Chapter 1 #2
"Is this what you planned to wear to the client meeting?"
I glance down at my dress. "I thought it was professional."
His mouth tightens slightly. "Did you?"
I swallow. "Yes."
He leans back, studying me with such unwavering intensity that I suddenly become conscious of every inch of myself—the fitted waist, the hem resting above my knees, the neckline I had spent far too long deciding whether it was daring or simply flattering.
I know what he is seeing because I've been hoping he would see it all morning, and now that I have his full attention, I don't know what to do with myself.
"Virelle."
"Yes?"
"Look at me."
I lift my eyes to his.
"Do you honestly expect me to believe you had no idea that dress would attract attention?"
My fingers tighten around the folder. "I didn't think it was that noticeable."
His gaze holds mine. "I noticed."
Two simple words, spoken in that low, controlled voice, and suddenly I can't remember why I wanted him to notice in the first place. My heart beats harder, my cheeks burn, and I hate how easily he can make me feel exposed without moving an inch closer to me.
My pussy aches with a desperate need that has no name.
I feel the wetness between my thighs, but there’s nothing I can do to ease the pain in my cunt.
Whenever I’m with Lucan, it feels so sexually dark and intense, and all I want to do is drown in his dominant masculinity, let him take control and fuck me as he pleases.
But of course, he has never said he wants me sexually.
"I wasn't trying to be inappropriate," I say softly.
"I didn't say you were."
"Then why are you upset?"
"I'm not upset."
I give him a small, uncertain look.
His expression darkens. "I'm telling you that you're distracting."
The admission steals my breath. "For you?"
The question slips out before I can stop it.
His eyes sharpen. "I want you to finish the report I sent to you by tonight."
I look up. "Tonight?"
"You're staying late. I’ll be here past midnight, so finish the report and hand it to me before you leave."
There's no question in his voice. My body responds to the command before my mind does, a strange little flutter moving through me as I realize that he's decided where I will be and what I will be doing for the rest of the day.
I should protest.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Yes, Mr. Wrenford."
His gaze stays on me. Something changes in his expression. It's barely there, but I see it. Satisfaction.
And suddenly the room feels much smaller. I don't know what we're doing to each other yet.
I only know that I like the way he tells me what to do.
And judging by the way he's looking at me, I think Lucan Wrenford is beginning to realize that he likes it too.
“I sent you the report,” I say at midnight, standing in Lucan’s office. “Can I leave?”
I glance toward the window, my heart beating nervously. The weather has deteriorated while we've been working. Rain lashes the glass in thick, slanted sheets, and the trees outside are bending violently beneath the wind.
Earlier, there were warnings about the storm, and most of the staff left long before sunset.
Lucan had ignored every one of them. Nothing seems capable of convincing this man that work can wait.
He is an obsessive workaholic, the kind of man who would probably continue reading a quarterly report during the apocalypse if someone left one on his desk.
Lucan glances at his screen, opens the attachment, and skims the first few pages with the same ruthless efficiency he applies to everything.
Even at nearly midnight, he looks infuriatingly composed in his dark suit, his tie still perfectly knotted, his sleeves buttoned at the wrist.
I've been sitting across from him for hours, watching the city outside turn black beneath the approaching storm, and somehow he still looks as though he could walk into a boardroom and terrify an entire room of executives without breaking a sweat.
"Good," he says, nodding. "We can go."
I almost laugh. We can go. As though we've simply finished an ordinary workday instead of staying until midnight while everyone else escaped hours ago.
I follow him out of the office, glancing toward the windows as we walk.
Lucan is so tall that I have to tilt my head slightly to look at him when we're walking together. His broad shoulders fill out his suit perfectly, his dark hair is still neat despite the long day, and the hard lines of his face somehow become more attractive when he's tired.
I have spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at that face from across conference rooms. The severe mouth. The strong jaw. The gray eyes that always seem to find me even when I'm trying very hard not to look at him.
He presses the elevator button. I stand beside him, suddenly conscious of how close we are.
When the doors open, we step inside. The elevator begins its descent.
Then everything jerks. A violent shudder throws me sideways.
I barely have time to gasp before I'm against Lucan, my hands catching against the front of his suit. His arms come around me instinctively, one hand firm at my waist while the other braces against the elevator wall.
For several seconds, neither of us moves.
My cheek is against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat. Or maybe it's mine.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is low above me.
I shake my head. "No."
His arm remains around my waist.
He doesn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he notices and simply doesn't move it.
Being held against him feels so strangely right that my mind immediately betrays me with images I have no business imagining.
I imagine those strong fingers of his squeezing my breasts through my dress, unzipping and taking off my restrictive clothing so he can drag his rough fingers over my puckered nipples that are begging for his attention.
I close my eyes briefly.
This is dangerous.
The elevator gives another small shudder, and Lucan's arm tightens around me.
"Stay still."
I nod.
He looks toward the control panel.
"We've stopped."
"I noticed."
His mouth almost curves. Almost.
He pulls out his phone and makes a call. His voice remains clipped as he explains what happened, and I watch him listen to the response. His expression changes only slightly, but I can tell he doesn't like what he's hearing.
When he hangs up, I look at him.
"How long?"
"They can't get here immediately because of the storm."
"How long is immediately?"
"Several hours."
I stare at him. He looks completely unimpressed by the situation. Outside, thunder rolls somewhere in the distance.
"Are you scared?" he asks.
"No."
His eyebrow lifts. "You're shaking."
"I'm not."
"You are."
I look down at myself, then back at him. "Are you scared?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"No."
"You're lying."