The Trouble with Love (Sex, Love & Stiletto 4)

“Thank you,” she said.

He shook his head as he picked up her story and added it to a pile on the corner of his desk. “You have nothing to thank me for. If anything, you should be berating me for assigning you the story in the first place. My motives were . . .”

“Personal?” she asked, when he broke off.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Yes. My motives were personal, and I’m sorry. I should have done more to separate my work goals from my personal curiosity. But, in better news . . . it shouldn’t be an issue much longer. I got an email from Camille this morning. She’s returning next week.”

“Next week?” Emma squeaked. She thought she had another month to finalize her apartment plans.

“Don’t worry; she’s not going to kick you out. She specifically said she intends to stay with whatever her boyfriend’s name is when she gets back. You won’t have to be roomies.”

Thank goodness. Emma knew full well that she needed to get her life together and find a place of her own, but she wasn’t sure what she wanted. From a home, or . . . anything.

“So they didn’t break up?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Didn’t sound like it. Said she was having a great time, but missed work.”

“That does sound like Camille,” Emma mused. “Stiletto’s her life. I don’t know how she’s lasted this long away from it.”

“Well,” he said, standing. “For some people there is no separation between professional and personal. They don’t want it that way.”

“I suppose,” she said, watching him warily as he came around the desk toward her.

He stopped several inches away from where she sat, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms as he looked down at her. From the way his eyes heated, she knew that he had a very, very good view down her barely buttoned shirt.

“Emma.”

Her throat was dry. “Yeah?”

“I’m trying really hard to remember that I’m technically your boss.”

“But . . .” she prompted.

He stared at her. “But I really want to bend you over this desk, pull up your skirt, and fuck you.”

The pit of Emma’s stomach dropped out and she felt an immediate empty ache between her legs.

“Cassidy,” she breathed. “We can’t.”

“I know.”

“This morning, we agreed, that was the last time,” she continued, the explanation sounding like a horribly pathetic excuse considering that the sexual energy in the room was rapidly nearing its boiling point. “We can’t do this . . . casual sex thing. Not with our past.”

Not without one or both of us getting hurt.

“I know,” he said again, uncrossing his arms and putting his palms on either side of his hips on the desk.

Emma ran her palms over the fabric of her gray skirt, needing to do something with them other than reaching for him. And if his white knuckles were any indication, he was facing a similar struggle.

She wanted him. They wanted each other.

And it was stupid and reckless and probably maybe a little bit forbidden, which made it all the more tempting.

Emma closed her eyes. “If Ca

mille’s back next Monday, you’re only my boss—”

“For five more days,” he said slowly. “And if I weren’t to read your story, if I left it for Camille to edit, then I’d only be your boss on a technicality, and not in a way that could represent a conflict of interest.”