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I don’t know if I consider tonight a date. I don’t know if Oliver does.
But I do know it’s the best one I’ve ever been on. Even with the detour to a skyscraper.
The doors ding open. Oliver slides his phone back into his pocket, waiting for me to walk out first. Automatic lights flicker to life, bouncing off the glass fronts of the offices that line this hall. Everything is immaculate and expensive looking.
“I’m at the end.”
I follow Oliver, walking past the long line of dark offices. It’s eerie how quiet and still our surroundings are. Like we’re the only two people in the world right now.
There’s an open cubicle just outside the door that leads into Oliver’s office. “That’s where my assistant, Alicia, sits,” he tells me. “She’s been with me since I started here.”
I glance at the two photos on the desk. One is a wedding portrait of a smiling couple. The other is of two kids sitting on a rock formation. Some petty part of me is relieved to know his assistant is married with children instead of single.
Oliver keeps walking into his office. No lights turn on; the only brightness is what’s spilling in from the hallway. And from the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the far wall of the office, displaying a dazzling view of New York’s iconic skyline.
I head straight for the windows, pressing a hand against the cold glass. From this height, it feels like I could fall forward right into the skyscrapers.
Fingers tap against keys.
I turn to see Oliver leaning over his computer, focused on whatever he came back to work on. There aren’t any framed photographs on his desk. I stroll past it, over toward the leather couch. I sink onto the soft surface, shrugging off my trench coat. It’s much warmer in here than it was outside.
My phone screen is covered with messages. From my father, from Rachel, from Rosie.
I toss my phone away and stand, strolling over to the tall bookcase and skimming the spines. They’re all business or law books, with long names. Ornamental more than functional, I’d guess.
“All set.”
I spin, watching Oliver stand and shut off the computer.
“That was fast.”
“I just had to send something. Forgot to earlier.”
I reach the side of his desk, skimming my fingers across the flawless surface. My heart thuds out a steady rhythm in my chest as I inch backward, resting against the imposing, massive desk.
Oliver stills, his eyes tracking my every movement like a predator eyeing prey. The difference is, Iwanthim to pounce. I crave seeing that leashed control shatter.
More of the desk supports my weight as my thighs part. Barely, but enough to catch his notice. Tension coils in the still air between us, the tangible tang of uncertainty and desperation humming between us. The acknowledgment we want to do this but shouldn’t.
I decide to push, spreading my legs a little further. My dress inches higher. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Kensington?”
Oliver’s lips quirk, but he shakes his head, not moving. “Hannah…”
“You called me Ms. Garner when you asked for this report.” I bite my bottom lip, then bat my eyelashes. “Did I mess up the deliverables? Or the quarterly statements? Are you calling me Hannah because you’re about to fire me?”
Oliver’s jaw tightens as he studies me, deliberating.
The twinkling lights of the city mix with the soft glow of the moon streaming in through the windows. I can’t make out his whole expression, but I can see the taut line of his jaw. The broad spread of his shoulders.
“Is this a fantasy?” I whisper. “In your office, where you give orders and decide big, important things? You’re here late at night with a secretary or a coworker and she keeps leaning forward, teasing you until…”
I grip the edge of the desk and slide back, the smooth material of my dress easily gliding against the varnished wood. My knees part until I’m exposed, and I moan when cool air brushes against the wetness between my legs. Deliberately, I tug the hem of my dress an inch higher.
Finally, Oliver moves. He takes a step. Only one, and my body reacts with a jolt. “You want to know my fantasy, Hannah?” Another step. “My fantasy isn’t fucking a woman in my office, Hannah. It’s fuckingyou.”
He moves closer, but he doesn’t touch me where I’m hoping. He winds a piece of my hair around his finger, tugging gently. There’s nothing sexual about it. It’s sweet. Affectionate. Familiar.
I swallow, lust trickling back into my bloodstream in response. But it’s not the wild, wanton urge that landed me on this desk. It’s focused and intentional, thrumming an insistent pulse between my legs.
