She made it to Friday before the regret curdled into something she couldn't ignore.
The week had been a slow, deliberate torture — four days of sitting three feet from Adrian Cole, taking his calls, organizing his calendar, while her body remembered everything.
Every time he spoke, she heard his voice against her ear. Every time he walked past her desk, she smelled cedar, oud and her own arousal. Every time he looked at her, she felt his hands on her hips, his c**k buried deep inside her, the way he'd pinned her down and refused to let her leave.
And yet he said nothing. No mention. No acknowledgment. The professional mask back in place, perfect and impenetrable, as if he hadn't spent the night inside her and spent the morning f*****g her while she clawed at his shoulders.
By Thursday
