like lack of... I don’t know. Confidence? Interest? Both? Neither? Some unfortunate combination of choice and circumstance that left me perpetually single while everyone around me figured out what all the fuss was about, what happens when X goes in Y and babies and/or orgasms come out.

So riddle me this: Why is Kir Lazarev’s hand up my shirt right now?

Is this a power thing? A conquest thing? Does he actually find me attractive, or does he just think I’m pathetic enough to say yes?

“See?” His thumb traces my lower lip. “You can’t say it.”

As I’m trying to figure out what Icansay, he walks me backward until I hit the window. I almost scream when I touch it, because the glass is freezing through the sheer silk of my shabby, sweat-stained blouse. November in New York City is “cold as a witch’s tit”—that’s what my little brother Gideon would say. But Gideon is in a rehab facility two hours north, so the things he might say or do are completely irrelevant right now. Though I sure wouldn’t mind if he was here right now.

Kir’s knee wedges itself between my thighs. His hand is still under my shirt, still in the relatively chaste territory of my belly, but climbing higher and higher toward something more intimate. His fingertips brush the underwire of my bra.

I break away, gasping. “Wait?—!”

“No. No more waiting.” He dips his head to my neck again. Teeth scrape and nip until I almost shriek out loud. “I’m done fucking waiting.”

My head falls back against the glass. The city glitters fifty floors below us. Anyone could see. If they looked up, if they had binoculars or a telescope or?—

That’s a good point, actually. I try that on for size. “Kir, someone could see!”

“I hope they do. Let them watch.”

Well, shit.

His hand covers my breast through the thin lace of my bra. He squeezes and I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

This is so surreal. This is my boss. This is happening at my desk, in an empty office, at almost midnight on my birthday.