Lana heard his voice before she saw him.
Low. Smooth. Laced with amusement.
She turned the corner just in time to see Kieran finishing a call, leaning against the wall across from the executive elevator. He was dressed in charcoal grey today, suit cut so sharply it might as well have been tailored onto him. His watch glinted beneath the cuff of his sleeve. His posture was relaxed—but his eyes, when they lifted and found hers, were anything but.
Intensity. Quiet and dangerous.
She slowed her steps before the elevator with a neutral nod, trying to ignore the way his gaze dragged over her.
"Morning, Miss Lana," he said.
She gave a polite smile. "Morning, sir."
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.
Empty.
She hesitated for half a second. He gestured inside. "After you."
Her heels clicked softly against the marble as she stepped in. He followed. The doors shut.
They were alone.
The hum of the elevator filled the silence, broken only by the soft shift of fabric as he adjusted his cuffs. Lana kept her eyes on the panel, her hands clasped in front of her, trying to pretend her heart wasn't racing like a drum.
He didn't speak.
She didn't look.
But the air between them? Charged.
The kind of silence that made your skin prickle. The kind that warned you: something is about to happen.
She felt it—like a storm brewing behind her. His eyes were on her neck. Her back. Her legs. She could feel his stare crawling up her spine like a touch.
He was standing too close.
"Busy morning?" His voice was casual, but laced with something darker.
Lana didn't turn. "Just another Monday."
"I like that color on you," he murmured.
Her fingers tensed.
She wore a deep burgundy blouse tucked into a high-waisted black skirt. Professional. Sharp. Yet somehow, when he looked at her, it felt like sin.
"It's just a shirt," she said.
He chuckled. "You think I'm talking about the color?"
Her eyes snapped to his reflection in the elevator mirror. His lips curved—slow, amused, and devastating.
"This is inappropriate," she said flatly.
"Is it?" he asked. "I complimented your shirt. Would it be more appropriate if I said I like your work ethic instead?"
"You're my boss."
"I know."
The elevator kept rising. Floor by floor. Her nerves coiled tighter.
She forced her gaze forward. "This conversation shouldn't be happening."
"You're right," he said. "But that hasn't stopped you from leaning in every time I speak. From holding your breath when I get close."
She stiffened.
"I see you, Lana."
She turned slowly to face him. "You're imagining things."
"No," he said softly. "You are."
He reached out and—before she could react—pressed the emergency stop button.
The elevator jolted to a halt. The lights dimmed to emergency mode.
"Kieran—"
"One minute," he said. "I won't touch you unless you ask me to. I just want you to be honest."
Lana's back hit the wall.
She wasn't afraid. That was the problem.
Her blood rushed in her ears. Her palms felt sweaty. Her thighs squeezed together.
"I don't want this," she said.
His eyes dropped to her lips. "You sure?"
She didn't answer.
He took a step closer, closing the space between them. His cologne—clean, masculine, expensive—wrapped around her like smoke.
"You've been trying so hard to act unaffected. But every time I pass you in the hallway, you hold your breath. Every time I speak, you flush. You try so hard to be good."
His voice dropped.
"Why don't you stop pretending?"
Her throat tightened.
"You want to kiss me," he said.
"No, I—"
"Yes," he said. "You do."
She didn't know who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her. But suddenly his mouth was on hers and everything snapped.
It wasn't gentle.
It was hunger. A week's worth of glances, words, and fantasies exploding all at once.
He cupped her jaw with one hand, the other sliding to her waist and pulling her closer. His lips devoured hers, tongue sliding in like he had every right to her mouth.
She gasped—and he swallowed it, deepening the kiss until she couldn't think straight.
Her hands gripped his shirt, knuckles white.
He pressed her harder against the wall, his thigh slipping between hers, and she moaned before she could stop it.
He tasted like power.
Like dominance.
Like everything she had denied herself.
Her blouse was still buttoned. Her skirt still in place. But she'd never felt more exposed.
He pulled back slightly, eyes burning into hers.
"You kissed me back," he whispered.
She didn't speak.
"You could've pushed me away."
She still didn't speak.
"I told you I wouldn't touch you unless you asked."
"I didn't ask," she breathed.
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "You begged with your body."
She pushed against his chest—this time with effort—and he let her.
The air between them crackled.
"You shouldn't have done that," she whispered.
His lips were red. His eyes dark. "You're right. And I'm going to do it again."
She slapped the emergency button.
The elevator lurched back into motion.
They stood in silence.
Breathing hard.
He didn't touch her again.
But his gaze was possessive. Triumphant. As if he'd just claimed something—and had no intention of letting it go.
When the doors opened, she stepped out first, head high.
But her legs trembled with every step.
She could still taste him.
Still feel his hand on her waist, his thigh between hers, his tongue in her mouth.
She hated him.
She wanted him.
She was in trouble.