“Door locked.” I tip my head toward it.
“Done.” He gestures at the bolt I already watched him throw.
“Blinds closed.”
“Handled.” He inclines his head toward the windows, all slatted shut.
“Fifteen-minute window, no interruptions.” I hold out my hand. “Phone.”
His brows rise. “You want me to surrender my phone to you?”
“You want data, don’t you? Not a call from Ezra about load-bearing walls while your mouth is engaged.”
There’s a flash of heat in his eyes so bright it steals the breath out of me. He reaches into his pocket, drops his phone into my palm, then, without breaking eye contact, he inches closer to me.
“Anything else?”
“How will we know it’s been fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll need less,” he announces, looking positively proud.
“Are you sure you should be proud of that?”
His low chuckle is the only response I get as he grabs my waist and places me in the middle of his desk, making me let out a tiny squeak I instantly try to cover with my hand.
“Say no, and you can still walk out that door.” His words are a humming warning.
I should say no. I should insist on a countersignature for my terms, a seven-business-day review period, thirteen new clauses addressing his alarming relationship with emergency stop buttons. Instead, I shake my head like an idiot.
“Timer started,” he says, and I swear I feel the seconds start beating against my skin.
He tries to push my thighs apart, but my skirt is so tight I can barely move. So instead, he tries to lift me up again, but I push him away and point a finger in his face.
“Addendum,” I say quickly. “No lifting. Your ribs are not invited to this experiment.”
A faint grin ghosts over his mouth. “Addendum accepted. For now.”
I slide up onto the edge of his desk and grab the hem of my skirt. His eyes zero in on my fingers as I start slowly pulling it up.
“Beatrice.” His voice is like gravel, scraping his throat. “Last chance to renegotiate.”
“Stop talking and don’t waste my precious minutes.” I hike the skirt past mid-thigh, and his eyes go so dark I forget how to breathe.
He steps in and braces his palms on either side of my hips, radiating heat like a thousand suns. “Shoes stay on,” he murmurs, breathy.
“I wasn’t?—”
He drops to his knees.
Every neuron in my body shorts out. That suit, that mouth, on the floor in front of me like worship. The ridiculous power of it scrambles my spine and lands low in my belly, making it tight with anticipation.
“Bea,” he says, voice silky smooth at the hem of my skirt. “Say yes.”
“Yes. I already said yes.” It’s not dignified. I don’t care. “You don’t have much time left.”
“I don’t need much.”
He doesn’t rush. Of course he doesn’t. He kisses the inside of my knee, then follows the line of my stocking up. A slow, deliberate press of the lips that turns my bones to warm clay. Hishands slide under my thighs, thumbs stroking the curve where skin meets fabric, not lifting, just anchoring me so I don’t float away.
