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My whisper is breathless. “This made you think of work?”
“What?”
“You only call me Myers when we’re talking about work.”
I regret my words, because he lifts his head, a furrow in between his brows. “I can assure you, I wasn’t thinking about work. At all.”
“Neither was I,” I say.
His lips curve and he reaches out to run a tendril of my hair between his fingers. He watches it for a moment before he tucks it behind my ear.
“Well,” he says, stepping back from me. In the darkness, his eyes glitter. “Let’s go home before we do something we regret.”
14
Victor
It’s a good thing I never knew how Cecilia Myers tasted.
If I had, I wouldn’t have gotten a lick of work done with her outside my office every day, in demure clothes and pony-tails and lips a man could devour.
The muscle strain in my arms makes me groan. I’ve loaded the weights too much today, and I know it, but the burn is good. It’s necessary. It’s accomplishment and achievement and if I’m not accomplishing and achieving, I’ll lose momentum.
The thought makes me pause mid-bicep curl. Momentum was my grandfather’s word. He used it relentlessly, describing everything from investments and exercise to studying. I sound like him.
Being in his house so often probably isn’t helping. Walking around and daring myself to open drawers, to throw things away, to come to some fucking decision about the place. Right now it’s a relic.
One I’d showed to Myers.
She’d dared me to with her accusation yesterday, thinking I was out sleeping with someone at night. Christ, I wish I was. I doubt I would’ve responded as strongly if that was the case.
But since my last foray into dating ended, a month prior to marrying Myers, I haven’t slept with anybody.
I put the weights down with an exhale. I’d abused the gym instead. Worked more than ever. Taken every single meeting thrown my way, anything to get me away from Cecilia’s questions and challenging eyes and the damnable tight leggings she wears around the apartment.
I’m attracted to my assistant-turned-wife.
It’s a complication I can’t afford, but judging from the taste of her kiss and the feel of her body against mine, it’s one I’m going to repeat. Hell, it’s the reason I’m working out in my home gym mid-morning.
It’s the time she uses it.
I’d started noticing changes a week prior. The lighter weights in the rack were moved. Not much, but by an inch here and there. And when I fired up the treadmill, the incline wasn’t at my usual setting.
Now I’ve stayed an hour longer than usual, and all for the chance to see her again. Not that I have a clue what I’ll do when she’s here. Ogle her in her workout tights, probably. I’m losing it.
I lift the hem of my T-shirt and use it to wipe the sweat off my forehead.
The door swings open and I hear a small intake of breath. I drop the hem of my T-shirt but it’s too late, because Cecilia’s eyes are locked on my chest.
She’s seen the scar.
Well. If what my body burns for happens, she’d see the scar, anyway. Perhaps it was only a matter of when. But she’ll have questions.
She always has questions.
“Hi,” she says, a hand still on the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting. Come in.”
