Page 48
I shouldn’t smile. The man is literally summoning me like an employee, which is technically what I am, and the power dynamic is exactly the kind of thing a feminist with an MBA should object to on principle.
I’m smiling anyway. I’m smiling as I close my laptop and stand up and walk to the elevator. Katya watches me go. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. The look she gives me over the top of her coffee cup is equal parts amusement and resignation, like she saw this coming from the first day and has made her peace with it.
His office door is closed. I knock. He says come in. I walk through and he’s standing behind his desk and his sleeves are rolled and his tie is loosened and his hair is slightly disordered, as though he’s been running his hands through it. The bond surges in my chest and I feel his heartbeat accelerate alongside mine.
He crosses the room. He locks the door. The click of the lock is the loudest sound in the building.
“We have a problem,” he says.
“What problem?”
“The Pilsen cost analysis you sent me this morning.”
“What about it?”
“I can’t read it.”
I stare at him. “You can’t read a cost analysis?”
“I can’t read anything right now.” He’s moving toward me, slow, deliberate. “I’ve been sitting at my desk for two hours trying to work and all I can think about is the sound you made last night when I—”
“Dominic.”
”—had you on the kitchen counter with your—”
“We’re at work.”
“I’m aware.”
He’s close enough to touch. I put my hand on his chest, a gesture that’s become instinctive, my palm flat against his sternum where his heartbeat pounds in time with the one in my own chest. His hand covers mine. His skin is burning through his shirt.
“Someone will hear,” I say. It’s a weak objection and we both know it. His office is at the end of the hall. The walls are thick. The door is locked. And the look he’s giving me has already decided how this conversation ends.
“Then be quiet,” he says.
“I’m never quiet. You know that.”
His mouth twitches. “I do know that. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
He kisses me. Not the desperate, consuming kisses of Friday night. This is slower, lazier, like he knows he can have what he wants and is choosing to take his time. His tongue slides against mine and his hand cups the back of my neck, his thumb tracing the edge of the silver scar, and the contact sends a bolt of heat through the bond that makes my knees go soft.
He walks me backward until my thighs hit the edge of his desk. His hands grip my waist and lift me onto the surface, scattering papers and a pen holder that clatters to the floor. I’d feel bad about the mess if his mouth wasn’t on my throat and his hands weren’t sliding up my thighs under my skirt.
“This is wildly unprofessional,” I say. My voice is already breathless, already wrecked, because his fingers have found the edge of my panties and he’s tracing the elastic with his thumb in a way that makes my hips tilt toward him involuntarily.
“Fire me.”
“You’re my boss.”
“Then give me a performance review.”
I laugh. A real laugh, bright and surprised, and his eyes warm at the sound in a way that makes me feel something more dangerous than desire. Something that feels like home.
He pulls my panties to the side and his fingers find me and I’m already wet, embarrassingly wet considering it’s Tuesday afternoon and we’re in a glass-walled office and I was reviewing subcontractor reports five minutes ago. He strokes me slowly, his eyes locked on my face, watching every reaction. I bite my lip to keep from making noise.
“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs. “I want to hear you.”
“Your entire company is on the other side of that door.”
