Page 15 of Jealous Boss

He stands there in his usual dark suit, somehow even more dangerous with that coffee mug in one hand and a hint of very real exhaustion on his face.

But when his eyes scan over me—bare shoulders, still-damp skin—I swear the air gets heavy and deep enough to need a snorkel to swim through.

“I made breakfast,” he says, voice gravelly like he’s still waking up. Or maybe like he didn’t sleep at all. “Come upstairs. Eat.”

“You’re feeding me again?” I ask, lifting my brows.

He shrugs. “You clearly can’t be trusted not to eat ice cream for breakfast too, since I know you don’t have anything in there.”

I smirk, inch the door open a little more. “That’s true.”

We both go quiet for a beat.

And then—like a weight between us—last night slides into the space. The food. The low lighting. The heat behind his gaze when he asked me if this was all some sort of honey trap.

The way he looked like he might kiss me when I tumbled into nervous French. Or might leave the country to stop himself.

And that line. “I’m old enough to be your father.”

He’d said it like it was a warning. Like it should’ve turned me cold.

Instead, it had done something... else.

Something he didn’t know made me reach beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts repeatedly when I was in boarding school.

Something that still makes me touch that too-hot place between my thighs whenever I think of it.

I’d looked him right in the eye and said that awful, awfulhotthing.

And then I—oh God, I shut the door in his face.

Mortifying.

I’d thought he’d be furious with me for that insult. Except… he’s back.

Looking at me like I’m made of matches and he’s half a second from striking.

He lifts the mug to his lips, but his eyes don’t leave mine—even though I sense he’s aware of every inch of my body, just as conscious as I am of it. “How long do you need? Ten minutes?”

“Cinq,” I say, barely above a whisper.

His lips twitch. “You’re sure that’s enough time to get dressed like a respectable employee and not an underdressed little?—”

“Monsieur!”I gasp, scandalized, though heat curls under my skin and gathers between my thighs. “You didn’t just?—”

He smirks, and my breath catches at the heart-stopping hotness of him. I mourn when he finally turns away. “Five minutes, Pia. Or I’m coming back down to get you, towel or not.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I stand there in the living room with my heart banging against my ribs like it’s trying to get out.

Mon Dieu.

What is happening?

He’s not touching me. He hasn’t kissed me. But it feels like something irreversible has already been set in motion.

Like we’re both standing at the edge of something we’re not supposed to want—but do.

And now I have four and a half minutes left to get dressed and not look like the girl who absolutely, maybe, definitely wants to kiss her boss before breakfast.

---