Page 21 of The Boss
His head turned. She sensed his gaze before she saw it, dragging over her mouth, her throat, the hammering pulse in the hollow there. The air between them thickened and her breath stuttered.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he said softly.
Her lips parted. Her body betrayed her, leaning closer. “Should I be?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his hand moved, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist where it rested on the desk. His thumb stroked once. Twice. Arhythm so intentional it stole the air from her lungs. The Brand in her palm flared, pulsing heat through her veins. Her nipples tightened against the semi-transparent silk shirt, aching. Heat pooled in her belly, wetness slick between her legs. She clenched her knees together, frantic for friction, and a tremor rolled throughher.
For one suspended second, she thought he’d close the distance, drag her against his mouth. She wanted him to. Needed him to. Her lips parted in invitation.
But he didn’t. He pulled back, snapping the thread, turning to the monitor as though nothing had happened. Control slammed down over him like iron bars. She gasped, furious at the loss, hating how much she craved his touch again.
They sparred, voices sharp in the heavyair.
“Maybe the funeral was real,” Mariah suggested quietly, dragging her damp hair back from her face. “Maybe they stayed away to avoid suspicion—so that if a bomb went off, their absence would make them look innocent rather than complicit.”
“Or to avoid dying in the blast they arranged themselves,” he countered coldly. “Self-preservation isn’t innocence.”
She shook her head. “Absence doesn’t equal guilt. If I wanted to throw suspicion, I’d stay away too.”
His mouth curved, not a smile. Something darker. “You think like me.”
The words twisted hot in her chest. They shouldn’t have thrilled her. But they did. She turned back to the screen, pulse racing.
Then came the river.
“You mentioned something earlier,” Leif said quietly. “The river.”
Her stomach dropped. She’d prayed he’d let it go. “It was nothing.”
He came around the desk, bracing a hand on the wood beside her hip, his body crowding hers without touching. His scent wrapped around her, clean soap, smoke, cedar, and male heat. Her lungs constricted.
“Don’t lie to me. You said to start with the Trinity River if I decide to burn the city to find you again. That fire follows current. Now, what the fuck did you mean?”
She stiffened. “You should already know what goes on there without asking me. The Trinity is where they move cargo that can’t be seen—arms, fuel, sometimes bodies. It’s a corridor forsmuggling and for corruption and violence and weapons, or fire, Leif. That’s why I said fire follows current.”
His eyes locked on hers. “Whose territory?”
Mariah shook her head, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Where?”
Her voice barely worked. “If I had to guess? Trinity Crossings. Too many blind spots. Too few cameras. Easy to remain anonymous.”
The silence burned. His gaze dragged down her face, lingering at her mouth before climbing back to her eyes. “You ration what you tell me.”
Her chin lifted. “So do you.”
“That’s because it keeps you alive.”
“Maybe I ration to keep you alive, too.”
The heat coiled tighter, suffocating. His thumb brushed her wrist again, slow, claiming, dragging over the jump of her pulse. Her thighs trembled, pressed hard together. The ache between them sharpened, liquid and insistent.
He leaned closer, his mouth hovering a breath from hers. His eyes burned, restraint fraying, control cracking. His breath ghosted over her lips, hot and rough. Every nerve screamed for him to close the distance, to devour her, totake.
She tilted, lips parting—
For the second time, he drew back, leaving the air between them stretched thin and intense.
