Page 55 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"More concerned about Keith inspiring copycats." I gesture toward the grand staircase. "After you."

The walk to her third-floor room feels both eternal and too short. Mac's heels click softly on the hardwood, the sound mixing with the crackle of radiators and the distant howl of wind. Outside the windows, snow falls in thick curtains, turning the mountain night into something out of a snow globe.

"Well," she stops at her door, key in hand, "this has been an interesting first evening of strategic planning."

"Is that what we're calling Keith's alpine revolution attempt?"

"I'm calling it material for my next... never mind." She catches herself, and something passes across her face – guilt? Regret?

"Mac."

She looks up at me, and suddenly the hallway feels very small. The cashmere of her sweater catches the low light, making her look softer than her usual corporate armor allows. A curl has escaped her updo, brushing her neck in a way that makes my fingers itch to?—

"Alex." Her voice is barely a whisper. "We shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" I step closer, giving her plenty of time to retreat. She doesn't. "Discuss strategic planning in hallways?"

"You know what I mean." But she doesn't step back. If anything, she sways slightly forward. "This is..."

“Against employee policy.”

“Amongst others.”

"Because of the blog?"

Her eyes widen slightly. "What?"

"We both know you're—" I start, then stop, because I suddenly realize I don't care. Don't care if she's the anonymous blogger, don't care about corporate politics or public relations or anything except how right this feels.

"I'm what?" She tilts her face up, challenge in her eyes even as she draws closer.

Instead of answering, I kiss her.

For a moment, she freezes, and I think I've miscalculated everything. Then her hands curl into my shirt, and she's kissing me back with an intensity that makes me forget about bloggers and businesses and everything except this.

The key to her room drops with a dull thud—forgotten as I back her against her door, one hand cradling her head while the other finds her waist. She tastes like whiskey and possibility, and the small sound she makes when I deepen the kiss nearly undoes me completely.

"Wait," she breaks away, breathing hard. "We can't?—"

"We can." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, watching her eyes flutter. "Unless you don't want?—"

She cuts me off with another kiss, this one harder, almost desperate. Like she's trying to convince herself as much as me.

“We’re crossing all the lines,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“Only the ones that don’t matter anymore.” I trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse race. “Unless I’m crossing a line you don’t want…”

"No." Her hands clench in my shirt. "Yes. Maybe. I?—"

She leans against the door, her breath hitching slightly as I step closer, my eyes locked onto hers.

"Mac," I murmur, my voice low and husky, "you drive me crazy, you know that?"

She swallows hard, her gaze never leaving mine. "Alex, I’m not sure that we?—“

"Shh," I whisper, my fingers tracing the line of her jaw. "Let me take care of you tonight."

I lean in, my lips brushing against hers softly, then more insistently. She melts into the kiss, her hands reaching up to tangle in my hair, and I dive right into it, taking her with me, letting my tongue explore her mouth as my hands roam her body, feeling every curve through her cashmere sweater.

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