He makes my office feel too small, like the walls shrink around him. He must have sucked in all the air, because I can’t fully fill my lungs.
I listened to his presentation, but I didn’t see him today.
He pulled out all the stops for his few minutes of fame. He never wears ties and leaves his suit jacket haphazardly thrown over his chair most of the time.
Today, he dressed the part.
He is wearing a three-piece striped suit. Definitely tailored, because in no universe would an off-the-rack jacket hug his silhouette with such perfection.
His tie is a steel color, matching his eyes. They pop out more, making that penetrating gaze of his slightly more dangerous.
For the briefest, tiniest, almost nonexistent moment, I see in my mind how he strips down for me, and then orders me to bend over.
Who knew that’s what I love? Thank you very much, Romeo. God.
I wipe the image from my brain and jump up. My knee collides with the open drawer. A metallic clang and a flash of white pain explode behind my eyes.
I collapse back into my chair, my eyes watering. “Motherfucker,” I grit out.
“Jesus,” Liam murmurs.
While I fight the fierce pain zapping through my nerves, he rushes toward me and kneels down.
I blink away the tears that haven’t yet fully formed, ready to throw him out. The man has been the bane of my existence; I don’t need him witnessing my low moment.
And I’m properly down right now. My presentation sucks. My family is calling. My knee is… Fuck, my knee is bleeding.
Liam wraps his hand around my ankle and lifts my leg. His gentleness startles me. So does my involuntary reaction.
His palm is warm and rough, the contrast against my skin sending a traitorous shiver up my thigh.
“What spooked you, Little Thunder?”
You.“Don’t call me Thunder.”
He smirks. “You only objected to sweetheart if I recall. For which I apologize. Where do I find a first-aid kit?”
He lowers my leg with care and stands up. I gapeat him.
Towering over me, he looks extra delicious. His tie shifts with the movement, the silver catching the light like a blade.
But that’s only a partial reason for my inability to breathe, talk, or form a coherent thought.
He apologized for calling me sweetheart. He remembers my threat from two weeks ago. And now he wants to tend my wound.
“I can take care of myself,” I snap. Mostly to deal with the onslaught of emotions that come from nowhere and claim my ability to… to be myself.
“I’m well-aware. Where is that first aid kit?”
“Reception.” I swallow around the word, still considering if limping there myself isn’t more dignified than letting him help me.
“Don’t move,” he commands, and leaves.
The order is like molten lava, heating my entire body. Something is seriously wrong with me.
I’m well-aware.
I shiver, remembering the same words from Romeo. Different man. Same effect. I hate that my body doesn’t care.
