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“Come in,” is all I say.

My eyes stay glued to the laptop in front of me. Since I have a new contract to review, I’ll take this chance to ignore her. My fingers tap the mouse with exaggerated calm, but my mind is alert, every sense subtly tracking her movements.

As soon as the door opens, I catch a scent of vanilla mixed with something floral—things I’ve never paid attention to before. My nostrils flare, and for a fleeting moment I have to fight the urge to look up. Does it even matter what a woman smells like as long as she smells good? That’s all that ever mattered.

“Ethan, I need your approval to organize a few contests for the party,” she begins, moving toward my desk. She stops in front of it but doesn’t sit, waiting for me to look up.

I’m sure of it.

But I won’t.

My jaw stiffens and my pulse thrums in my temples. I hear her sigh softly under her breath, then she decides to sit and continues, “The most successful office parties are the ones where people actually manage to relax and have fun.”

I don’t give the slightest sign that I’m paying attention; my eyes stay fixed on the laptop, my hand barely moving on the mouse. Still, a low hum of tension vibrates through me, making my stomach churn. Every movement she makes seems amplified, every breath a reminder that I can’t ignore her.

Just as I’m about to open another contract, her hand rises and—gently—presses on my laptop until it shuts.

It takes me two seconds to realize what happened, and my eyes snap up to meet hers.

Anyone else would be fired instantly for that.

Everyone knows I never stop working and that, very often, I ignore whoever sits in that chair if, from the first words, I can tell I’d be wasting my time listening.

“Much better,” she says, smirking. “Since you’ve decided to be polite and look the person speaking to you in the eyes, we can continue.”

And she doesn’t wait for me to respond. She unlocks her tablet and points it toward me.

Without breaking eye contact, I grab the tablet with one hand and hold it for a few seconds. Deciding to see what all this is about, I lower my gaze and notice she’s planning a karaoke contest, card games, bowling, and even a “Barbie doll costume” contest—“except the dolls are the women, and everyone has to dress as their own version of Barbie."

“Barbie doll costume?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes, replying as if it’s a burden to talk to me, “You know what Barbies are, don’t you?”

I pin her with a glare, my fingers drumming lightly on the desk, betraying a tension I refuse to admit. I can see the subtle shift in her posture, the tilt of her head, and it makes my jaw clench tighter.

“Irina was dressed like a Barbie doll when you couldn’t wait anymore and wanted to fuck her in the ballroom bathroom at the charity gala,” she adds in a sweet, warm tone—completely at odds with the words she’s speaking.

My body tenses, every nerve alert, caught somewhere between anger, disbelief, and a pull I can’t quite control.

Deciding to play along a little, just for old times’ sake, when most of our interactions revolved around flirtation, I warn her, “I don’t think it’s smart to talk to me about sex, Thalia.” All the while, I keep my gaze on her, searching for any flicker of reaction.

She’s stunned, probably by the fact that I’ve said more than two words to her, compared to the usual monosyllables she’s used to hearing from me over the past year, and that I’m not using a bored or uninterested tone.

Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and her breath catches for a moment. A wave of tension ripples through her body, the tiniest stiffening of her shoulders and a pause in her movement, as if she’s momentarily suspended between defiance and curiosity.

Every micro-expression is amplified under my gaze—the quickening of her heartbeat in the faint flush on her cheeks, the barely audible intake of air, the subtle shift of her weight as she instinctively tests my limits.

I hold her stare, silent and measured, letting the moment stretch, savoring the unspoken power play. In that brief, charged pause, the old dynamic resurfaces—dangerous, electric, and intoxicating.

“I think it’s safer to talk about sex than actually do it in all sorts of public places, Ethan,” she replies, her tone laced with frustration. I can’t help but notice it—every line of her face betrays that something is bothering her.

“You’ve never had sex in a public place, Thalia?” I keep my eyes on her. “Never felt the rush, the suspense, knowing someone could catch you?” My tone is as indifferent as possible. “Never felt that you couldn’t wait to get home, that you wanted that person right then and there, without caring about the consequences?”

If looks could kill, I’m pretty sure hers would do it in this moment.

I’ve not only managed to get completely under her skin with just a few lines, but I’ve also pushed further than I ever could before.

And I fucking love it.