4. Sasha
Four
Sasha
The party starts in three hours.
I should be overseeing things at the ballroom of the luxury hotel across the street from our office, checking the arrangements are in place and the caterers have everything they need.
But here I am, standing at the sink in the luxurious bathroom attached to the penthouse apartment that is exclusively for Zayn or Nathaniel’s use, scrubbing jelly from my cardigan. As if to match my mood, the sun has disappeared in a matter of minutes and a fierce downpour has begun.
I feel wired, and it’s not the good kind of wired, like from sugar.
I knew Zayn would feel inconvenienced by my resignation notice.
He’s a man who thrives on order and structure and doesn’t like any deviations. But his interrogation about my reasons—the pointed “ was I leaving him for another guy ”—twists my belly.
Did I imagine the near-possessive glint in his eye? Have I fallen completely off this plane of reality and into fantasyland, like my friend Mariska is constantly warning me?
Then there’s the way his gaze drifted over the stain I’m now scrubbing from the cardigan. Lingering on my chest area.
With a sigh, I hang the cardigan on the towel rack and grab the hair dryer from under the counter. I turn it on. Regrets fill me, as loud as the whirring buzz of the dryer.
Maybe I should’ve waited until the summer. Maybe I…
The door slams open, nearly hitting me in the butt, and is caught by a corded forearm, preventing it from slamming back again.
“There you are,” says Zayn, his short, wavy hair disheveled.
His V-necked henley sticks to his chest, and there’s coiled tension in his lean body, even though he’s clearly worked out in the state-of-the-art gym on the ground floor.
He pushes his body to the extreme when he’s feeling unsettled or is unable to calm his brain.
Clearly, he’s more than just bothered by my leaving. He’s upset. And that I’m causing him pain messes with my resolve.
“Zayn?” I whisper his name, desperate to remove that harassed look from his eyes.
His wild amber gaze barely meets mine before sliding down my neck and my torso.
My half-naked torso.
Okay, maybe not half-naked, given I’m wearing my favorite bra. A blush-pink lacy thing that’s merely window dressing because nothing this flimsy can restrain my boobs.
Which are straining, and even jiggling slightly, with my rushed breaths.
My skin heats at his continued perusal. I feel the blush climbing up my chest, as if it’s his fingers drawing patterns there. For a second, his gaze sweeps down, over the thick curve of my belly, my belly button ring, and then down to my hips, where my leather skirt sits snugly.
Then it comes back up, hitches for a second on the ring, and lands on my chest again.
A deafening roar fills my ears.
To make the whole situation worse, a mysterious draft of cool air releases from the ceiling and teases my skin. My nipples pull and tighten into hard peaks, pushing merrily against the lace cups.
I’m mortified. But he holds me hostage. There’s a celebratory flush beneath my skin, pulsing hungrily at how the black of his eyes eats up the amber gold. I arch my spine without meaning to.
He likes what he sees , a voice sings in my head. Deep between my thighs, as far as possible from my brain and its rational warnings, a throbbing awakens. I squeeze my thighs together to hold the delicious feeling there, and my leather skirt ripples with the movement.
Our gazes meet and it’s like I’m in that alternate fantasyland again where time stills. All his brooding energy is focused on me, heating up my skin.
For some reason though, my left arm is super warm and getting progressively hot. There’s a sudden burn on the back of my left hand and I gasp in pain.
Before my shorted-out brain can figure out what’s happening, Zayn’s there. His big body crowds me and the loud whir finally stops.
I look down, tears shimmering in my eyes, and realize he’s unplugged the dryer.
“Give me your hand,” he says, voice all deep and husky.
I react automatically to the command. My hand is small and soft and doughy in his large one. The contrast and the contact are erotic.
His long, elegant fingers press around the slightly red area. Then he tugs me to the sink and turns the tap on.
Water gushes forth with too much force, splashing us both. He curses and reduces the flow. The drops sizzle on my skin, like butter on a pan, with how hot I am.
I can’t look away from his elegant fingers bracketing my wrist or how his other hand rests at the small of my back. On bare skin. Even his broad frame rounds around me protectively.
The sensory overload is too much and I’m drowning. That throb at my core is constant now and I need relief.
I seek his gaze in the mirror and it’s another kind of assault. The acres of skin I have on display gleam under the bright lights over the sink. And his gaze is still drinking it in.
Then he looks up and our gazes lock once again.
Can he hear my heart thundering in my chest?
Outside the bathroom, the radio station suddenly switches to a weather report. The tension wrapping around us is broken.
I jerk my hand from his and turn around. The stupid cardigan is still wet in the front, but I have no choice.
I’m halfway through sliding my arms into it when a hand falls on my shoulder. The skin-to-skin contact is electrifying. This is what happens when you spend your days buried in steamy romance novels and your nights plugging your grumpy, reclusive boss into all those steamy scenarios.
“Here, I got you my sweatshirt,” he says.
I turn and stare at his offering.
It’s his Stanford sweatshirt. Shock steals my instant refusal. His university sweatshirt is akin to an infant’s favorite blanket for him. There’s only a particular dry-cleaner that is allowed to wash it and he hates traveling without it.
If I look at it one way, he’s a big, bossy, brainy baby.
A giggle slips from my mouth.
“What’s funny?” he says.
“I just realized what you are.”
“What am I?”
I shake my head and grab the sweatshirt before he changes his mind. Pulling my glasses off, I hand them to him.
Then I grab all of my wild, messy hair with one hand, push it to the side, and then put the sweatshirt on. All the while, I’m aware of him filling the small space with the scent of his soap and sweat, taking me in. His earlier irritation and anger are gone, replaced by something else. What though?
He’s in a playful mood. Which is like… never .
I shiver.
The sweatshirt’s loose on the shoulders and snug at my chest. Something hot and wild streaks through me as the scent of him engulfs me. “I’ll get it dry-cleaned—”
“Keep it,” he says, shocking me yet again.
I jerk my head up. Without my glasses, the sharp angles of him are a little blurred. And his lush mouth looks smudged, as if someone kissed the hell out of him. By someone, I mean me. “It’s your safety blanket.”
My vision is really fuzzy without my glasses, but I think he smiles at that. “But you look good in my sweatshirt, Mouse. Really good.”
My mouth falls open but no words come out.
“My glasses,” I finally manage to say, reaching out a hand.
Holding them, he covers the little distance between us. The heat from his body strokes me in a coiling wave. His chest is so close to mine that if I take a full breath, my breasts would brush it and…
“Your eyes.” He sounds entranced. “I’ve never seen them this close, without glasses. They are gorgeous.”
“I…they aren’t…” When he raises a brow, I sigh. He’s still a vague outline to me. “Thank you.”
“They’re really sensitive, right?”
I nod.
“What happened to the retinal surgery?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Adam mentioned it like…four or five years ago.”
“It didn’t work out,” I say, and shuffle in place. Signaling for him to move back or let me pass.
He does neither. “Why?”
“It just didn’t.”
“And I’m asking why.”
I sigh. When he asks questions in that tone, he won’t give up until he gets answers. The right ones, at that. “It’s still in experimental stage and only two doctors can perform the surgery in the entire country.”
“So?”
“So, it’s prohibitively expensive,” I snap. “Like I’d have to sell a kidney to get it done, but since I’m saving that for granny, I can’t.”
Something like warmth fills his eyes and he hands the glasses back to me.
I slide them on and the world should feel right again. Except Zayn is watching me with a strange expression. My world stays tilted, if not upside down.
“Did you need something? You rushed in here,” I say. “Is it the caterers?”
“No. I had some questions for you.”
He sounds so serious that I straighten my shoulders. “Okay, let me get a pot of coffee going and I’ll meet you in your office.”
“I gave myself the afternoon off. Let’s talk here.”
“Off?” Shock stuns me. This day just won’t end. “You’re like…Scrooge. You even work on Christmas morning.”
He shrugs, calling my attention to the bunched slopes of his shoulders. “I’m too distracted.”
I half snort, half scoff. “You’re the one who insisted we finish the fiscal—”
“That was before my dependable little assistant decided to quit on me. Now, it’s all-hands-on-deck for Project Mouse.”
The sound that comes out of my mouth this time is a full growl. It echoes in the empty bathroom.
It’s not enough that he’s never taken notice of me. Now that I’m quitting, he’s needling me with that ridiculous pet name and following me around like some lost puppy. Or a ferocious pit bull, actually.
Beneath the annoyance though, there’s a thread of excitement in my veins I can’t shake off.
This is the most he’s interacted with me in the past two years. God, I’m a pushover, but there’s a pep in my step as I follow him out.
What’s wrong with eking out a little pleasure from these last few hours with him?
It’s not like this is anything more than his temper tantrum, and my decision’s not changing.