"I'm glad." I should leave it at that, but words tumble out. "You're doing the work. That's more than most people will do."
He smiles, and there’s the dimple again. "High praise coming from you."
He moves toward me, and I should step back, maintain distance, but my feet stay rooted to the floor. He's close enough that I can smell his intoxicating cologne. I don’t know what it's called, but it smells fresh and masculine.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing my arm, and a jolt runs through me at the contact.
"I should go," he says, but doesn't move.
"You should." My voice barely above a whisper.
His hand is still on my arm, thumb now making small circles against my skin. "Tell me to leave."
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
"Tell me, Elena." His eyes lock with mine. "Say it like you mean it, and I'll walk out that door."
I know I should. For my career. For my reputation. For my sanity. But the words stick in my throat, trapped behind the thudding of my heart.
"I can't." The admission feels like surrender.
His hand slides up my arm to my shoulder, then to the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair, gentle but insistent.
"Tell me to stop." His mouth hovers close to mine now, our breath mingling.
"I can't do that either."
The last thread of restraint snaps. His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and demanding. I respond instantly, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. His tongue slides against mine, and I make a sound—half whimper, half moan.
He lifts me, hands gripping my thighs, and sits me on the edge of my desk. Papers scatter, a pen clatters to the floor. I don't care. Can't care about anything but the feel of his hands, now pushing up my skirt, thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. But, wait…the door.
“Stop,” I say insistently.
He immediately backs off, both hands up.
“Lock the door.”
I can’t miss the look of relief on his face. He moves quickly to the door, locks it and then he's back, more urgent than before, his mouth hot on my collarbone as he unbuttons my blouse.
"I've thought about this every night," he murmurs against my neck, lips grazing over the tender spot below my ear. "About you. About us."
I should correct him—there is no us, can be no us—but I'm too far gone, lost in sensation as his fingers find the edge of my underwear, pushing it aside. Just this one last time…
This is different from the hotel. That was alcohol and impulse and anonymity. This is deliberate. Chosen. And so dangerous.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, pulling it upward. He breaks away just long enough to help me remove it, then returns to my lips as if the separation was unbearable. His pecs are warm beneath my palms, muscles shifting as he moves.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, as he pushes my blouse from my shoulders. "So fucking beautiful."
His words melt my last reservations. I pull him closer, wrapping my legs around his waist. The hard length of his cock presses against me through his jeans, and I rock against it.
He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest against mine. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this. I want you."
Time blurs after that—clothes discarded, skin against skin, his mouth everywhere. When he finally pushes into me, I gasp, fingernails digging into his back. He stills for a moment, his face so close, our eyes locked.
"Yes?" he asks, voice strained.
