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I look around the room. It’s packed with people and there’s nowhere private.
‘Follow me.’ It’s a challenge, a gauntlet. We both know what will happen if we leave.
I turn away from her yet I see her in my mind’s eye, as clearly as if I were looking at her face. I weave through the crowd, confident she’s behind me. I slip away from the main group, out of the entrance to the ballroom, but I don’t stop.
The corridor is deserted except for a couple of members of staff milling about. I don’t look at them. With each step I take, the sound of the party gets softer, the pianist’s music just a distant warble.
Finally, I pass a service corridor. I stop abruptly, throwing one look over my shoulder to be sure she’s following. She is.
Like I knew she would.
Because, whatever this is between us, we are as beholden to it as one another.
The corridor stretches straight ahead and then turns a corner. There’s nothing here save for a few high chairs and a mop in a bucket. I stand with one hand on my hip, the other holding my Scotch, waiting for her.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Until she turns the corner and almost bumps into me.
She freezes, so close I can smell the intoxicating mix of her shampoo and perfume, her eyes holding mine. Anticipation kicks in my gut.
‘Well, sir,’ she says, her eyes sparking. ‘What did you want to talk about?’ She sips her drink, still watching me.
I marshal my thoughts—with difficulty.
‘Your academic results are impressive. You’ll no doubt have your choice of training contracts after you graduate.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
Sweet fuck, I love how confident she is.
‘Unless you go and mess it all up.’
She narrows her eyes, moving closer perhaps without even realising that’s what she’s doing. ‘Is that meant to be a threat?’
‘No.’ I match her step, moving nearer, my body acting independently of my mind. ‘It’s a warning.’
‘Yeah?’
‘If we do this...if I do what I want to do, and what I think you want me to do, it has the potential to torpedo everything you’ve worked for.’
She tilts her head to the side, assessing me as though I’m an object in a store she’s deciding if she wants to buy or not. ‘I see. And what exactly do you want to do to me?’
My laugh is completely flattened of humour. ‘What do you think?’
‘Show me.’ It’s a husky, heaven-sent invitation.
God.
She’s killing me. Haven’t I just told her why I can’t show her? Why we can’t do this?
‘Olivia...’
‘Miss Amorelli,’ she murmurs. ‘If you’re too scared, sir, then why did you bring me back here?’ She arches a single, perfectly shaped brow, the challenge delivered perfectly.
I want, so badly, to take it, but every shred of decency—something I have feared I no longer possess—reminds me why I can’t.
