Chapter Three
I knew exactly what I was doing.
And so did he.
Julian Archer was the picture of discipline: immaculate suit, eyes sharp as glass, that steady composure everyone admired and feared. But sitting across from him in his office, I could see it—the tiny cracks forming every time I leaned just a little too far forward, every time I crossed my legs with slow precision. He wasn't untouchable. Not anymore.
I'd made it my mission.
This morning I had chosen my outfit like a weapon. The fitted blouse with just enough give at the collar, the pencil skirt hugging my hips, the sheer stockings that caught light when I moved. I didn't dress for compliments—I dressed for him. And the second his gaze flicked down and back up again, trying to look disinterested, I knew I had him exactly where I wanted.
"Here's the report you asked for," I said, sliding the folder across his desk. I let my wrist brush his as I pulled back. Pretended not to notice when his jaw flexed.
He cleared his throat, eyes darting down before locking on mine again. Professional. Controlled. But then, a flicker—his tongue slid across his bottom lip before he bit it lightly, as though stopping himself from saying what he shouldn't.
My stomach fluttered with triumph. I leaned forward slightly, just enough for my blouse to dip, pretending to glance at the papers spread out in front of him. His pen stilled mid-scribble.
"I can stay late to help you with this section," I offered smoothly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "If you want."
Julian set the pen down, leaning back in his chair. His fingers tapped the desk once, twice, a rhythm betraying the restraint in his body. He gave me a look meant to be a warning. But that subtle lick of his lips—God, he didn't even realize how much he gave away.
"Don't you have enough work already?" His voice was even, but there was something tight under it.
"I manage," I said softly, holding his gaze. "Besides… I like to be thorough."
I watched his throat work as he swallowed. His eyes slid away, back to the report, but his fingers tightened around the pen when I slowly, deliberately crossed my legs. The movement dragged the hem of my skirt higher, and I knew exactly what he saw.
His pen snapped against the paper, the ink smudging. I smiled to myself.
Game. Set.
By midday, the whispers in the office had risen to a dull roar. Every hallway I walked down carried fragments of my name, his name, the word "secretary" laced with envy, shock, and disdain.
"She's bold, I'll give her that."
"Doesn't she know he's married?"
"Please, she'll crash and burn before this even gets started."
Let them talk. Their judgment only fed me. Every rumor was proof that they'd noticed. That he'd noticed.
And when I brushed past Julian on my way out of his office later, the slight hitch of his breath told me he noticed most of all.
It happened in the breakroom.
I was pouring myself a cup of coffee, the hum of gossip like static behind me, when I felt the weight of someone's stare. Turning, I found her—Margaret Ellis, one of the senior partners, standing with her arms folded and a glare sharp enough to slice skin.
"Enjoying yourself?" she asked coolly.
I arched a brow, stirring sugar into my cup. "Excuse me?"
"You think we don't see what you're doing?" Her voice carried, sharp enough for heads to turn. "Parading yourself in front of Mr. Archer like some—"
"Careful," I cut in, my tone low and honeyed. "Words have power."
Gasps fluttered around the room. She took a step closer, her perfume heavy, her face inches from mine.
"You're a disgrace," she hissed. "He has a wife. A family. And you—you're throwing yourself at him like a slut!" She screamed and she did it… she slapped me.
The crack of her palm against my cheek stunned the room into silence.
Heat burned across my face, but I didn't flinch. I just smiled. Slowly. Coldly.
"Prove it," I said, voice smooth as silk. "Or shut up and get out of my face."
Her nostrils flared. She raised her hand again, fury sparking, but this time I was ready. My hand shot up, catching her wrist mid-swing. I squeezed—just enough to remind her who she was dealing with.
"Try that again," I whispered so only she could hear, "and I promise you'll regret it."
I released her, letting her stumble back. Then I smoothed my skirt, fixed my hair, and lifted my chin. My heels clicked against the tile as I walked out, leaving the room frozen in shock.
The air in the hall felt electric as I strode away, every eye watching me like I was a storm they couldn't look away from. Some horrified. Some jealous. Some… impressed.
But one gaze burned hotter than all the rest.
Julian.
He stood at the end of the corridor, half out of his office, his tie loosened, his expression a battle between fury and something darker. His eyes locked on mine, unblinking.
I didn't slow down. Didn't look away. I let him see me—bold, unapologetic, relentless.
Because that's exactly what I was now.
Relentless.
And he was going to break.
For me.
The office at night was a different world.
The hum of printers had gone quiet, the echo of footsteps faded. Only a few lights glowed across the rows of empty desks, casting long shadows on the carpet. Outside, the city shimmered in the glass windows, alive in a way our building no longer was. Everyone had left—except me.
I stayed behind on purpose, shuffling papers I didn't need to finish, blouse unbuttoned just low enough to leave no question about my intentions. Every click of my pen, every turn of a page was for him.
And then I heard it—his voice, deep and sharp in the silence.
"Amira. My office. Now."
It wasn't a request.
I swallowed the thrill that surged through me, pushed my chair back, and rose slowly, letting my heels strike the floor with deliberate rhythm. My heart thudded against my ribs, but my stride was steady. This was what I'd been waiting for.
When I stepped into his office, he was standing behind his desk, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked like every rule I'd ever been told not to break.
"Close the door," he said.
I obeyed, clicking it shut, the sound final and echoing.
His eyes met mine, dark and unreadable. "I should fire you for what happened today."
I tilted my head, lips curving. "For what Margaret did? Or for what you keep letting me do to you without even touching you?"
His jaw tightened. I watched him struggle, his chest rising and falling heavier than it should. He was trying so hard to hold the line, but his eyes betrayed him—they dropped, lingering at the neckline of my blouse. I let my shoulders roll back, the fabric shifting, opening just a little more.
He exhaled sharply, dragging his hand down his face. "You don't understand what you're playing with."
I took a step forward, hips swaying, the distance between us shrinking. "I understand perfectly."
"Amira—" His voice cracked like a warning, but he didn't move. His hands gripped the desk, knuckles white. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips before he bit down on the bottom one, as if the taste of restraint itself was bitter.
"Say it," I whispered, standing close enough to catch his cologne, warm spice and cedar wrapping around me. "Say you don't want me, and I'll walk out right now."
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. His eyes burned into mine.
I smiled, slow and victorious, and reached for his tie. The silk slid between my fingers as I tugged lightly, testing him. His breath caught. His control snapped.
In one motion, he shoved the chair back, slammed the desk once with his palm, and closed the space between us.
His mouth crashed onto mine.
It was nothing like I'd imagined. It was rough, desperate, years of restraint exploding in a single kiss. His hands cupped my face, then slid to my waist, gripping hard enough to make me gasp. I melted against him, heat sparking through every nerve as I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.
"Damn it, Amira," he growled against my lips before kissing me again, deeper, hungrier. His teeth grazed my bottom lip, then his tongue claimed my mouth in a way that left me dizzy.
I arched into him, my blouse straining as his hands roamed lower, pulling me flush against him. The desk pressed into my hip, but I didn't care. I wanted all of him—his strength, his fury, his desire that had been caged too long.
My fingers worked blindly at his shirt buttons, needing skin. He caught my wrist, holding it still, his eyes blazing as if to ask if I knew what I was inviting.
"I've never been more sure of anything," I whispered, breathless.
That was all it took.
He let go, and his hands were everywhere—sliding over my waist, down my back, pulling me closer, as though he couldn't get enough. His lips trailed down my neck, hot and relentless, leaving fire in their wake. I tilted my head back, biting back a moan, my pulse racing under his mouth.
"Julian," I breathed, the name breaking free like a secret I'd been holding too long.
He pressed me against the desk, lips devouring mine again, and I felt him lose himself in me. Every barrier, every rule, gone. He was just a man, and I was the woman he'd tried too hard not to want.
I clutched his tie, tugging him down as I leaned back slightly, blouse falling open farther, exposing more of me. His gaze dropped, hungry, tortured, and when his lips brushed against my skin there, I thought I'd come undone.
"This is insane," he muttered against me, but his mouth never left.
I smiled through the heat, whispering against his ear, "Then don't stop."
And he didn't.
The sound of footsteps in the hall jolted us.
We froze, breathing hard, lips swollen, his hand still gripping my waist like letting go would kill him. The faint shuffle passed, fading away, but the spell had been broken.
He stared at me, chest heaving, hair mussed, tie crooked. His eyes were raw, wild, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done.
I touched my lips, swollen from his kisses, and smiled faintly. "Finally."
I turned, straightened my blouse just enough to keep walking, and left his office without another word.
The door clicked shut behind me, but I could still feel his eyes on me, burning through the glass.
The morning light felt different.
I woke with my lips still tingling, my skin remembering his touch like it had been branded there. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it hadn't really happened—except the ache in my body, the hunger that hadn't been satisfied, told me it had.
Julian Archer had kissed me like a man starved. And he hadn't just kissed me—he'd wanted me, admitted it without words, without breath, without mercy.
And now I had to see him again.
I pushed the covers back and padded across the floor to my closet, the question pounding in my chest: what do you wear the morning after crossing a line that can never be uncrossed?
The answer was simple. You wear armor. My kind of armor.
I pulled on a silk blouse the color of wine, unbuttoned one notch lower than usual. A fitted skirt that hugged my hips. Heels that made my stride echo like confidence on marble. My hair fell in smooth waves, framing my face in defiance of anyone who thought I'd bow my head after yesterday.
I wanted the whole office to feel it. To smell the smoke from the fire we'd lit.
When I walked into the building, heads turned.
They were still whispering about Margaret and me, the slap heard around the firm. But today their voices lowered further when I passed, eyes flicking toward Julian's office and back to me.
Something in the air had changed. They could feel it, even if they didn't know why.
I dropped my bag at my desk, pretending not to notice the way two assistants across the room leaned into each other, muttering under their breath. Let them speculate. They were already behind the curve.
I glanced up, and there he was.
Julian Archer, standing at the glass wall of his office, phone in hand, tie perfectly knotted again as though last night had never happened. But his eyes—those damn hazel-blue-green eyes—locked on mine.
For a heartbeat, the world went still.
And in that heartbeat, I saw everything we weren't saying: the memory of my blouse falling open, the sound of my name on his lips, the heat of his mouth claiming mine. He remembered it all.
He blinked, forced his gaze back to his phone, and turned away.
I smiled. He could hide from the office. He couldn't hide from me.
Meetings dragged, chatter buzzed, but the whole day pulsed with something I couldn't shake. Every time I caught his profile in the boardroom, every time his hand tightened around his pen, I knew he was fighting it. Fighting me.
And every time I brushed past him in the hall, close enough for my perfume to linger, his breath caught. Just slightly. Just enough for me to know he hadn't slept any better than I had.
By late afternoon, my nerves were frayed with anticipation.
I was gathering files when I heard his voice, low and firm, cutting through the quiet floor.
"Amira. My office."
My pulse jumped.
When I stepped inside, the door clicked shut behind me, and the air shifted. He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, his posture tight. The city glowed behind him, but his eyes were on me, unreadable.
"You think this is a game," he said finally, voice low, almost ragged.
I tilted my head, heat flickering in my chest. "I think you kissed me back."
His jaw flexed. "What happened last night—"
"—was inevitable," I finished for him, stepping closer.
He exhaled, hard, like he'd been holding his breath since then. For a moment, he didn't move. His gaze dropped, unwillingly, to the dip of my blouse again, and his lips parted. I swore I saw him lick them before snapping his eyes back to mine.
"You need to stop," he said, but it came out like a plea, not a command.
I smiled, slow, deliberate. "You don't want me to stop."
Silence crackled. I could feel it—the way he was holding himself back by threads. One pull, and he'd unravel.
I leaned on his desk, close enough that my perfume wrapped around us both. "Tell me you don't think about it every time you look at me. Tell me you haven't been imagining this for longer than you want to admit."
His hands clenched at his sides. For a second, I thought he'd cave again, close the space like last night.
But instead, he turned sharply, running a hand down his face. "You're going to ruin everything."
I let the words hang between us, then straightened, smoothing my skirt. "Maybe everything needs to be ruined."
His eyes snapped to mine, fire flashing there.
The moment held—dangerous, breathless—until the sound of a voice in the hallway broke it.
"Mr. Archer?"
We both froze. A junior associate's silhouette passed by the glass, his head ducked in paperwork, but I knew what it looked like: me alone in Julian's office, the door shut, his face flushed.
The whispers would multiply by morning.
I smiled at Julian, my pulse still racing, and moved to the door.
"See you tomorrow," I said, letting my voice drip with promise.
I walked out without looking back, heels clicking, every head lifting to follow me. I didn't have to see Julian's face to know he was watching, torn between fury and want.
And I didn't care.
Because I'd already won.
The morning light felt different.
I woke with my lips still tingling, my skin remembering his touch like it had been branded there. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it hadn't really happened—except the ache in my body, the hunger that hadn't been satisfied, told me it had.
Julian Archer had kissed me like a man starved. And he hadn't just kissed me—he'd wanted me, admitted it without words, without breath, without mercy.
And now I had to see him again.
I pushed the covers back and padded across the floor to my closet, the question pounding in my chest: what do you wear the morning after crossing a line that can never be uncrossed?
The answer was simple. You wear armor. My kind of armor.
I pulled on a silk blouse the color of wine, unbuttoned one notch lower than usual. A fitted skirt that hugged my hips. Heels that made my stride echo like confidence on marble. My hair fell in smooth waves, framing my face in defiance of anyone who thought I'd bow my head after yesterday.
I wanted the whole office to feel it. To smell the smoke from the fire we'd lit.
When I walked into the building, heads turned.
They were still whispering about Margaret and me, the slap heard around the firm. But today their voices lowered further when I passed, eyes flicking toward Julian's office and back to me.
Something in the air had changed. They could feel it, even if they didn't know why.
I dropped my bag at my desk, pretending not to notice the way two assistants across the room leaned into each other, muttering under their breath. Let them speculate. They were already behind the curve.
I glanced up, and there he was.
Julian Archer, standing at the glass wall of his office, phone in hand, tie perfectly knotted again as though last night had never happened. But his eyes—those damn hazel-blue-green eyes—locked on mine.
For a heartbeat, the world went still.
And in that heartbeat, I saw everything we weren't saying: the memory of my blouse falling open, the sound of my name on his lips, the heat of his mouth claiming mine. He remembered it all.
He blinked, forced his gaze back to his phone, and turned away.
I smiled. He could hide from the office. He couldn't hide from me.
Meetings dragged, chatter buzzed, but the whole day pulsed with something I couldn't shake. Every time I caught his profile in the boardroom, every time his hand tightened around his pen, I knew he was fighting it. Fighting me.
And every time I brushed past him in the hall, close enough for my perfume to linger, his breath caught. Just slightly. Just enough for me to know he hadn't slept any better than I had.
By late afternoon, my nerves were frayed with anticipation.
I was gathering files when I heard his voice, low and firm, cutting through the quiet floor.
"Amira. My office."
My pulse jumped.
When I stepped inside, the door clicked shut behind me, and the air shifted. He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, his posture tight. The city glowed behind him, but his eyes were on me, unreadable.
"You think this is a game," he said finally, voice low, almost ragged.
I tilted my head, heat flickering in my chest. "I think you kissed me back."
His jaw flexed. "What happened last night—"
"—was inevitable," I finished for him, stepping closer.
He exhaled, hard, like he'd been holding his breath since then. For a moment, he didn't move. His gaze dropped, unwillingly, to the dip of my blouse again, and his lips parted. I swore I saw him lick them before snapping his eyes back to mine.
"You need to stop," he said, but it came out like a plea, not a command.
I smiled, slow, deliberate. "You don't want me to stop."
Silence crackled. I could feel it—the way he was holding himself back by threads. One pull, and he'd unravel.
I leaned on his desk, close enough that my perfume wrapped around us both. "Tell me you don't think about it every time you look at me. Tell me you haven't been imagining this for longer than you want to admit."
His hands clenched at his sides. For a second, I thought he'd cave again, close the space like last night.
But instead, he turned sharply, running a hand down his face. "You're going to ruin everything."
I let the words hang between us, then straightened, smoothing my skirt. "Maybe everything needs to be ruined."
His eyes snapped to mine, fire flashing there.
The moment held—dangerous, breathless—until the sound of a voice in the hallway broke it.
"Mr. Archer?"
We both froze. A junior associate's silhouette passed by the glass, his head ducked in paperwork, but I knew what it looked like: me alone in Julian's office, the door shut, his face flushed.
The whispers would multiply by morning.
I smiled at Julian, my pulse still racing, and moved to the door.
"See you tomorrow," I said, letting my voice drip with promise.
I walked out without looking back, heels clicking, every head lifting to follow me. I didn't have to see Julian's face to know he was watching, torn between fury and want.
And I didn't care.
Because I'd already won.