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Then again, I didn’t understand how we could build anafterwhen nothing had actually changed. I was still Taylor Novak. He was still Dean Hargrove. And we were still colleagues in competition.
“Losing your edge,” he murmured, dragging me out of my mental spiral.
But that was sort of what it felt like. The hard edges of me being sanded and rounded out. I was becoming more and more pliable under Dean’s care. For so long, I had only known how to be sharp. I wasn’t sure how else to protect myself.
So, it was a good thing we were going back to our separate corners. I’d have time to reevaluate what was going on. Sort through my feelings from a distance.
“You wish,” I said and pushed past him. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know he was staring at me. I felt it. That hot gaze on my back. The part of my body that he’d told me was his favorite. I didn’t understand it, but who was I to argue when he’d opened up a jar of coconut oil to massage the muscles of my back before giving me multiple orgasms the other night.
Who would’ve thought Dean Hargrove was such an attentive and generous lover? Not me.
Out in the main space, I sat behind my desk, and a few minutes later, Dean reappeared with his own cup of coffee.
“Hey, Dean,” Dominic said from his spot in the doorway of his office. “Just got off the phone with Chris Raber. He’s really happy with the work you’ve been doing.”
Dean nodded his appreciation then angled his chin in my direction, brows raised as if to saySee? I do good work.
I knew that already and rolled my eyes. Arrogant prick.
When five o’clock rolled around, Dean and I were the last ones to shut down, the rest of the office already gone. He swiveled his chair to face me. “So.”
“So.”
“What are you going to do tonight?”
“Finally getting a good night’s rest, that’s for sure.”
He blew out a skeptical breath. “Yeah. Okay.”
I’d never admit that I’d become quite comfortable sleeping next to him.
“You going to color me something to hang on my fridge?” he asked with some faux paternal pride, and I threw a pen at him. He dodged it, laughing.
“Don’t be gross.”
“What’s gross? Me wanting to hang up a picture you colored?”
“Yeah. You said it all creepy.”
He crossed the few feet of space that separated our desks. “You going to miss me?”
“Not at all.”
“Me neither.” He stepped behind me. “Won’t miss you taking too-long showers.”
I stood, beginning to gather my stuff. “Didn’t hear you complaining when you always interrupted them.”
He hummed, his hand gliding up my thigh. “Won’t miss you burning dinner.”
I dropped my cell phone in my purse. “Like you have any room to talk. You think soup and sandwiches are gourmet.”
His other hand fit against my neck, preventing me from moving any more. “Won’t miss this mouth running twenty-four seven.”
“Won’t miss yours either.”
“Liar,” he said, and then his lips were on me. With my back against his chest, he smoothed his hands over my hips, hiking up my black skirt. I didn’t often wear skirts, but I’d hastily thrown one in my bag when I’d packed up my stuff last week, unsure how long I’d be out of my home.
“I’ve had a hard time concentrating today,” he rasped against my ear. “Ever since I saw you shimmy this tight skirt up your hips this morning, knowing you’d be strutting around in it all day today.”
