Three weeks of torture. Vera had calculated every variable — the commute time, the coffee preferences, the exact shade of lipstick that made his eyes darken when she spoke.
She'd learned his rhythms: the 7:15 AM arrival, the precise way he reviewed documents, the muscle in his jaw that twitched when he was restraining himself.
She'd watched him watch her. In meetings, his gaze tracked her movements with predatory focus.
In elevators, his body crowded hers until she felt his heat against her spine. In his office, door closed, he'd dictated letters in a voice that dropped an octave when she crossed her legs.
But he hadn't touched her. Not since that night in the hallway, the door cracked, his hand moving inside his trousers while their eyes locked through the gap.
Today, that changed.
