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“I don’t think you do.” His fingers trail away from my face, down to my throat. “I still want you. Just you.”
My heart is beating so hard and so fast that I don’t know why he isn’t commenting on it. He has to hear it. Has to feel my pulse pounding through my neck.
“I get it,” I manage to say. “I want you too. I want to… to fuck you. That’s all.”
A low, deep groan rips from his throat, as if he couldn’t keep it contained. His fingers keep exploring boldly. Like he already owns my cheeks and my shoulders and my jawline. Like maybe these moments don’t count, while we’re in negotiations. Like maybe something is going to happen, right here, right now.
But then Declan seems to reach a decision.
“Fuck it,” he growls under his breath. He leans in close, his lips just a fraction of an inch away from mine, and the space between us vibrates with possibility as his breath brushes against my skin. “I can’t resist anymore. I’ll fucking die if I keep trying to. I will tell you when and where. It will never be here.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Good.”
He hesitates for one more sustained moment with his mouth almost touching mine, then drags in a breath and straightens. His gaze tracks my movements as I force my body into motion and step toward the door. My fingers curl around the knob, and I pull the heavy wooden door open and slip out of his office, feeling like I’m walking in a dream.
My knees are shaking, and even as I smile and nod at Beth, I can’t help but wonder if she has any idea exactly what’s taken place behind that now-closed door.
An agreement.
A pact.
Holy shit.
I’ve just agreed to become fuck buddies with my boss.
Chapter 22
Declan
Sweat runs in rivulets down my face and body—so much so that I ditch the shirt and regret trying to wear it through the workout. It’s a waste of laundry when I’m working this hard. I have Dynasty’s premier line of equipment in my home gym, and I don’t miss a chance to use it. It’s good goddamn equipment.
Carol used to try to prod me into being part of a marketing campaign for the company. Something along the lines of, equipment this good that even the CEO uses it. Or whatever. But there is no way that I’m compromising my privacy for marketing. I pay that team well. They can—and have—figured out plenty of other ways to sell the product.
I watch myself in the long line of mirrors that covers one wall of the gym, making sure my form stays tight. It’s not easy to maintain this level of fitness, my muscles gleaming in the soft light. It takes time—and dedication, most of all. But I always make sure to set aside what I need. If I can’t prioritize my own health, then what good am I to my company, the people around me, or anything else?
An added benefit? Exercising helps me get over the stress of running a growing company. It’s better than therapy. Better than drinking. Better than meditation or any hokey cure people are peddling these days. I come down here, sweat my ass off, and come away with a clear mind.
At least, most of the time.
I finish the last of my reps when my phone rings. It’s my grandmother, and I select the video option just so I can see how she’s doing.
“What is this?” she complains sweetly, gesturing toward the camera as I do a couple of extra curls with the help of the equipment. “Are you multitasking? On a call with your grandmother? Don’t tell me. Are you going to have a conference call at my funeral? Isn’t that the kind of shenanigans you multitaskers pull?”
I laugh. “Gran, believe me. You have my full attention.”
“Uh-huh. And I bet you have the full attention of every woman within a fifty-mile radius of your location with those muscles,” she says. “What’s your regimen? Bachelor Blitz? Heartbreaker Heat? Go on, then.”
“If you’d let me get someone over to your house to install this system, you’d leave those old men panting after you at bingo,” I tease her. “Think of all the heart failure you could command.”
“Oh, please,” she says, waving her hand at me. “You think I want anything to do with those old idiots? They drool onto their cards. Miss calls. I win all the time because they fall asleep with their daubers in their hands. Now, when your company invents the equipment that will turn back time and make me young again, that’s when you need to send an installer over.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I promise her, and she laughs, light and happy. It lifts me in a way that no workout session could. “Not like you ever need a reason, but to what do I owe this pleasure tonight? Any particular reason for the call?”
“Actually, it’s about your father.” My grandmother hesitates, and all that stress I’ve worked so hard to release starts piling back up. I feel it in my chest and shoulders. “He called me today.”
“That son of a bitch.”
