Chapter 9
Samuel
Samuel crashed through the revolving glass doors of the Voss she wouldn’t call Linda Covington after eight p.m. It was uncouth. She’d wait until a respectable hour this morning.
But the knowledge did nothing to calm the frantic, nauseating loop in his head.
He’d spent the dark hours strung between exhaustion and a buzzing, anxious alertness, finally plummeting into a shallow, nightmare-riddled sleep just as the sky began to lighten.
Which meant he’d woken to his alarm already silenced, an hour lost. The ensuing scramble had been a blur of poorly knotted tie, forgotten notes, and a sprint to the subway that left his lungs burning.
And now, here he was, hurtling across the lobby, the hands of the clock above reception seeming to mock him with their progress.
He was not just late; he was catastrophically, unforgivably late. The pristine record he’d maintained since his first day of kindergarten, through parochial school’s draconian tardiness policies, through university lectures, through every internship and this very job, was shattered.
“Wait!”
The plea was ripped from his throat as he skidded to a halt before a closing elevator door, the polished steel panels gliding together just as he reached them. He slumped, hands braced on his knees, sucking in ragged gulps of air. A wave of dizzying frustration and self-loathing washed over him.
Of course.
Of course the universe would align to emphasize his failure.
Suddenly, a hand shot into the narrowing gap between the doors. Long fingers, clean, blunt nails, a sliver of crisp white cuff and a charcoal wool sleeve. The sensors registered the obstruction and the doors sighed back open.
Samuel straightened, a gasp of relief on his lips, a grateful, automatic smile beginning to form. “Thank you, I…”
The words died.
The smile froze, a brittle, pathetic thing on his face.
Standing in the center of the elevator car, alone, was Gael Wise.
His boss.
He stood there, impeccably composed, his sharp gaze already taking in Samuel’s disheveled state; the heaving chest, the slightly crooked tie, the undisguised panic in his eyes.
Samuel’s mind went blank, white noise filling his ears.
The frantic drum of his heart seemed to stop altogether, leaving a hollow, airless vacuum in his chest. The elevator, with its muted lighting and reflective walls, suddenly felt like the smallest room in the world.
Fuck.
The word was the only coherent thought in the white-noise static filling his head. Seconds ticked by. His hands hung useless, trembling at his sides. His mind was a blank, wiped clean by the sheer, catastrophic reality of being caught, by him, of all people, in this state of unraveling.
He knew, on some distant level of self-preservation, that he should move.
Stop gawking like a stunned animal and just get in the goddamn elevator.
But his body had mutinied. His muscles were locked, tendons pulled wire-tight.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t do anything but stare into Gael Wise’s dark, impenetrable eyes from six feet away.
“Get in.”
The voice was low, a vibration that seemed to bypass Samuel’s ears and travel straight down his spine.
His body obeyed before his mind could protest. He straightened, a jerky, mechanical motion that made his starched shirt collar dig into his damp neck, and took one stumbling step forward into the elevator. His eyes never left Gael’s. The doors slid shut behind him with a soft shush.
Beautiful.
The thought was a spark in the void. It felt insane, thinking such a thing about a man like Gael Wise. But in the flat, intimate light of the elevator, Samuel saw it.
The dark eyes weren’t just dark; they were deep, liquid obsidian. The severe arch of his brow, the unforgiving cut of his jaw, it was a harsh, exacting kind of beauty.
It terrified him. It captivated him.
A small, polite ping announced their ascent, the sound absurdly loud. Samuel flinched, his whole body jolting as if struck.
The spell broke. Reality crashed back in. He whirled around, turning his back to the man, a pathetic attempt to hide. His trembling hands flew to his tie, trying to straighten it. He raked fingers through his hair, feeling the chaotic strands beneath his slick palms.
“Mr. Wise. Good morning, Sir.”
The words scraped out, thin and reedy, barely a whisper.
He stared, unseeing, at his own pale, wide-eyed reflection in the bronze doors, a ghost haunting the edges of Gael’s tall, dark silhouette.
His breath hitched in his chest, a broken, stuttering rhythm.
His heart was a trapped bird beating itself to death against his ribs.
This was it. The ax would fall now. A cold query about his dedication. A slicing remark about professionalism. Dismissal.
On this morning of all mornings, it felt like the only possible, deserved end.
But it never came. Instead, silence reigned. It stretched, thicker and more agonizing than any lecture. Samuel’s gaze darted to the digital floor display. The numbers changed with a torturous slowness.
Was the elevator broken?
Was time itself stretching this moment of exquisite dread into an eternity?
The hysterical thought bubbled up, threatening to spill out as a wild, inappropriate giggle. He choked it down, swallowing against a dry throat.
Get it together. Get a grip.
He let out a tiny, shaky sigh.
Then, he felt it.
A shift. The air in the small space changed, growing denser, charged. A presence solidified behind him, close enough that Samuel felt the faint displacement of air against his back. His breath caught, cut off mid-inhale. His heart gave one hard, painful slam against his sternum.
The scent reached him first. Pine, crisp and clean, undercut by something darker, earthier; sandalwood or maybe vetiver. Gael’s cologne. In the office, it was a faint trace. Here, in this sealed box, it was overwhelming. It filled Samuel’s senses.
Then, warmth. A soft, damp heat bloomed against the shell of his right ear, followed by the faint, unmistakable sound of breath.
“You are late, Samuel.”
Samuel.
Spoken in that low, gravel-and-whiskey voice, so close it was a physical caress. The sound of it, in that mouth, in that tone, short-circuited something in Samuel’s brain.
His eyes slammed shut. A violent cascade of gooseflesh erupted across his skin, from his scalp down to the small of his back. His knees liquefied, a sudden, terrifying weakness that made him sway.
A pause. The warmth of the breath was the only thing in the universe.
“Do you think that is okay?”
The voice was closer. The heat of the exhalation slid from his ear to the ultrasensitive skin of his neck, just below his hairline.
Samuel felt his body lean back, a minuscule, involuntary surrender into that heat.
“No, Sir.” The words fell from his lips, a broken, breathless sigh. It wasn’t his voice. It was stripped raw, the voice of the boy in the shame chair, the boy who knew only how to obey.
He felt a new pressure. The firm bridge of a nose nudged into the side of his head, just above his temple, burying itself in his hair. A slow, deliberate inhale followed; a deep, savoring pull of air. The sound was obscenely loud in the stillness. He was being scented. Like prey.
“Oh…”
The soft, ruined sound escaped his mouth before he could cage it.
Lips, now. So close they brushed against the fine hairs at his crown with the barest whisper of friction. The words were a low murmur vibrated into his very skull. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Yes, Sir.”
And then, gone.
The heat, the pressure, the devastating proximity; it vanished as if it had been a fever dream. The elevator’s cheerful ping was a gunshot in the silence. Samuel jerked violently, his whole body spasming. The doors slid open to the hallway of the sixteenth floor.
Gael stepped past him. He didn’t glance back. His posture was relaxed, his steps measured as he walked away, turning the corner toward his office.
Samuel stood frozen, staring at the empty space where the man had been, long after the doors began to close. He stumbled back, his shoulder hitting the wall with a thump. His hand slapped blindly at the panel, hitting the ‘STOP’ button.
The elevator jarred to a halt with a sickening lurch. His legs gave out completely, and he slid down the wall, collapsing in a heap on the floor.
He sat there, slumped, lungs heaving for air that didn’t seem to reach them. He stared at the opposite wall, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. His skin was on fire, every nerve ending screaming where the breath had touched, where the nose had pressed, where the lips had… God.
What the fuck was that?
∞∞∞
The restaurant was charming, even Sam could admit to that.