Page 104 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

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SHAE

Storm, we can’t see each other romantically. We need to just focus on finishing the year and keep things platonic.

I’ve said the words probably a thousand times since waking up.

They’re the words I should say when he opens his apartment door any minute now, but I know just like I know my name, I won’t state the vow when I see his face.

The fact is, I’m tired.

Working at mPOWER has been especially stressful as well. We’re still trying to raise funds because DeAndria’s efforts have somehow fallen short this quarter.

I think it’s because she’s checked out, already mentally at her new job.

It feels like I’m trying to mop up the ocean some days.

So why won’t I stick to my convictions and end this? It’s because I’m really damn tired, and I simply don’t want to.

I just want to be. Is that too much to ask for?

Storm swings the door open, and I mentally slap myself to keep from choking out loud. His simple outfit, dark jeans and a thick, deep blue crewneck sweater, make him seem broad allover, as if he were solid muscle. At the collar, a peek of his white T-shirt, paired with a plain gold chain, becomes the most erotic outfit I think I’ve ever seen on a man.

I really need to get a grip.

“Come in,” Storm says, his voice activating my senses like an exposed nerve. He steps aside and I enter the foyer, ditching my hat and gloves and peeling off the multiple layers I wear to protect myself from the coming Chicago winter. Thanksgiving will be here in a little over a week, and Greg Dutra has already promised one of the coldest winters on record.

Thank god he sent a car for me.

Storm’s condo looks exactly how I’d pictured it would. It’s all sleek lines, minimalist chrome and glass, and the supple furniture looks like it’d stain at the slightest assault.

Storm closes the door, and the action makes the open concept space feel like a tomb, closed off from the outside world. And even though based on everything my brain knows, I should want to run, but my body—all taken up by Storm’s intoxicating scent and presence—has me wanting to do no such thing.

“Thanks for coming here, Shae,” Storm says, his voice subdued. I look over my shoulder at him and tilt my chin down in acknowledgment. Heading further into his space, I make a beeline for the kitchen island.

Why am I running? It’s because the look in Storm’s eyes holds so much danger—hell, something darker—that I have to give us physical space.

I distract myself by pulling out the report draft, journal article I’d printed earlier, and my spiral notebook.

“Thank you for getting the report together. I’ve added some notes to the shared file as comments, but I wanted to run this article past you as a potential edit to the?—”

“Have you eaten yet, Shae?”

Storm’s voice is closer than I expect, so I jump, spinning around and bracing my hands on the cool white countertops behind me.

“What?” I say dumbly.

Storm stands about three feet away from me, his hands in his jeans pockets. When he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, he pulls the denim down a few inches, exposing the top band of his Calvin Klein boxers and a lickable strip of toned flesh. My pussy clenches so hard it aches.

Fuck. This is not good.

“Maybe we should?—”

“Have. You. Eaten?” Storm asks, taking a slow, leisurely step toward me, into my space. Up close, I can almost count the flecks of gold streaking through his irises, and….

“Did you know you have freckles?” I blurt out.

Storm’s eyebrows lift before settling back into an amused expression. He lifts a hand from his pocket, straightening his back and—fucking unfortunately—causing his clothes to return to their normal positions.

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