Five days. Five days during which the office air has become suffocating.
I keep telling myself it's for the best: we barely speak, we don't look at each other, we perform the perfect act of boss and flawless assistant. I repeat it like a prayer every morning in front of the mirror while I tie my too-tight bun. But my body doesn't listen.
It's enough for Ethan to pass behind me for my skin to shiver. It's enough for him to say my name in that neutral tone "Amelia, the Morrison report" for my stomach to clench violently. I spend my evenings showering in icy water, counting the hours until I see him again, hating myself for desiring a married man.
Friday, 5:12 p.m. The open space slowly empties. The fluorescent lights start to flicker gently, tired from the week. I tidy my pens, close my laptop, telling myself I'll go home early tonight, order a pizza, watch anything just to stop thinking.
The intercom crackles.
"Amelia. My office. Now."
His voice is low, calm, yet there's something in it that makes me shiver before I even move.
I cross the corridor on legs already weak. The door is ajar. I push it open, step inside, close it behind me. The click of the lock feels like a gunshot.
He's leaning against his desk, arms crossed, charcoal shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are taut, veins standing out. He looks at me like a predator who's decided not to let go.
I stay near the door, bag pressed to my chest, a flimsy shield.
"You've been avoiding me since Monday," he says simply. I shake my head, too quickly.
"No. We're working. That's all."
He smiles. Slowly. Dangerously. "Liar."
One step. Then another. I back up until my back hits the bookshelf. The law books behind me tremble slightly.
He stops thirty centimeters away. I feel the heat of his body, his woody scent, the tension radiating from him like an electric current.
"Look at me," he orders softly.
I lift my eyes. Mistake. His pupils are dilated, almost black.
"Tell me you don't think about me at night. Tell me you don't get wet remembering my voice."
I swallow. "You have a wife, Ethan." My voice shakes.
He chuckles, a rough sound that makes me shiver. "Forget her."
His hand grazes my hip, just a brush over the fabric of my skirt. "Here, inside these four walls, there is only one woman. You."
He takes my wrists, slowly, pressing them against his chest. I feel his heart pounding under my palm, fast, violent. "Feel what you're doing to me," he murmurs. I should pull my hands away. I leave them there.
He spins me in a fluid motion. My stomach hits the edge of the desk. He presses against me from behind, his entire body against mine. I feel him hard, burning against my butt through our clothes. A moan escapes me despite myself.
He tightens his arms around my waist, one hand flat on my stomach, the other creeping dangerously high up my thigh. His mouth brushes my neck.
"You want it, Amelia." His voice is hoarse, deep, almost painful.
"Tell me I missed you."
I close my eyes. "I missed you," I whisper, ashamed and burning with desire.
He growls low, satisfied.
"I saw how you looked at me all week. Every time I passed, you pressed your thighs together."
His hand slides under my skirt, brushing the inside of my bare thigh.
"You know what I've wanted to do since Monday?"
I shake my head, unable to speak.
He presses his pelvis more firmly, rubbing slowly. I feel every inch of him. I moan again, louder.
"See this desk?" he murmurs, indicating the oak surface in front of me.
I nod, unable to speak.
"Nothing's stopping me from bending you over it right now. From lifting that skirt. Spreading your legs."
He presses further, his erection sliding between my cheeks.
"Imagine your cheek against the cold wood, your hands clawing at the edge, and me taking you so hard you forget your own name."
I'm on the verge of exploding. My body trembles, my knees buckle. I'm ready to say yes. Ready for anything.
Knock knock knock.
We freeze. Marc's voice, behind the door: "Mr. Blackwell? The Singapore conference starts in two minutes. They're waiting for you in Room 1."
Ethan curses under his breath, a sound of pure rage. He steps back, releases me. I stay bent over the desk, panting, hair in my face, legs unable to carry me.
He runs a hand through his hair, adjusts himself quickly. His gaze is black, wild, frustrated. "Sorry, I have to go," he mutters as he passes by me. He opens the door, leaves without looking back.
I'm alone. Alone with the sound of my chaotic breathing, alone with the heat throbbing between my thighs, alone with the smell of his body still clinging to my skin.
I slowly straighten up, hands trembling. I touch my swollen lips, my messy hair. I look at the desk. The cold wood. The exact spot where he wanted me.
And I know, with terrifying certainty, that if the door hadn't knocked, I would have said yes. And I would have let him go until I screamed.
I pick up my bag, leave the office like a sleepwalker. In the elevator, I look at my reflection: bright eyes, bitten lips, the look of someone who came this close to being devoured alive.
And the worst part? I want to go back. Right now. Immediately. Doesn't matter who's out there. Doesn't matter who's waiting at home.
I'm lost. And I've never wanted to lose myself more.