Chapter 10 #3
This time, I met his kiss head on. I put both hands on his chest, feeling the heat of him through the fine cotton of his shirt, the solid muscle beneath.
Grasping the material in my clenched fingers, I pulled myself closer.
Some last careful thread snapped within him.
He turned me so my back met the door, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make the breath leave me in a rush.
His hand protected the back of my head even as his mouth took mine again, deeper, darker, his tongue sliding against mine until need spread through me in a hot, helpless wave.
I had imagined his hands for days.
The reality was so much better.
One in my hair, holding me exactly where he wanted me. One at my waist, large and firm, thumb pressing into the soft place under my ribs. My body softened against him. My core fluttered, then clenched with need so intense that I whimpered against his mouth.
He heard it.
He broke the kiss and drew back just enough to look at me.
My lips felt swollen. My breathing was uneven. My hair had come half loose under his hand, and his thumb moved once against the nape of my neck before he seemed to realize he was doing it. His eyes followed the motion, then returned to mine.
“You understand,” he rumbled, voice rough and low and resonant, “that this cannot be careless.”
I nodded.
His grip in my hair tightened slightly. “Words, Avery.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I understand.”
“This changes things.”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t change your job.”
“No.”
“It doesn’t change the expectations.”
“I know.”
“You do not get special treatment.”
“I wouldn’t want that.”
His eyes moved over my face, lingering on my mouth with a heat that made me tremble. “And if you decide this was a mistake, you tell me. Tonight. Tomorrow. A month from now. You will not be punished. There will be no consequences. You will not lose your position because I crossed a line with you.”
“We crossed it,” I corrected.
His lips thinned.
“I mean it,” I enunciated, because I needed him to hear me. “I want this too. So much.”
“I know,” he murmured, his expression flashing with a fierce resolve and pain all at once.
He released my hair slowly, as if his hand did not want to obey him, then stepped back. The distance was only a foot. It felt brutal. Cold air slipped between us where his body had been.
I hated it immediately.
Callum bent and picked up my notebook from the floor, handing it back to me with a composure so imperfect it almost made me laugh.
His hair was slightly mussed where my fingers had burrowed into it.
His mouth looked less resolute than usual.
His shirt had a wrinkle where I had gripped it.
The sight made me feel reckless, triumphant, and humbled all at once.
Then he straightened fully, and the office returned around us.
“Now,” he ordered, his voice still low enough to scrape along every nerve I had, “you are going to go home and take a cold shower.”
My breath caught.
“And you are going to have a normal evening,” he continued. “You are going to eat something. You are going to sleep. You are not going to spend the whole night punishing yourself for wanting whatever this is between us.”
My throat tightened.
“If you are not back in the morning,” he went on, “I will understand. I will make sure you receive a year’s severance, and officially, you decided the position wasn’t a good fit. I will never mention this again.”
I stared at him. “Callum—”
“Let me finish.”
The command landed soft and stern at once, and my body responded before my pride could object.
I went quiet.
“If you show up tomorrow because you want the job, but you do not want this to happen again, that is also fine. You will come in, you will do your work, and I will treat you exactly as I treated you yesterday morning. Professionally. Fairly. At a distance. You do not owe me anything because I kissed you.”
The fact that he said it plainly, almost harshly, made my eyes sting.
“And if I do want it to happen again?” I asked quietly.
The office went very still as Callum’s gaze darkened.
“If you want more, then you will come tomorrow wearing a black pencil skirt.”
My pulse jumped.
“A black pencil skirt?
“Yes.”
Heat rolled through me, slow and deep and destructive.
It was absurd. It was only clothing, just a skirt I either owned or could buy, but in his mouth, it became a choice I could wear into the room. It became a signal. A way to say yes in broad daylight while everyone else saw only work clothes.
My hands tightened around the notebook.
“And Avery,” he said.
I looked up.
He stepped closer again, not touching me this time. My body leaned in toward him before I could stop it, and his eyes dropped briefly at the movement, his mouth tightening like the sight cost him something.
I wanted him to kiss me again.
He did not.
He bent his head instead, bringing his mouth close to my ear. Close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath. Close enough that the cedar-dark scent of him surrounded me again.
His voice was barely above a murmur.
“You will be wearing nothing underneath that skirt so that when the workday is over, we can deal with the fact that you rolled your eyes at your boss by bending you over his desk and pulling your skirt up around your waist.”
The words surged through me like a lightning strike.
My core clenched so hard I gripped the notebook to keep from making a sound. Heat flooded my face, my throat, everywhere. I stood perfectly still, breath shallow, while he stayed close enough to ruin me and careful enough not to. Then he stepped back.
The absence of him felt like an unpardonable sin.
Callum reached behind him and unlocked the door.
The click snapped the world back into place.
For a second, neither of us moved. He looked at me like he was memorizing exactly how I looked after being kissed by him, hair loosened, mouth swollen, eyes too bright, every sensible thought in me scattered across the office floor.
I looked back and wondered whether he had any idea that I would remember this moment for the rest of my life, even if I walked out tomorrow and never came back.
“Go home,” he commanded.
I swallowed. “Yes, Mr. Rowe.”
His eyes flared.
I turned before he could answer, opened the door, and stepped out into the quiet reception area.
Benjamin was back at his desk. He looked up from his laptop, took in my hair, my face, the notebook clutched to my chest, and the closed door behind me. His expression did not change, which was how I knew he knew everything. For one unbearable second, we simply stared at each other.
Then he said, “Productive meeting?”
I tried to answer, but nothing came out.
Benjamin’s eyes flicked very briefly toward Callum’s door, then back to me. His voice softened by the smallest possible amount.
“Elevators are to your left, Ms. Hale.”
I nodded.
“Also,” he added, returning his attention to his screen with the dignity of a man choosing not to witness a fire because it lacked proper permits, “your hair is experiencing structural complications.”
I lifted a hand to the back of my head and found half the pins loose.
My face burned.
“Thank you, Ben.”
“Do not thank me. It encourages intimacy.”
I walked to the elevators on legs that did not feel entirely attached to me.
I did not look back. I did not trust myself to.
The office was nearly empty now, but every glass wall, dark monitor, and polished surface seemed to reflect some version of me I barely recognized.
Avery Hale, serious employee, goddaughter, woman kissed breathless behind a locked office door and sent home with instructions to follow or not follow tomorrow.
The elevator arrived. I stepped inside and pressed the lobby button. Only when the doors slid shut did I exhale. I leaned back against the wall, pressed my fingers to my mouth, and felt the ghost of his kiss there.
My phone buzzed before I reached the lobby.
Jules: First: are you still alive? Second: did the open throat happen again? Third: why do I have a bad feeling and a good feeling?
I stared at the message. Then I laughed, a little wildly, alone in the elevator.
Me: I need a cold shower.
The typing bubbles appeared instantly.
Jules: Oh, my God.
I looked at my reflection again. My hair was loose now, curling around my face. My cheeks were flushed. My mouth looked exactly like it had been kissed by a man who knew how to use restraint as a weapon and then, for one devastating minute, had put it down.
My phone buzzed again.
Jules: Details. Immediately.
I closed my eyes and thought of walking in tomorrow wearing a black pencil skirt with nothing underneath.
I had no idea what I was going to do.
That was a lie.
I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
The real question was whether I was brave enough, reckless enough, or foolish enough to do it.