Same place as this morning.
My jaw locks.
The memory comes back with teeth. Natalie in my office, flustered and soft, her palms on my bare skin, her eyes dropping to the towel at my hips like looking away might kill her. I have spent all day trying to forget the way she felt against me.
Now her fingers curl into my shirt, and my body decides discipline is a rumor invented by better men.
“If you touch me like that at the wedding,” I say, voice rough, “I will have a problem.”
Her gaze drops.
Straight to the front of my trousers.
Heat flares in her face.
I catch her chin and bring her eyes back to mine. “Look at me.”
“I was not looking.”
“You were.”
“I was briefly observing.”
A laugh nearly escapes me. I turn it into a breath.
“You have been doing a lot of that today.”
“That feels unfair to mention.”
“You need to know what you do to me.”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “What do I do to you?”
I move closer.
Her thighs press against the edge of the desk, and the space between us disappears.
“This.”
I take her hand and guide it down until her palm rests over the hard ridge behind my zipper.
She gasps.
Her whole body jolts, but she does not pull away.
My blood turns molten.
“That is what you do to me,” I say against her ear. “Every time you blush. Every time you look at my mouth. Every time you walk into my office looking like that and pretending you have no idea I want to push that dress up your thighs.”
“Jordan,” she whispers.
My name breaks in her mouth.
I let go of her hand before I lose the last thread of sense I have left.
She keeps her palm there for half a second longer.
Then she snatches it back, eyes wide. “I’m sorry.”
