Chapter 5 #2
"Look at me," he commanded.
I opened my eyes. They were hazy, unfocused.
"Good," he said. He ran his hands up my thighs, resting them heavily on my hips. His thumbs rubbed circles into the denim of my jeans. "Now. Tell me what you feel."
"I feel..." I gasped as he leaned in, his nose brushing mine. "I feel hot. dizzy."
"Physiological arousal," he noted, his voice sounding strained. "Pupils are blown. lush is evident. Respiration is shallow."
"Stop... stop analyzing me," I whimpered.
"I can't," he whispered. "It’s my nature."
He kissed me again, deeper this time. Slower. It was a drug. He was teaching me the rhythm—tilt, pressure, retreat, attack. He was conducting me like an orchestra.
One of his hands slid up from my hip, skimming over my waist, over the wrap top, and stopping just below my breast. His thumb brushed the underside of the curve.
My entire body arched into him. I couldn't help it. It was instinct.
"Peter," I breathed his name. It sounded like a prayer.
He froze.
His hand hovered there, agonizingly close to crossing the line. I could feel the heat of his palm burning through the fabric.
He pulled back, just an inch. His forehead rested against mine. His breathing was harsh, labored.
"Rule One," he gritted out.
"Screw the rules," I whispered, terrified by my own boldness. "Touch me."
He shuddered. A full-body tremor that rattled through him.
"Belinda," he warned, his voice a low growl. "If I touch you... if I really touch you... we aren't going to stop at second base. We aren't going to stop at all."
"Maybe I don't want to stop."
He pulled back further, looking at me. His eyes were black pits of desire, but the steel wall of control was slamming back down. I could see him fighting it. I could see him rebuilding the cage, bar by bar.
"You do," he said roughly. "You want to stop because you’re smart. And because if we do this—if we actually do this—it complicates the variable."
He grabbed my wrists, pulling my hands away from his shoulders. He held them firmly, pinning them to his own chest. Under my palms, his heart was hammering. A frantic, chaotic rhythm that betrayed his calm voice.
"Feel that?" he asked.
"Your heart?"
"It’s racing," he admitted. "You do that to me. You scramble the signal."
"Is that bad?"
"It’s dangerous," he said. "For the game. For the plan."
He stepped back. The loss of his body heat was like being dunked in an ice bath.
I sat on the desk, legs still open, chest heaving, lips swollen and tingling. I felt bereft. I felt empty.
Peter walked to the other side of the room. He grabbed a grey t-shirt from the floor and pulled it on, hiding the muscles I had just been clinging to.
"Lesson over," he said. His back was to me again.
"You’re kidding," I said, my voice shaky. "You’re just... turning it off?"
"I’m engaging the braking mechanism," he said. "Before we crash."
He turned around. He looked composed again. Or mostly composed. His hair was messy where my fingers had been. His lips were red. And there was a darkness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"You have the mechanics, Bee," he said quietly. "You know how to kiss. You know how to signal. You don't need practice anymore."
"I think I need a lot more practice," I argued, sliding off the desk. My legs felt like jelly.
"No," Peter shook his head. "Any more practice, and it stops being a simulation."
He walked to the door and opened it. A dismissal.
"Go home, O’Shea. Before I forget that I’m supposed to be a gentleman."
I walked to the door. I stopped in front of him.
I looked up. I didn't bite my lip. I didn't look at the floor. I looked him dead in the eye.
"You’re not a gentleman, Peter," I whispered. "You’re a tease."
His jaw tightened. "And you’re a menace. Goodnight."
I walked out into the hallway.
The heavy door clicked shut behind me. The lock turned.
I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I hit the floor. I buried my face in my knees.
My body was humming. My skin felt too tight.
The hypothesis had changed.
Variable A: I was no longer just a virgin. I was a woman who had tasted the storm.
Variable B: Peter Volkov wasn't a robot. He was a volcano waiting to erupt.
Result: I was in love with him.
The realization hit me harder than the door had.
Oh no.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Oh, hell no.
I had broken Rule Three.
And if Peter found out, the game wasn't just over. It was forfeited.
I stood up, smoothed my jeans, and walked down the hallway.
I needed to find Sloane. I needed a drink. And I needed to figure out how to un-love the most emotionally unavailable man in the Northern Hemisphere.
Peter
I waited until I heard her footsteps fade away.
Only then did I let myself collapse back into the chair.
I stared at the black screen of the monitor.
My hands were shaking.
I looked down at them. The hands that caught 100-mile-per-hour pucks without flinching were trembling like leaves in the wind.
I could still taste her. Peppermint. Sweetness.
And underneath it all, that maddening, intoxicating chaos.
“Touch me.”
Her voice echoed in the silence of the room.
It had taken every ounce of willpower I possessed—every scrap of discipline instilled in me by years of elite training—not to lift her hips, wrap her legs around my waist, and drive into her until neither of us could remember our own names.
I was compromised.
The realization was a cold lead weight in my gut.
I wasn't coaching her anymore. I was possessive of her.
When she talked about Kevin... I wanted to burn the world down.
When she looked at me with those wide, trusting eyes... I wanted to keep her.
I pulled up the spreadsheet on my computer. The "Life Plan."
I stared at the columns. Draft. Bonus. Legacy. Debt.
I added a new row at the bottom.
Belinda.
I stared at the cursor blinking next to her name.
I should delete it. I should delete her. I should fire her tomorrow and go back to the cold, safe silence of my life.
Instead, under the column marked Projected Outcome, I typed one word.
Inevitable.
I closed the laptop.
I was going to hell. But at least I knew who I wanted to take with me.