Aria’s POV
The private jet had been torture in the best way.
Ethan’s hand never leaving mine, his thumb tracing slow, hoy circles over my knuckles every time I fidgeted. Each stroke felt like a promise, a reminder of the bathroom this morning: the way his eyes had devoured me, the way my body had wept for him under nothing but his gaze.
He knew I hadn’t finished the PowerPoint. Thanks to my fast thinking, I was able to get it done on the way. He knew, and the dark, knowing glint in his eyes every time they met mine told me he was enjoying my quiet panic far too much.
Now, in the glass-walled boardroom on the 52nd floor, that panic was a living thing clawing at my throat.
The room was a like battlefield. Executives lined the luxurious table like soldiers, laptops open, eyes predatory.
