Off Limits

I can’t help but wonder if my cheeks are burning after the delicious thoughts that have travelled along with me.

Why did he stop? What happened to push him away from me?

I wanted everything. I wanted him. That technically makes me a complete idiot, right? Because I know he’s a total man-whore, and I know it would make my job pretty untenable to be fucking Jack, but in that moment none of it had mattered.

Which only goes to show that I need to be even more on my guard with him.

I am not going to let this get out of hand. There are plenty of hot guys out there. Plenty of men who can kiss you like you’re their dying breath.

Except I don’t think that’s necessarily true...

I’ve dated a fair few guys—most of them smart, handsome, powerful. I have a thing for that sort of man, I suppose. But none of them has done this to me. My mind is still mushy. I only have to close my eyes and remember the way it felt to have his body pressed hard to mine, almost holding me up with the weight of his strength, and I’

m having palpitations and flushing to the roots of my hair.

The lift whooshes up and reminds me of the glass elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It seems to be building up speed as we get nearer the top, and my tummy lurches as I imagine it bursting through the ceiling and flying into outer space.

It doesn’t.

Is it wrong that I’m just a teeny bit disappointed? I always thought that looked to be so much fun—the way that elevator flew all over London’s skyline.

The offices are buzzing, and it’s so strange to be back in this kind of environment that I freeze for a moment, simply soaking in the noises. Anywhere else I’ve worked, it’s been like this. I was like a headless chicken most days, surrounded by people who were every bit as harried and exhausted as I was. Exhaustion used to bleed into energy, so that I fed off a state of perpetual tiredness.

Someone rushes past, arms full of papers, and that reminds me that I need to do something with the files I’m carrying. I begin moving quickly down the carpeted corridor, eyes straight ahead lest I be called upon to answer a query. The problem with being Jack’s right-hand woman is that people see me as a substitute for him. I cannot visit this office without being waylaid with a dozen queries at least. Only I don’t feel like talking to anyone at this point in time.

The conference room is at the end of the corridor. Two enormous timber doors provide entry to it. I shoulder my way in, making straight for the table, and I’ve just dropped the files down onto its glass top when I realise I’m not alone.

There’s a movement to my right. No, a shadow more than a movement. But it captures my eye and I turn around slowly, careful to keep my expression neutral, because deep down I know who it is.

‘You’re here already,’ I murmur, pleased with how unaffected I sound.

Especially when he’s wearing his charcoal Armani suit with a crisp white shirt. And a dark grey tie. Oh, God, help me. I turn around, on the pretext of straightening the documents, but I feel the moment he starts to walk towards me and sweep my eyes shut.

My heart is pounding and my blood is gushing. What happened to pretending not to be affected by him? To keeping him at a distance?

‘I’d say it’s quicker to get here from City Airport than it is from my place.’

His voice is barely above a growl. It’s primal and animalistic and a slick of heat runs through me.

‘How was Tokyo?’ I skirt around the table, laying information packs down as I go, checking each space has a glass of water.

He shrugs. ‘Fine. And here?’

But his eyes are dropping. He’s looking at my breasts as though he wants to take them into his mouth. As though he’s remembering the way it felt to suck my nipple through the fabric of my shirt.

I moan, low and soft, so soft I don’t think he catches it, but his lips flicker and I am in serious trouble. They are beautiful lips. Not full, but rather sculpted as if from stone. His face is peppered with stubble, as though he hasn’t shaved the whole time he’s been away.

I turn away, my breath uneven. I don’t know what to do.

‘As usual,’ I say, no longer dispassionate, no longer smooth. My voice is jerky and unnatural.

I want to kiss him.

I need to kiss him.

I realise it in an instant and I turn around, back towards him. Our eyes meet and I feel a pulse of heat that I know I’m not imagining. It’s a need so deep, so desperate, that I instantly imagine us fucking on the glass-topped conference table.

Is he thinking the same thing?