“Both.”
“Of course.”
Moth notices me without turning from the board. “Are you hovering for operational reasons or personal ones?”
Oisín turns then, and our eyes meet across the office. The expression on his face changes, though not into the softness I used to be able to pull from him with a look. This is steadier, edged with memory and refusal, the kiss he gave me in my office still sitting somewhere between us like a knife neither of us has picked up yet.
“No,” I say. “I’m checking whether you plan to steal my husband permanently.”
Moth moves another pin. “Only during working hours.”
Oisín looks back at the board before his mouth can betray him, but I catch the smile he tries to hide.
***
Later, I’m in my office with Harlan’s broker report open in front of me and a headache building behind my eyes. The Reaper problem has started throwing off smaller problems, which is what real threats do. The confirmed push against our product gives us a direction, but not enough room to retaliate cleanly without showing how much we know.
Harlan says the Buffalo buyer is scared enough to cooperate and stupid enough to salvage, which means I have to decide whether debt, restricted access, or public humiliation gives us more leverage. Dead men are simpler. Useful men are work.
The door swings open, Oisín crossing the office with a folder in his hand and sets it on the edge of my desk. “Moth wanted you to see the updated pressure map before the evening call.”
I keep my eyes on the report. “Did Moth lose the ability to walk?”
“He said if he came in here, you’d ask him about the broker report, and he wanted another twenty minutes of peace.”
“He sent you as bait.”
“He sent me as a delivery system.”
“That sounds like Moth.”
I finish the paragraph in front of me, though the words have stopped arranging themselves into anything useful. The report is still there. The folder is still there. Oisín is still standing on the other side of the desk, and the room has started paying more attention to him than to the problem I’m supposed to be solving.
“You need something?” I ask.
“Yes.”
That makes me look up. “What is it?” I ask.
“You’re not listening.”
“I heard you.”
“You heard words. You’re still in the report.”
“I’m working.”
“I know.”
I expect him to leave it there, because most people do when I let that edge into my voice. Oisín walks around the desk instead. Before I can decide whether to be amused or irritated, his fingers catch my jaw and turn my face away from the paperwork.
Then he kisses me. For a second, my body doesn’t understand what’s happening because there is no command in it. No obedience. No desperate softness pulled out of him by my hand in his hair or my mouth at his throat.
Slowly, the report disappears from my head. So does Harlan, the buyer, Sol, the Reapers, the three routes I need to review, and the headache sitting behind my eyes. Oisín tastes like coffee and mint, his mouth warm and firm against mine, his fingers staying on my jaw as if he intends to keep my attention where he placed it. Being obeyed quiets one part of me. Being wanted cuts the power to the whole fucking room.
My chair scrapes back as I reach for him. Oisín lets me catch his waist, but he doesn’t surrender the kiss. He stays in it withme, taking as much as he gives, one hand sliding from my jaw to the back of my neck while the other grips the edge of the desk for balance. I pull him between my knees, and he steps into the space without hesitation. The folder slides off the desk and hits the floor with a soft slap neither of us cares enough to acknowledge.
I stand and turn him until his hips hit the desk. Papers shift under him as he half-sits on the edge, mouth flushed from mine.
