"I have a meeting with Belforte after New Year's," she continues. "Officially welcoming him as strategic advisor and majority investor."
"Should I be there?" I ask, watching coffee steadily stream into my tall cup.
"He specifically asked for you to be." Her eyes meet mine. "Said he's followed your career for a long time."
This surprises me. "The mafia guy is a fan?"
"Don't call him that," she chides, but there's amusement in her eyes. "And yes, apparently, he is. Should I be worried about him poaching my star driver?"
The coffee machine hums, a mechanical heartbeat filling the silence between us. I turn to face her fully.
"Never," I say, the word carrying more weight than I intended. Then, heart racing, I reach for her hand. "I've missed you."
Her fingers are tense in mine, but she doesn't pull away. "Will..." she warns softly. "Don't push boundaries here."
"What boundaries?" I step closer, still holding her hand. "There's no one around. First floor's practically empty. And I haven't seen you properly in ages."
"A couple of weeks is not ages," she corrects, but her tone has lost its edge. Her eyes flick to the door, checking for observers.
"Feels like ages," I murmur. Then, seeing no one in the corridor, I gently pull her toward me. "Just one hug. For medical purposes. Studies show hugs speed up recovery from horrific mosh pit injuries."
A smile tugs at her lips—the real one, not her Team Principal smile. "That's not a real study."
"It could be. We can be pioneers. Let's gather data."
Before she can protest further, I wrap my arms around her waist, drawing her against me. For one tense moment, she remains stiff, professional barriers firmly in place. Then, with a small sigh that sends warmth cascading through me, she softens. Her arms slide around my neck, her body melting into mine like it was designed to fit there.
I drop my head to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her—something expensive and subtle, mixed with the coffee-and-paper smell of the office, and that indefinable something that is purely Violet. I press my lips to the soft skin just above her collar, and her pulse jumpsbeneath the contact. It feels like coming home after a long journey.
"Will," she breathes, but it doesn't sound like a warning anymore.
"Hmm?" I murmur against her skin, placing another kiss slightly higher.
"Someone could walk in," she says, though she makes no move to pull away.
"Let them," I reply, trailing my lips up to her earlobe. "Worth it."
She shivers, then pushes gently against my chest, creating enough space to look at my face. "You're insatiable, raccoon boy."
I grin, sliding my hands to her hips and drawing her back to me. "Your fault for being irresistible. Even when you're being mean about my battle wounds."
"Battle wounds?" She raises an eyebrow. "From what war? This year’s Great Elbow Uprising?"
"Mock all you want," I say, leaning closer until our foreheads touch. "You make me want to tease you endlessly, you know that? The way your eyes flash when you're trying not to smile. The little crease between your eyebrows when you're pretending to be annoyed with me."
Her breath catches as I brush my nose against hers. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the rational voice that says this is too risky, too exposed. I don't care. All I see is her—Violet, who quiets the chaos in my mind, who makes me feel simultaneously grounded and weightless.
"I want to kiss you so badly right now," I whisper as her pupils dilate, noticing the slight tremble in her hands where they rest against my chest.
"Will..." Her voice is barely audible, a blend of warning and want.
"Fuck the rules. Just for a second."
I don't wait for permission. I capture her lips with mine, swallowing her soft gasp of surprise. The kiss deepens immediately, weeks of distance and restraint crumbling like a poorly built sandcastle. My hands roam her back, pulling her impossibly closer, the heat of her radiating through the layers of clothing between us. She tastes like coffee and something sweet from her pastry, and beneath that, as our tongues caress, the flavor that haunts my dreams—my Violet.
The kiss grows hungrier, edging into dangerous territory for a break room at work. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging slightly in the way that makes my knees weak, and my cock hard, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I walk her backward until she meets the counter, lifting her slightly to sit on its edge, stepping between her legs without breaking the kiss.
God, I want her.
