Page 46

Cassidy

With his hand burning a hole through my lower back, we move to Gianni’s office. I internally chastise myself for letting my wayward thoughts drift to what it might feel like placed on other parts of my body. Knock it off right now. He’s giving you the chance of a lifetime, working alongside him. Focus.

“Gianni said we could use his office. It’ll be much more private here. Fewer eyes on us wondering what we’re up to, less noise to cause distraction, and protection for us both.” He opens his laptop and pulls out the desk chair for me. The screen lights up and everything else disappears.

The display awakens with code and various data streams. The structured chaos I’ve come to love. My entire nervous system hums to life.

I barely notice Max standing behind me until he leans in close. Too close. His arm brushes mine as his hand points at the screen, knuckles hovering inches from my shoulder. He points at neutral details, but I don’t see a thing but him. He’s explaining cases in abstract terms, leaving out any defining details. No names, no history. His voice reverberates low and steady.

And right in my ear.

Every hair on my body stands on end. How the hell is a girl supposed to concentrate on anything like this? I close my eyes for half a second, hoping I can rein in my salacious thoughts. Because his scent has wrapped around me like a glove. Sandalwood and something else… it’s clean, warm, and utterly intoxicating.

Just like this man.

As if it isn’t enough that he’s a tech genius with forearms that make me stupid, now it’s this delicious scent I’ll never forget. The way he commands my attention, merely with his presence.

He tugs gently at a strand of my hair. “Have you always been pink?”

My heart stutters. Why is the fact he’s touching a strand of my hair such a turn-on? It’s only my hair. It’s not like he’s squeezing my ass. What has short-circuited in my brain with Max Wilde that his every touch causes me to melt into a puddle? Our eyes lock, and I swallow hard. “No,” I stammer. “It’s my homage to Penelope Garcia.”

Max’s mouth curves into a slow, dangerous grin. “From Criminal Minds?”

I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. Because every ounce of moisture has apparently moved to my soaked panties, as my brain supplies images it has absolutely no business generating. Derek Morgan flirting with Penelope. But it’s not Shemar Moore I’m seeing when these two flirt shamelessly with one another.

My eyes close again. Not from embarrassment. But this man’s mind-altering nearness and the things he’s doing to me.

His voice drops, deep and sultry, “Talk to me, baby girl.”

19

CASSIDY

Focus on the screen, you dirty hoe. He’s only teasing you. Just keep your eyes on the computer display in front of you. Remember that career that was supposed to excite you with all the numbers, strings, and patterns of code. The clean, logical language that never flirts with you or smells like heady sandalwood and forbidden temptation.

Max continues to stand behind me, close enough I can feel the warmth of him without touching. Every time he shifts, the air changes. Like static before a storm. This is becoming a real problem.

If Criminal Minds taught me nothing else, it warned me about this. Not explicitly, but still. Penelope always said mixing work and whatever this is was a recipe for emotional chaos and at least one HR violation.

This might also explain my recent dreams. They’re not the normal kind. Because why would I do anything normal? They’re the kind where my brain is apparently directing softcore sitcoms. Reenacting the famous episode where Penelope rolls over in the morning to find Derek Morgan standing in her doorway, fresh from a shower, wrapped in a towel.

But instead, Max is the leading man in my dreams, walking into my bedroom, hair damp, white towel slung low around his waist like he just wandered off the set of a body wash commercial. Each time, I spring up in bed, heart racing, trying to figure out what series of decisions led to this exact moment.

And that’s where I always wake up. Panting and frustrated. And desperately curious, wishing I could lie back down, clamp my eyes shut, and let the dream continue to play to the end of the reel.

Max clears his throat above me, and I shift in the chair, trying to clear my head. He points at the screen. “See the repetition here?”

“Yes,” I answer immediately, grateful for the excuse to talk about anything that isn’t the fact I can feel his presence electrifying my skin as it does when his hand is on my lower back. I’ve got the biggest career opportunity of my life before me, and instead of trying to learn as much as possible and impress this billionaire cybersecurity CEO, my panties are so wet they’re making a wet spot in my boss’s chair.

Jesus, take the wheel.

Once our first session is complete, there’s no time to decompress. Or take a cold shower. The minute I leave Gianni’s office, I’m swept into chaos.

Hair. Makeup. Stylists everywhere. The staff lounge looks like a backstage dressing room for a retro Vegas revue. It’s all colorful swirls of sequins and shimmer. White boots so tall they should have come with training wheels.

Lala hands me a tiny sparkling dress in swirling shades of gold and teal. “Trust me.”

I eye it. “Are you sure this will cover everything… down there?” I point toward the apex of my thighs. “If I wore this dress outside of this club, I’d probably get arrested.”