Chapter 40
Bea
I make him wait ten minutes and forty seconds, because I am petty and because I need those ten minutes and forty seconds to breathe like a normal human and not like… whatever I turn into around him.
Then I take my folder with the printed-out agreement that I typed up last night and knock once on his door before slipping inside.
He’s behind his desk, with sleeves pushed to his forearms as if he knows that I’m fond of them, and he’s ready to use them as leverage.
The bruises on his face are bright and proud. Proof that I saw him in that ring. A warning that my words hold power. And an invitation to kiss his boo-boos better. All of the above, and I can’t even tell which one excites me the most.
“Ms. Wrong,” he says, keeping his voice all smooth and professional. And that makes my knees consider unionizing; they just can’t survive on their own around him. The power is in numbers. “Have a seat.”
Naturally, I do not sit. I walk, deliberately, and place my folder on his desk.
“Per your subject line,” I say, “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting preliminary terms for review.”
One of his eyebrows ticks. “Preliminary terms?”
“Correct.” I open the folder and slide the top sheet toward him. It’s typed, single page, with narrow margins and neat bullets. He slowly pulls the paper to him and starts reading out loud.
“‘One. No gifts, stipends, or “policy-adjacent” support from King to Wrong. Two. No underground fights. Not even “sparring.” Not even “I tripped and my fist fell into a guy’s jaw.”’” Said jaw ticks a little.
“‘Three. No elevator emergency stops during business hours (after hours subject to board approval and calendar availability). No discussing “us” during staff meetings, budget reviews, or in front of Ezra unless legally compelled by subpoena. Four. No calling me “Ms. Wrong” in that voice you use when you’re about to commit HR crimes.’”
Naturally, the smug bastard’s voice drops to the same tone I warned him not to use, and he continues reading.
“‘Five. No surprises at family dinners. King texts Wrong before showing up.’” He pauses reading and lifts his eyes to me. “The last one is harsh.”
I don’t reply and wait for him to continue.
“‘Six. If we do this, we do actual communication and not whatever feral telepathy we’ve been relying on. Seven. Wrong retains veto power over any public appearance that puts her job in jeopardy. Eight. If either party says stop, the other stops. No arguments, no wounded pride, no emotional acrobatics.’”
I keep my expression neutral while the tips of my ears burn. I added a few amendments to the agreement this morning after the elevator incident.
Noah’s eyes flick up at me over the page. “You wrote a contract.”
“Preliminary terms,” I correct. “I’ve accounted for potential amendments.”
He scans downward as his mouth ticks. “‘Clause nine. No touching below the neckline in office spaces unless door is locked, blinds are closed, and both parties have confirmed no scheduled interruptions within a fifteen-minute window.’” He looks up, amused. “Fifteen?”
“It’s an average,” I say in a carefully neutral tone, like I didn’t spend six minutes staring at that number before typing it. “It can be revised based on the data.”
“The data,” he repeats, savoring the word like it’s a dessert he plans to eat with his hands like a savage.
“The data,” I confirm with a nod.
“Great.” He pushes away and heads toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I blink at him with confusion.
“We are going to gather some data.” With that, he turns the lock and pulls down the blinds on either side of the door.
Next, he walks up to his desk, carefully rounding me, and moves everything to the side with one big jerk of his arm.
“Plant your ass here, Beatrice,” he says, pointing at the desk.
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat; this is not how I planned for our negotiations to go.
“Beatrice.” His voice drops to a growl. “Desk. Now.”
Even with his voice low and growly, I don’t feel cornered. The thought doesn’t cross my mind even for a second. I am free to go if I want to. But do I?
“What sort of data are we collecting?” I squeak.
“Anything you’re willing to share.” His eyes slowly roam over my body. My mouth goes dry. My brain, unhelpfully, supplies a slideshow of every time I’ve fantasized about this desk and him and me and absolutely no paperwork.
“Data,” I repeat faintly. “Right.”
“Right.” His smile is pure trouble.
I lift a finger. “Clause nine has conditions.”
He stills, and his gaze slides down my body like a yes. “List them.”
“Door locked.” I tip my head toward it.
“Done.” He gestures at the bolt I already watched him throw.
“Blinds closed.”
“Handled.” He inclines his head toward the windows, all slatted shut.
“Fifteen-minute window, no interruptions.” I hold out my hand. “Phone.”
His brows rise. “You want me to surrender my phone to you?”
“You want data, don’t you? Not a call from Ezra about load-bearing walls while your mouth is engaged.”
There’s a flash of heat in his eyes so bright it steals the breath out of me. He reaches into his pocket, drops his phone into my palm, then, without breaking eye contact, he inches closer to me.
“Anything else?”
“How will we know it’s been fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll need less,” he announces, looking positively proud.
“Are you sure you should be proud of that?”
His low chuckle is the only response I get as he grabs my waist and places me in the middle of his desk, making me let out a tiny squeak I instantly try to cover with my hand.
“Say no, and you can still walk out that door.” His words are a humming warning.
I should say no. I should insist on a countersignature for my terms, a seven-business-day review period, thirteen new clauses addressing his alarming relationship with emergency stop buttons. Instead, I shake my head like an idiot.
“Timer started,” he says, and I swear I feel the seconds start beating against my skin.
He tries to push my thighs apart, but my skirt is so tight I can barely move. So instead, he tries to lift me up again, but I push him away and point a finger in his face.
“Addendum,” I say quickly. “No lifting. Your ribs are not invited to this experiment.”
A faint grin ghosts over his mouth. “Addendum accepted. For now.”
I slide up onto the edge of his desk and grab the hem of my skirt. His eyes zero in on my fingers as I start slowly pulling it up.
“Beatrice.” His voice is like gravel, scraping his throat. “Last chance to renegotiate.”
“Stop talking and don’t waste my precious minutes.” I hike the skirt past mid-thigh, and his eyes go so dark I forget how to breathe.
He steps in and braces his palms on either side of my hips, radiating heat like a thousand suns. “Shoes stay on,” he murmurs, breathy.
“I wasn’t—”
He drops to his knees.
Every neuron in my body shorts out. That suit, that mouth, on the floor in front of me like worship. The ridiculous power of it scrambles my spine and lands low in my belly, making it tight with anticipation.
“Bea,” he says, voice silky smooth at the hem of my skirt. “Say yes.”
“Yes. I already said yes.” It’s not dignified. I don’t care. “You don’t have much time left.”
“I don’t need much.”
He doesn’t rush. Of course he doesn’t. He kisses the inside of my knee, then follows the line of my stocking up.
A slow, deliberate press of the lips that turns my bones to warm clay.
His hands slide under my thighs, thumbs stroking the curve where skin meets fabric, not lifting, just anchoring me so I don’t float away.
The first drag of his mouth over my panties steals a sound from me I’ve never heard myself make. He does it again like he’s collecting data points, and then he hooks the edge of lace with his teeth.
“Is that allowed?” I manage.
“I’m invoking executive discretion,” he says against me, and tugs them aside as my heart slams into my throat.
The first lick is—God. Heat and pressure and that slow, sure confidence that says he’s not guessing.
He maps me with his tongue, methodical, attentive, and when he finds the spot, I arch so hard my heels scrape paper on the side of his desk.
He makes a pleased sound that vibrates through me, and I grip the edge of the desk like it’s the only solid thing left in the universe.
“Quiet,” I gasp, which is hysterical because I’m the one making noise now. I bite my lip, failing spectacularly.
He smiles against me. I feel it. Then he gets serious, flattening his tongue and sliding up, again and again, unhurried, building something tight and bright under my skin. He’s maddening about it, deliberate enough to make me whimper, generous enough to make me curse him under my breath.
“Noah,” I warn, which comes out as more plea than threat.
He answers by changing angle, sealing his mouth around me and sucking softly, then harder, then perfect.
My head tips back, a low, helpless sound escaping as the world narrows to the wet pull of his mouth and the precise flick of his tongue, learning me in real-time, adjusting when my legs tense or my breath stutters into a messy staccato.
My thighs start to shake. His hands slide down, firm and steady, pinning me gently to the desk. He keeps me open, keeps me right there, and I swear he’s timing my breath.
“Please,” I whisper, not sure what I’m begging for. Him to slow down. Him to never stop.
He doesn’t say anything. He just hums like I’m a difficult but rewarding problem set, and the sound goes straight up my spine.
I reach for his hair on instinct and catch myself, hovering—then give in, threading my fingers into the dark strands and holding, not pushing.
He makes a low noise that feels like approval.