“Paige,” he says, and my name in that tone turns my bones to warm glass.
“Yes?” I say, not looking up, because I already know what I’ll see.
He doesn’t answer with words. He sets the pen down like he’s disarming himself and leans in, forearms braced on the table, bringing him close enough that I can count the darker lashes at the edge of his eyes, the tiny flecks of gold in his irises. I hold very still.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, which is not the same as saying don’t.
His breath ghosts across my cheek. “We’re brainstorming.”
“For work,” I say.
“For morale,” he counters, and his mouth grazes mine.
It’s barely a kiss, a test—soft and careful. I lean into it.
“Terrible segue,” I say, breathier than I want.
“Workshopping it,” he murmurs, nibbling on my lower lip.
My pen slides out of my hand and clatters onto the table; neither of us looks.
His hand finds my knee under the table and rests there, warm through denim, not coaxing, just… there. The steadiness undoes me more than a grab would. I lean closer until the little bistro table complains under the shift of weight.
He steadies it with one hand without breaking the kiss, and the competence of that—of him—does something to me I’d rather not analyze.
I slide my fingers up his arm, following the flex and swell of muscle. His fingers flex against my knee, not pulling or pushing, just—there. As if he can be content with that and let me lead. It would be so easy to fall into it, to slide my fingers up and up, to find out if he wants this as much as I do.
So instead I pull away, just a breath, just enough to see his face.
He lets me.
His pupils are wide, lips parted, eyes gone heavy-lidded. The expression is a drug, a power, and a warning, and I am absolutely too stupid and greedy to take any of them.
His hand flexes again, a reminder that he hasn't moved.
I slide my palm along the line of his arm, and his eyelids flutter, his shoulders tightening. I curl my fingers around his wrist, testing, and his breath catches, his mouth brushing mine again. I press my palm flat against his skin and feel the pulse under my fingertips, his chest expanding and contracting. I slide my thumb to his palm and feel the catch and curl of his fingers.
It's so intimate, this. Feeling him react, feeling the tension, the need, the control. Knowing I could undo him with a touch, and he'll just let me.
It's so much. It's everything.
"We're supposed to be planning," I whisper, and he swallows the words, and kisses me again, and pulls away.
"We did plan," he says, his voice hoarse and low. "We have... many bullet points." He kisses the corner of my mouth. "We can have one more."
I can't catch my breath. I can't move. All I can do is watch him watch me, and feel the pulse under my hands, and the ache under my skin.
"Okay," I whisper, and let him pull me closer.
He tastes like cinnamon and sugar, like everything I want. I curl my fingers around his jaw and sink into the kiss. I don't want to stop. I never want to stop.
He slides his hand higher, just a bit, his palm hot through denim. His mouth leaves mine, trails heat along my jaw, lingers at my pulse, then lower. His stubble scrapes my skin and makes me shiver.
"You," he breathes, "are the most tempting thing I've ever seen."
I pull away and watch him, the flush rising on his cheekbones, his pupils wide, his hair mussed.
"So are you," I tell him, and lean in and kiss him again.
