6. Reece #2
“I pretend I don’t notice how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention,” she finally says, breaking the silence that has settled between us and pulling my gaze right back to hers.
Her lips part slightly and I can just see the tip of her tongue hiding behind her teeth. “I pretend I don’t like it.”
My blood thickens. She watches me like she’s waiting for a crack to appear—waiting to see if I’ll shut her down or meet her in the fire she just started.
“And do you?” I ask quietly. “Like it?”
Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, and I feel the pull of it in places I have no business feeling. “Would it make a difference if I said yes?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Because yes, it would. And that’s exactly why I shouldn’t let it.
The silence stretches again—but now it pulses between us. Like it’s no longer hiding anything. Like it’s baring everything we won’t say.
She finally leans back in her chair, dragging her fingers along the rim of her glass. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to blow up your quiet life, Mr. Blackwood.”
“I’m not worried,” I say, even though I am. Even though she already has.
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Liar.” She sees something in me, and she’s not afraid of it. And that makes me very uneasy.
“I like it here,” she says finally. “The view, the pace. The expectation. It’s… controlled. But in a way that feels clear. I haven’t felt clear in a long time.”
I could tell her I understand. That I’ve lived inside the blur and clawed my way out with routines and white walls and systems so tight they’ve nearly strangled me. But that would mean revealing too much, and I’m already far too close to territory I swore I’d avoid.
Instead, I offer a simple nod. “I’m glad you’re settling in.”
“I am.”
Her voice is quieter now, the edge pulled back just enough to expose something gentler underneath. Something I want to reach for, which is exactly why I lean away.
We finish lunch quickly after that. She thanks me, polite and professional again, and returns to her desk without waiting for me to say anything more.
I watch her go.
Then I stare down at the empty space across from me and wonder how long it’s been since someone sat there and made it feel like a table for two instead of just another place to work.
I return to my desk, open my laptop, and force my focus back to the day’s agenda.
But her words echo.
Do you miss it?
It’s a question nobody has ever bothered to ask me and it’s one that I never entertained… until now. Because, weirdly, just that single little interaction does make me miss it.
The office is quiet again.
Most of the team cleared out over an hour ago, but I’m still here, half-finished whiskey on my desk and a report I’ve reread three times without retaining a word.
The sun dipped below the skyline long ago, leaving the city awash in gold and steel blue.
It should be calming. Instead, it makes everything feel heavier.
I glance toward the far end of space just outside my office door.
She’s still here.
Skye sits with one leg tucked under her, hair falling loose from whatever clip held it this morning. Her shoes are kicked off under her desk, her blazer draped over the back of her chair. She’s working—completely absorbed, typing something quickly with her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
It should be easy to look away. Especially with the constant reminder that she’s not only young enough to be my daughter, but she was my son’s…
She has a quiet intensity about her and if I had to guess, I bet most people miss it.
They see the smile, the sharp wit, the almost reckless humor.
But beneath that, there’s a discipline that sneaks up on you.
A calm. She doesn’t need to talk constantly to prove she belongs.
She just works—efficiently, thoroughly, like she knows what’s expected of her and has no intention of doing anything less.
It’s unsettling.
Not just because I wasn’t prepared for her to be this good but because I wasn’t prepared for her to fit so well into my life.
The longer I watch her, the more that thought begins to settle somewhere I don’t like. Because it’s not just her competence that’s catching me off guard. It’s the way the space shifts when she’s in it.
She hasn’t made this complicated; I have by allowing myself to watch her too closely. She hasn’t crossed any lines. And yet—something in me already has.
I look down at the stack of reports on my desk, then back at her. I get up and quietly walk across my office toward her desk.
“You know it’s after six,” I say, my voice breaking the silence.
She doesn’t jump. She just glances up, eyes amused. “I did notice.”
“Why are you still here?” I ask a little more bluntly than I intended. “You should leave.”
“Is that a threat or a warning?” That coy smile spreads across her plump lips. The ones I told myself to stop imagining tasting. Those plump pink lips that would look like heaven wrapped around my cock.
“It’s a suggestion.”
“Let me finish cleaning up the board deck and I’ll pack up.”
“You don’t need to impress me.” I say it without thinking.
She leans back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head. The movement draws my eye before I can stop it. She doesn’t notice, or she pretends not to, but I avert my gaze the second I see a small sliver of her taut stomach.
“I’m not trying to impress you,” she says. “I’m trying to get ahead of tomorrow so I don’t drown in logistics.”
There’s no apology in her tone, and I like that more than I should.
“Your call,” I say.
She nods once and turns back to the screen, her fingers already flying over the keyboard again.
The glow from her monitors catches on her cheekbone, casting the softest halo of light along her skin.
She doesn’t look tired. She looks focused.
Sharp. Like this is the version of herself she trusts the most—the one that’s too busy to spiral, too capable to second-guess.
I understand that version. I’ve lived in it for years.
Like if you can just keep all your balls in the air, your house of cards won’t come tumbling down.
I don’t say anything else. Instead, I turn and walk back to my desk, reminding myself that in a few short weeks she’ll be gone and this will just be a distant memory.
I sit in the fading light of my office and languidly sip my drink, letting the silence stretch until the only sound is the soft clack of her typing and the dull hum of a city that never really goes to sleep.
This shouldn’t feel intimate but it does. It feels like for the first time in a long time, I’m not alone. Closing my eyes, I lean back in my chair, repeating the same mantra I’ve been saying to myself since that night I ran into her at the bar.
She ’ s twenty-seven. She ’ s my son ’ s ex.
But even with all of that… hell, maybe because of all of that, I’m starting to realize that the real danger isn’t in what she might want from me. It’s in how much I already want her here.
And I don’t know how to want her without losing something else in the process.
The penthouse is too damn quiet. Even the sound of the elevator whirring shut behind me feels like a reprimand.
My jacket hits the back of the couch. Shoes come off next, one by one, landing beside the door like discarded armor. I loosen my tie as I walk through the darkness, not bothering with the lights. I know this place by heart. I paid someone obscene money to design every inch of it.
And tonight, it might as well be a cage.
I pour a scotch, neat. Sip once. Twice. Let the burn chase away the image of Skye's mouth wrapping around the tip of her pen as she listened to me today.
The way her lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them like she had no idea what it was doing to me—or worse, like she knew exactly what it was doing and did it anyway.
I down the rest of the glass in one swallow and set it aside before I can talk myself out of what I’m already doing. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about her like this. But it is the first time I don’t try to stop it.
When I reach my bedroom, I stare out at the imposing scene, the one that cost me millions. But none of it compares to the memory of her.
She wore that pale-blue blouse today—the silk one with buttons that strain every time she moves. I told myself I wouldn’t look. That I’d keep my eyes on the reports, the emails, the schedule. But my gaze drifted anyway, hungry and betraying and utterly fucking pathetic.
I sit on the edge of my bed and rub my hand over my face. This is wrong. She’s too young. Too close. Too off-limits. But I’m so goddamn tired of being good.
I recline back against the pillows, unbuttoning my shirt. The sheets still smell like clean linen, a scent I’ve come to hate. Because none of it matters—none of this space or money or success—when the only thing I want is the one thing I can’t have.
I slide my hand lower, undoing my belt, and the zipper eases down with a quiet hiss.
I picture her just the way I saw her earlier—one leg crossed over the other, eyes wide with curiosity as I explained a pitch, nodding like she actually cared about my words and not the way they rumbled out of my chest.
And then I imagine her leaning closer, whispering, “ What if I sit on your desk and show you what else this mouth is good for?”
My cock stiffens beneath my hand at the thought. I wrap my fingers around it and exhale sharply. She’d be soft. Wet. So fucking eager to prove she can drive me crazy. And she could. She already has.
Every look, every glance, every accidental brush of her arm against mine feels like slow, exquisite torture. I stroke myself once, twice. My head falls back.
I imagine her on her knees in front of me, that wicked grin tugging at her lips as she peels my pants down. Her voice is in my head, sarcastic and breathy and bold. “ You gonna sit still or can I make you squirm a little?”
Fuck.
I pump harder, eyes squeezing shut as heat curls low in my belly. My thighs tense. The pressure builds fast, brutal. Because I’ve been holding this in for weeks now. Resisting her smile. Her scent. Her goddamn laugh that echoes down the hallway long after she’s walked away.
I see her hair spilled over my pillow, her legs wrapped around my hips, nails clawing at my back as she begs me not to stop. And I wouldn’t. I’d give her everything. Every filthy thought, every possessive ache I’ve buried so deep it scares me to even acknowledge it.
“ Harder, Reece. Please ? —”
Her phantom voice breaks me. My jaw tightens as release barrels through me, sharp and unforgiving.
I come with a grunt, hips jerking, my hand squeezing as every muscle in my body locks up. The only sound is the ragged breath tearing from my lungs, followed by the quiet stillness of reality settling in again.
It takes me a long minute before I can move. Before I can breathe like a man and not a fucking animal. I wipe my hand, grab a towel, and lean back against the headboard. And then I stare out at the city like it might forgive me for what I just did.
What the hell am I doing?
This isn’t me. I don’t fall apart over a woman. I don’t give in to obsession. I don’t crave someone’s presence so badly I lose sleep over it. And I sure as fuck don’t touch myself like a teenager just because a woman laughed at my joke and crossed her legs a certain way.
But it’s not just the way she looks.
It’s everything.
The way she talks. The way she listens. The way she sees through all my bullshit and calls it out with a smirk and a raised brow, like she’s daring me to do something about it.
I haven’t been tempted like this since before Lauren. And even then, it wasn’t like this.
With Lauren, there was a sweetness to our courtship. It was light and full of hope. With Skye… it’s chaos. Lust wrapped in guilt, tied with ribbons of shame and need .
And I know, I fucking know that if I give in, really give in, I won’t be able to pull back. Because it’s not just about sex. It never was.
It’s about the way she makes me feel. The way I forget I’m forty-nine and broken and carrying the weight of every goddamn mistake I’ve ever made. Around her, I feel alive again. Reckless. Like maybe I still have a second chance at something more.
But I can’t have her. I can’t want her.
She’s Archer’s ex. She’s my assistant . She’s twenty-two years younger and deserves a man who doesn’t watch her walk down the hallway with his fists clenched and his jaw grinding like he’s seconds from pinning her against the wall.
I close my eyes and let her name echo in the silence.
“Skye…”
The sound is a benediction and a curse.
And I know, even as I try to shove the guilt down deeper, that this is just the beginning.
Because the part of me that touched myself thinking of her? That animal. That part is no longer interested in pretending I don’t want her.