Page 47 of Bratva's Intern

“No? It’s in the shared folder I made for you yesterday. Have you forgotten where it is?”

“Maybe?”

He grinned. “It feels good to be better than you at something for a change. Scooch over.”

I grunted but shifted back as he rounded the table. He tapped away on my computer, his fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. The soft clicks of the keys were drowned out by the pounding in my ears.

“It should be right here,” Wren muttered, scrolling through the folders. “I put it in the Maxim Morozov—Confidential—Reports section. You didn’t move it, did you?”

I lifted a brow. “No.” I hadn’t touched the thing.

He sighed, exasperated. “That’s what you said last time, but a couple of days ago, you accidentally saved the budget revisions to your personal folder, and I had to pretend not to see all those?—”

I narrowed my eyes. “All those what?”

Fuck. I hadn’t accidentally uploaded my curated folder of beautiful twinks to the work drive… had I? I kept pics in there, along with notes on the ones I’d already had and the new potentials I was eyeing to share my bed until I got bored with them.

He coughed. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Wren crouched, tilting the screen for a better look. The fresh scent of his cologne invaded my senses again. His lips pressed into a thin line as he continued his search, his focus solely on the screen. He exhaled sharply and dropped his ass onto my lap.

My muscles locked.

The warmth of him. The weight. The pressure of his body sinking against mine.

For a split second, neither of us moved.

Wren stiffened. His back straightened, hands hovering above the keyboard, and his breath hitched.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry!” His voice pitched higher than usual. “I-I didn’t realize?—”

“Sit.” My voice came out rougher than I’d intended.

He turned his head toward me, eyes wide, horrified. “No, no, I should—I’ll grab another chair. This is… inappropriate.”

I met his gaze, unflinching. “It’s only a big deal if you make it.”

Wren swallowed hard. I could see the war happening in his head. The part of him that wanted to be professional and the part that recognized how much of a hassle it would be to get another chair just to finish a two-minute task.

Slowly he turned back to the screen, shifting just enough to get comfortable. “Okay. Fine. But this is so I can find the file.”

Right.

I gritted my teeth as he refocused, fingers flying over the keyboard. The screen illuminated his face in a soft glow, casting shadows over the sharp angles of his jaw. I watched the delicate way his lashes fluttered when he concentrated, the furrow of his brows as he muttered under his breath.

He had freckles on his neck.

I hadn’t noticed them before. Faint, scattered like constellations beneath the collar of his button-down. My fingers twitched against the armrest of my chair, itching to trace them.

He shifted.

A subtle movement. A casual adjustment. The slightest roll of his hips.

And my cock noticed.

Heat punched through me, the slow, insidious burn of awareness creeping in.

Wren, utterly oblivious, continued those little, unconscious movements, completely engrossed in his task while he rocked on my cock. The gentle back-and-forth sway of his hips, the flex of his thighs against mine, the occasional press of his lower back into my stomach.

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