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I yell out, even though it's probably too late. Miles has probably already reached that section of the sketchbook. I force myself to pee as fast as I can so I can get out there and…and…I don't know, try to salvage an unsalvageable mess.
Why did I have to ruin everything?
I'd been worried that sleeping in the same bed as Miles, snuggled up in his strong arms, our bodies pressed tightly against each other, might have made things awkward. But from the moment I opened my eyes this morning and saw him preparing breakfast, things felt right. Smooth. Effortless. Maybe even a little flirty toward the end there.
But now I've gone and fucked everything up.
I gave him my sketch pad.
The sketch pad that starts off PG with drawings of cityscapes and some of my favorite animals, like cheetahs and giraffes, before moving on to some very graphic, very detailed illustrations of a certain sexy boss and his very willing-to-please assistant.
I finish up and bolt out of the bathroom.
I'm too late.
He's seen it.
It's written all over his face. His tight jaw, the deep frown lines that usually only show up at the end of a long day, the way he's looking at me. Like he's confused. Angry. Maybe even disgusted. I shouldn't be surprised, things get really spicy in some of those illustrations.
I bounce nervously from foot to foot. I am so getting fired for this. I can picture one of the stoic-faced security guards escorting me and my sad brown box out of the building, pitiful glances coming from my colleagues.
"I'm so sorry," I yelp. "I never meant for you to see any of that."
Miles has moved to the couch, and if my sketch pad wasn't perched on his lap—dammit, even looking at it upside down I can see it's open on averygraphic page—I'd be snatching it from him.
But lunging at his legs is not the right move.
No. I need to keep some distance between us.
I take a seat on the other side of the coffee table, my eyes darting between the open sketch pad and Miles's still-shocked face. I scrub my hand through my hair.
What must he be thinking?
He wets his lips before finally speaking. "You're…you're a very talented artist."
"Um." Okay. That's not what I expected him to open with, but I'll take it. "Thank you?"
"But…" He drops his head and flicks through the next few pages, his brown eyes taking their time, perusing each image in excruciating detail.
Mentally, I'm kicking myself. I'm always so careful with my pad. When I sketch on my lunch break, I stick to PG-rated things in case someone wanders in or Miles sneaks up behind me and peers over my shoulder. I always keep the sketch pad glued to me, tucked away safely in my messenger bag under my desk.
And then I go ahead and literally hand it to the man who's the star of every single sexual image in there.
I wince, really wishing he'd stop flicking through the pages. Things only get more and more explicit the further he goes. I can feel my pulse drumming in my neck.
"I don't understand," he murmurs softly. "Why…why would you draw me like this?"
"Seriously?"
He looks up at me, squinting hard, most likely trying to make sense of what would possess me to do something so…filthy. For all I know, Miles could be a vanilla guy when it comes to sex, whereas I can go from mild to wild.
Very wild.
And very submissive.
"Yeah. Seriously."
I figure since I'm probably already out of a job, what else have I got to lose? I may as well tell the truth. I suck in a deep breath and give Miles—my soon-to-be ex-boss—the honest answer. "You're an incredibly good-looking man."
