Page 33 of Babies for the Big Shot
I stare at her, my pulse still hammering hard enough to leave me breathless.
That’sit?
Thermostat complaints?
I’m sitting here, skin burning, chest aching with the force of everything I didn’t say, and she’s talking to me about air conditioning.
I nod once, tightly. “Understood.”
She beams at me, oblivious to the violence of the moment she interrupted. “Great. I’ll let them know.”
She leaves before I can formulate a response capable of justifying her termination.
I remain seated for a moment, hands braced against the arms of my chair, the echo of Sara’s presence still thrumming in the air around me. My pulse remains erratic, my chest tight, every part of me vibrating with the knowledge that this won’t stay contained much longer.
This could have been about us.
It will be, eventually, if I continue down this path. If I keep pretending the ground beneath us is solid when it’s already fractured beyond repair.
I push back from my desk with more force than necessary, the chair wheels skidding against the floor. I stride out of my office and into the corridor, each step sharp with purpose.
Remaining in that room is impossible. Breathing the air she just vacatedfeelsdangerous.
I need out.
Now.
The second the doors close behind me, I press the button for the lobby and lean back against the cool metal wall. My eyes close, not in pursuit of peace or calm, because I know better thanto expect either. This is an act of escape. Temporary. Ineffective. A pause that changes nothing.
Because the moment I allow myself to exhale, she’s there.
Not in front of me, but embedded in every corner of my mind, every unguarded moment when I lose focus for even a fraction of a second.
I see her as clearly as if she were standing here beside me. I imagine her stepping into this elevator with that composed determination she wears like armor, her shoulder brushing mine, her scent enveloping the confined space until the air becomes heavy with everything we refuse to name.
I see the way her chest rises and falls, subtle but telling. The small, involuntary hitch in her breathing when I turn to look at her, holding her gaze until she looks away as if that will save her. The flush creeping up her neck in betrayal of everything she tries to project.
Because I know the truth now.
She wants this. She wants me. Just as relentlessly as I want her.
In my mind, the elevator jolts to a stop. Frozen between floors. The hum of electricity dimming into silence. The world falling away until nothing remains but her and me and the force of what lies between us.
I look at her. Really look. I take in every line of her body, every slight tremor in her posture, the way her fingers curl tighter around the strap of her bag as if to ground herself against what she already knows is coming.
When I step forward and brace my hands against the wall beside her head, effectively caging her in, she doesn’t flinch. Her gaze lifts to mine with something between challenge and surrender, her lips parting on a shallow breath.
She reaches for me, her hands gripping the lapels of my suit jacket, pulling me closer with a desperation she doesn’t attemptto disguise. There’s nothing tentative in the way she touches me. Nothing hesitant in the way her hips shift forward, aligning her body with mine as if she has already made her decision and is simply waiting for me to catch up.
In my mind, I kiss her without restraint or caution. There’s no measured pressure, no careful control. I claim her mouth with the kind of need that renders all other considerations irrelevant. Her lips part instantly, a broken sound slipping from her throat into mine, and the taste of her nearly buckles my knees.
The small, desperate noises she makes reverberate down my spine until every nerve in my body is flayed open. My grip shifts to her hips, hard enough to elicit another gasp from her parted lips. I lift her easily, bracing her against the elevator wall, feeling the tremor in her legs as she wraps them around my waist without hesitation or modesty.
Her head falls back against the metal panel, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. I drag my mouth down to that vulnerable skin, tasting the salt and heat of her, feeling her pulse flutter wildly beneath my tongue. When I bite down, just enough to make her flinch, a low, broken curse spills from her lips and her fingers dig into my shoulders as though she needs an anchor to survive the force of what is happening to her.
She whispers my name, hoarse and unsteady. “Nick…”
The way she says it unravels something at my core I thought long dead.
