Page 42 of Worth the Wait

"I've been working on a modified approach to international compliance," Jackson adds, his voice steady despite the deliberate way he's touching me. "It dovetails perfectly with Tarryn's approach."

His hand drops beneath the table, coming to rest briefly but unmistakably on my thigh. The weight of his palm burns through the thin fabric of my skirt, his fingers curling slightly into the soft flesh just above my knee. My mind goes completely blank, every thought evaporating in the heat of his touch.

"Tarryn?" Miguel prompts, staring at me expectantly.

I realize with horror that he's asked me something, and I have absolutely no idea what it was. My face flushes, professional embarrassment compounding the heat already coursing through me.

"I'm sorry," I manage, frantically trying to gather my scattered thoughts. "Could you repeat that?"

Jackson's hand withdraws, but the damage is done. Even as I force myself to focus on Miguel's question about implementation timelines, all I can feel is the phantom pressure of his touch, the deliberate way he'd claimed my attention.

The remainder of the meeting passes in a blur of hyperawareness—every shift in Jackson's position beside me, every accidental brush of his arm against mine as we review documents, the subtle scent of his cologne that makes concentration nearly impossible. By the time Miguel finally adjourns, I'm wound so tight I can barely breathe, torn between furious indignation at his unprofessional behavior and a desperate, shameful want that claws at my insides.

As everyone filters out of the conference room, I deliberately take my time gathering my materials, waiting until only Jackson remains.

"What the hell was that?" I hiss once we're alone, anger finally breaking through my professional veneer.

He looks at me with infuriating calm, one eyebrow raised slightly. "I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean." My voice drops lower, though we're alone in the glass-walled room. "The… touching. Under the table. While we're in a professional meeting."

"Did it bother you?" he asks, leaning against the conference table with casual confidence that makes my pulse quicken despite my anger.

"It was inappropriate," I insist, though even to my own ears the protest sounds weak, unconvincing.

"That's not what I asked." His voice drops, becoming that low rumble that seems to vibrate directly through my body. "Did it bother you, Tarryn?"

The way he says my name—soft, almost reverent, yet somehow possessive—makes heat bloom across my skin. I should lie, should maintain the professional boundaries that are crumbling between us, but something in his steady gaze makes deception impossible.

"I need to go," I say instead, sidestepping his question entirely as I gather the last of my files. "And I need you to be professional, Jackson. We're competing for the same position, for God's sake."

His mouth curves into a slight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm always professional, Counselor. But this thing between us isn't going away just because you refuse to acknowledge it."

I brush past him without responding, my entire body hyperaware of the minimal space between us as I escape into the hallway. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to break free, and the worst part is I'm not entirely sure if it's from anger or from being so goddamn turned on with no sign of relief in sight.

"Hold the elevator, please!"

I quicken my pace, recognizing Jackson's voice behind me. He's heading out for the day, his suit jacket draped over one arm, tie slightly loosened in a way that draws attention to the strong column of his throat. I should keep walking, should take the stairs instead, but my hand acts of its own accord, pressing the Door Open button before my brain can intervene.

He steps in with a grateful nod, his tall frame immediately making the elevator feel cramped despite its generous proportions. "Thanks. Heading out?"

"Obviously," I reply, internally wincing at the slight edge in my voice. I'd intended to use this moment to establish clear professional boundaries, to calmly explain why what happened in the conference room—both last night and today under the table—cannot happen again. I'd rehearsed a speech that was measured, rational, unassailable.

Instead, as the doors slide closed and we begin our descent, what comes out is entirely different.

I stand perfectly still in the elevator, hyperaware of Jackson beside me. We're alone for the first time since our heated argument in the conference room, the enclosed space suddenly feeling impossibly small. The air between us vibrates with unspoken words and barely restrained desire.

"I can't stop thinking about last night," I confess, the words escaping before I can catch them.

The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and vulnerable in a way I never allow myself to be. Jackson's eyes find mine in the mirrored wall, darkening visibly at my words.

"Neither can I," he admits, his voice rough with something that makes my skin tingle with awareness.

The elevator seems to move impossibly slow, each floor a small eternity as tension builds in the confined space. I catch a glimpse of my own reflection—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, lips slightly parted—a woman on the edge of surrender staring back at me.

The mechanical hum of the elevator seems to synchronize with my accelerated heartbeat, the rhythm growing more insistent with each passing second. Jackson's cologne fills the small space, wrapping around me like an intimate caress. I inhale deeply, the scent triggering memories of his body pressed against mine in the conference room, his hands in my hair, his mouth…

"This is dangerous," I whisper, my voice barely audible above the elevator's soft whirring.

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