Joelle’s pulse hammered in her throat. She knew she was playing with fire. This man could ruin her career with one phone call. But the way he was staring at her mouth again, the way his c**k jerked once as if reaching for her, made her thighs press together against the sudden ache.
She licked her lips once more—slowly this time—and watched his eyes darken to charcoal.
“Mr. Sinclair…” she whispered.
“Ethan,” he corrected, voice dropping an octave. He took another step, close enough now that the wet tip of his c**k nearly brushed the front of her uniform. “I think we’re past formalities, don’t you?”
Joelle’s breath hitched. The air between them crackled. One of his hands rose, hovering near her waist as if waiting for permission, the other still loose at his side. She could feel the warm
