But those boundaries are disintegrating faster than I can rebuild them.
I force myself to focus on my laptop, reviewing the latest financials from CulinaryVision. The numbers are good. Better than good. If I can convince the board tonight that the acquisition makes sense despite Richard's scandal, we're golden.
The water shuts off.
My entire body goes taut.
Now I can hear her stepping out of the shower, water dripping from her body onto the tile as she’s likely reaching for a towel. Running it over her skin—slowly, thoroughly, drying every inch.
I stare at my computer screen and see absolutely nothing.
This is ridiculous. I'm a thirty-eight-year-old CEO, not a teenager with a crush.
Except it doesn't feel like a crush. It feels like something considerably more substantial, more consuming, like hunger that's been building for weeks and is finally reaching a breaking point.
I hear movement in her room, drawers opening and closing, the soft pad of bare feet on carpet.
I'm still zoning out in front of my screen, half-hard and completely useless, when there's a knock on the connecting door.
"Victor?" Harper's voice, muffled. "Can I come in?"
"It's open."
The door swings wide, and Harper walks in wearing a hotel robe.
Just the robe.
White terry cloth, cinched at her waist, falling to mid-thigh and revealing an expanse of legs that makes the inside of my throat literally squeeze. Her soft brown hair is wrapped in a towel, but damp strands have escaped, curling against her neck. Her skin is flushed pink from the heat of the shower, and I can smell her body wash—something clean and floral that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in.
She's not wearing a bra. I can tell because the robe gapes slightly at the neckline, revealing the upper curve of her breasts, the shadow of cleavage. And when she shifts her weight, the fabric pulls taut across her chest, outlining the shape of her nipples beneath the terry cloth.
"I need your help," she says.
Every dirty thought I've ever had floods my brain simultaneously.
My cock, already half-interested, goes fully rigid in my slacks. I'm grateful I'm sitting behind a desk.
"With what?" I grunt.
"I can't reach the zipper on my dress." She turns around, showing me the back of the robe. "Wait, I'm still in the robe. But when I put the dress on, I won't be able to reach the zipper. So I'm asking preemptively."
"You're asking me to zip up your dress."
"Yes."
"While you're currently wearing a bathrobe."
And nothing else, apparently. Because I can see the outline of her body through the thin fabric, backlit by the lamp in her room. The curve of her waist. The flare of her hips. The long line of her bare legs.
"I'm asking in advance so it's not weird later."
"Harper."
"What?"
"It's going to be weird regardless."
She turns back around, and I can see the exact moment she realizes what she's asking, what she's wearing. How I'm looking at her.
