Chapter 3
3
Ethan
I shouldn’t be here.
I know I shouldn’t be here.
She’s my intern. Philip’s niece.
A walking HR violation with big eyes and soft lips and absolutely no sense of professional boundaries. Not on purpose. No—Pia just doesn’t know what she’s doing to me.
That’s the damn problem.
Maggie said she’d taken care of everything, and I trust my PA. Even if she’s begun to give me puzzled looks whenever Pia is around.
I have zero intention of asking what that’s about. Because I know.
My behavior has grown erratic.
I can’t stop staring at Pia Hyde. Can’t stop wondering where the hell she is every time she leaves my line of sight.
It’s damn inconvenient. Alarming as fuck.
And it’s only Day Three. I should be thankful she’s survived Philly and the firm so far.
Yet here I am, standing outside her condo like a lunatic.
I knock once, sharp. Terse. Regret already burning low in my gut.
I should walk away. I should text her the reminder to cc me on the Tokyo acquisition files and forget I ever noticed how that little sweater hugged her waist this morning.
Or how many times she crossed and recrossed her gorgeous legs during the client meeting this afternoon.
But I don’t.
Because she didn’t come into the office this evening like she said she would, to check in with me before she left.
Because her idiot uncle thought it would be a brilliant idea to rent the unit directly beneath mine to his innocent, wide-eyed niece, who he clearly thinks is still twelve instead of a bombshell going on twenty-one.
Yeah, I peeped at her personnel file.
She was born on Valentine’s Day, for fuck’s sake. Everything about this girl turns my mind to sex sex sex .
The door opens.
And there she is.
Barefoot.
In pajama shorts.
Hair piled up like she forgot there was a world outside her apartment. Big spoon of ice cream halfway to her mouth.
Her eyes widen and the spoon falls back into the carton. “Mr. Villiers…I…what are you doing here?” She frowns, looks past my shoulder. “I wasn’t told you were downstairs. The concierge is supposed to tell me when I have visitors. I think.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not a visitor. I live in the building.” I frown down at the ice cream. “And is that dessert or dinner?"
She startles, twirls the spoon, tongue darting out to swipe at a drip on her bottom lip. “I—hi. Um, yeah? I haven’t had time to?—”
“Didn’t Maggie organize a grocery delivery for you?” I ask, cutting her off. Too sharp. Too fast. I don’t like the sound of my own voice right now. Like I’ve already lost control at the sight of that tongue gliding over her lip. The way I want to do with mine.
“She…it’s my fault. I was supposed to give her a list, but I forgot. I texted her to apologize. We’ll get it sorted tomorrow.”
“So you resorted to eat a meal that’s all frozen sugar? That’s not acceptable.”
Her eyebrows pinch. “It’s just ice cream. It’s not like I eat this every night.”
I take a slow breath, trying not to look at the way her legs disappear under those shorts. Trying not to think about how long they are. Or how the material hugs her smooth, juicy hips.
“I’m not letting you starve one floor down from me,” I mutter. “Come upstairs.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. “To your…?”
“My condo?” I bite out. “Yes. Mine.”
Her eyes sparkle for a moment before it dims, like a thought just occurred to her. “I don’t want to inconvenience you, Mr. Villiers. I know you work late sometimes. I’m not very hungry, honestly.”
“I promised your uncle I’d check in on you. And the first time I do, you’re having ice cream for dinner. Clearly you need me to look after you. So you’re having dinner with me. I already cooked.”
It’s a lie. But she doesn’t need to know that.
She hesitates, standing there in the soft evening light, like she’s turning over the weight of what I’ve just asked. And maybe she feels it too—that crackle in the air, that thing we’re not supposed to acknowledge.
Because this is wrong.
So wrong.
But she nods.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Let me grab a sweatshirt.”
I watch her disappear into the bedroom, my hands fisting at my sides.
* * *
What the hell am I doing?
I shouldn’t have invited her over.
I definitely shouldn’t have watched her walk up ahead of me into the elevator wearing that damn oversized hoodie that still didn’t hide the lower curves of her ass.
She didn’t change her shorts, and she’s seated now at my kitchen island, bare legs crossed, twirling a glass of water in her small hands while I pretend to focus on the sauté pan in front of me.
Pretend.
Because all I can feel is her.
In my space.
Breathing the same air.
Like this isn’t some colossal mistake waiting to explode in my face.
“Is it bad to say you don’t seem like the type who cooks?” she says.
I don’t answer right away. I feel her eyes digging into my back. And I should probably make conversation since I fucking invited her into my space.
But I’m balancing on the edge of something jagged.
Something hot and raw and obscenely forbidden.
“You think I work eighteen-hour days and live on takeout?”
She shrugs. “You seem like the type.”
“The type?”
“Ambitious. Too focused to eat. Or sleep. Or—” She cuts herself off.
My head snaps toward her. “Or what?”
She flushes, her mouth parting, and I can see her scrambling for a safer answer. But she doesn’t give it. Smart girl.
I push the pan off the heat. The scent of garlic and butter hangs in the air like another temptation. One I can control.
Unlike her.
“Eat,” I say, sliding the plate in front of her. Risotto. Chicken. Greens I barely cooked right but needed on the plate to pretend this wasn’t what it really is.
She takes a bite. Her eyes flutter shut. Moan .
Jesus fucking Christ.
She chews. Swallows.
Her alluring eyes widen. “This is amazing,” she says.
I fold my arms, leaning against the counter, watching her like I’ve already given up trying not to. “It’s basic. And you’re just hungry. Contrary to what you tried to tell me.”
“ Oui …yes, I was. But you didn’t have to do this,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
She looks up at me then, and it’s all innocence but there’s… something lurking in her eyes. Something that makes my insides flip. Then my cock jerk in the lounge bottoms I threw on after guilt and compulsion drove me to check on her.
“ Merci . Thanks anyway.” She licks her lips.
I wish she would stop. I hope she never does.
What the fuck is happening? Is it the forbidden fruit of it all?
The last temptation to see whether I’d risk it all, burn it down at this crucial stage?
Hell, is Philip Hyde testing me? Did he know his niece was a walking, talking temptation that might send me over the edge?
The air shifts. Tightens.
I’m around the island before I know it, stopping just inches from her chair. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off her skin.
“Is this some fucking honey trap?” I grate out.
She’s just forked another bite into her mouth and she’s staring up at me mid-chew. “Hmm?” She blushes, holds one hand in front of her mouth and hurries through chewing, adorably, before she swallows. “ Excusez-moi , what are you talking about?”
“Did your uncle tell you I’d be living here? That he’d asked me to check in on you? Both here and at the firm?”
She blinks a few times, then her face falls.
Something punches me in the gut at the wounded look.
“No. He barely mentioned the change of plans. He just told me not to worry, that everything would be taken care of. As if…”
“As if what?”
She shrugs and I try not to see the way the hoodie moves over the swell of her tits. “As if telling me not to worry about being in a strange city with strangers is as easy as snapping your fingers.”
“Maggie has been taking care of you, hasn’t she?”
She nods. “She’s nice, but I can’t help but feel I’ve been pawned off on her, you know?”
I know, since I’ve been the one doing the pawning off.
A hint of unfamiliar guilt scratches at the back of my neck, which I’m sure is what prods me into saying, “And you’re not surrounded by strangers. You know me. We’re neighbors. I invited you to dinner.”
Her eyes darken and she’s trembling now. But not with fear. She squirms in her seat, and I see the faintest points appear beneath her hoodie.
My mouth waters and I can’t take my eyes off her chest. Her budding nipples.
Fuck.
“Yes, you did. But out of obligation. You said so.”
It’s safer to leave her with that thought. And I do.
Turning away, I swipe her empty plate off the counter and stalk to the sink. Scraping it off, I shove it into the dishwasher, then straighten when I hear the squeak of her stool.
When I turn, she’s standing next to it, toying with the hem of her hoodie. “You didn’t even eat the dinner you prepared yourself.”
I frown. How the hell do I tell her my appetite is for a different meal altogether? The one between her legs?
I don’t.
Things have gone way off chart since she walked into the firm and onto my floor three days ago. The quicker I rein in this insanity, the better for everyone involved.
“I’ll eat later.” I make the point of glancing pointedly at my watch. “I have a call with Abu Dhabi in about ten minutes.”
Again a dash of hurt crosses her face and I want to kick my ass all the way to Florida. But I lock my knees as she nods. “I’ll go then.”
She heads for the door. My feet move after her before I clock what I’m doing.
I reach past her to open the front door, then shut it behind me as we step out into the hallway.
She blinks at me. “What are you doing?”
I catch her elbow in my hand and for a second I regret that her long sleeves prevent me from touching her skin. Then I wise up. “I’m walking you to your door, Pia. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”
I press the button for the elevator and it comes too quickly. Just as quickly as the ride one floor down and to her front door.
Her hand shakes a little as she holds the keycard to the electronic lock, and before I know it we’re back at the same position we were ninety minutes ago.
“Well… merci …umm, thanks for the dinner. And for checking up on me.”
I stifle a groan at another French slip. “Are you in the habit of doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Slipping French into your conversations?”
Faint pink stains her cheeks. “O-only when I’m nervous.”
My heart and my cock kick again. Hard .
I brace a shoulder on the doorframe and cross my leg to hide my growing erection. “And I make you nervous?”
She laughs, a delightful sound I want to drown in. “You make everyone nervous, Mr. Villiers. And I’m sure you know that.”
“Hmm, maybe. And it’s Ethan. Mr. Villiers sounds like I’m old enough to be your father,” I say, a little grumpily. Then mentally kick myself because she does have a father. A very disappointing one. And the last thing I want to do is remind her of it.
But when her eyes move over me in unexpectedly slow and thorough scrutiny, she doesn’t seem unhappy by the reminder. Hell, I don’t think she’s thinking about him at all. “Maybe not my dad exactly. Maybe a very magnifique replica.”
Her eyes grow wide at her own admission and she gives a shocked yelp before she hurriedly shuts the door in my face.
I’m frozen in place and I swear I catch her gasp on the other side as my dick revs to tent my pants.
I don’t recall walking back into my condo. Throwing myself into my chair in front of my desk. I lied about the call to Abu Dhabi. It’s not till midnight.
Three hours away.
But I have more than enough work to keep me occupied. Instead, I glance down at my raging hard-on.
Groan when it jolts.
I reach inside my pants with the ridiculous intention of calming it into deflating.
Instead I stroke it once. Twice.
Then, cursing under my breath, I pull it out.
It’s heavy, full, veined, the crown weeping. Seeking… begging for attention. I stroke a few more times, a helpless groan building in my throat, my balls tightening, ready to blow.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Am I really doing this?
Jacking off to the image of a twenty-year-old intern? Philip’s niece?
Magnifique replica .
Magnifique…
Magnifique.
My hand moves faster to the echo of her lips framing the word. Faster. Harder.
In under a minute, my breath catches.
And I nut all over my hand to the image of forbidden lips from the forbidden body that resides one measly floor below mine.