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He’s like a mean, potent drug that talks to me.
How cruel, when your addiction can talk to you and convince you to give in some more.
“I know what you’re up to,” he says to me, low and gravelly, “and I’m telling you now, it won’t work.”
I freeze. What the hell does he mean?
“Yeah,” he goes on, nodding with conviction. “You think I’m not on to you and your plan? Seducing me Friday night? Gunning to get the boss under your thumb so you can … what? Get some special treatment? Get a promotion?”
I drop my jaw. “I am not …” I can’t even look at him. I can barely make sentences. “I would never have—”
“C’mon,” he cuts me off. “You knew your boss’s name. That’s my name. Surely you had seen pictures and knew what my face looked like, too.”
Finally I face him, indignant. “Do you have any idea how you look online and how you look in the flesh? It’s not even the same person. Your online pics make you look like your own sanitized, imaginary uncle who owns a law firm in Connecticut. You don’t look a thing like …” I gesture my hand at his body, momentarily distracted by the way his shirt tapers perfectly to his form and disappears in his butt-hugging, thigh-squeezing slacks.
An amused smirk crosses his face. “That so?”
“Yeah!” I bite back. “You think I would actually …? You really thought I was trying to … to f-fuck my way to the top?” I can barely say the word.
His piercing, sexy stare is the only answer I get.
I scowl at him. “Then you don’t know me at all,” I spit back. “I was preparing all spring to be able to show off my skills to you. I wanted to work to impress you. I even studied your past clients! I’ve had my nose buried in books on marketing, on public relations and scandals and image …”
I let go of my tie. There’s no way I’m going to get the stupid smudge out anyway. I’m stained permanently. And I won’t try to draw symbolism out of that right now; I’m too angry.
“You expect me to believe that?” he presses on, stubborn.
“I … Y-You just … You believe whatever you want to believe.” I’m stammering now. It’s just too distracting to try and keep up my anger in front of Ben when all I’m doing is flooding myself with desire the longer I keep my eyes on him.
Control yourself! My heart is not racing because of how close he is to me. My legs are not squirming because of the blood flowing to my staff of destiny, which has to be conjuring up some kind of wicked, fiery dark magic down there, for all the inappropriate images racing past my eyes.
His smirk not letting up any, Ben takes a step closer.
I take a step back. It’s too overwhelming, being so close to him while wanting him this badly. I don’t trust myself. And clearly he doesn’t trust me. So why is he advancing on me still?
He takes another step.
My heels kick into the wall. My back presses flat against the cold tile.
Ben towers over me—masculine, powerful, reeking of sex and hunger—and his eyes, smoldering.
“Impress me?” he echoes tauntingly, practically sneering like a schoolyard bully. “You’re working to … impress me?”
I don’t know why, but I find the mocking tone in his voice to be so hot. I’m always so uptight and in control every second of my life. Having him tear all of that down—and force his way straight into my horny, repressed, starved psyche—is almost more than I can take. I’m desperate with yearning for him.
And I’m still angry at his accusation. Horny and angry is a deadly combination. “Yes,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls slowly with his firm, measured breathing. Ben is always in control.
“You really didn’t know who I was?”
I can only lift my chin halfway to him, unable to meet his eyes, for fear of what they’ll do to me. “No.”
His muscled chest keeps rising, falling, rising, falling before my eyes. “Really?”
“Really.” I lick my lips. “And … I think I still don’t.”
“You still don’t,” he agrees. “But let me enlighten you, Trevor. I’m your boss. You’re my intern. There’s nothing more going on between us, and there won’t be.”
“Nothing more going on between us,” I force myself to agree as I continue to stare hungrily at Ben. His arms shift ever slightly, and I revel in the creasing and pulling of his shirt fabric over his biceps. I have never been so hypnotized before by the simple way in which a man’s clothing fits so perfectly to his sculpted body. I see every inch of him in such tortuous detail.
“Eyes up here,” he demands with a snap of his fingers.
