Page 74

“You’re so bad,” I inform him, even as I lean toward him.
“You like it.” His fingers trace the line of my jaw, sending shivers down my spine.
“I do like it,” I agree, before closing the distance between us.
The kiss begins gently, but quickly intensifies as it always seems to between us, an underlying current of attraction refuses to be tamed. His hand slips down to my waist, tugging me from my chair onto his lap with an ease that still thrills me.
“Forty minutes isn’t much time,” I murmur against his lips as his hands find their way under my t-shirt.
“I can work with forty minutes,” he assures me, skillful fingers already trace the outline of my bra.
“Is that a challenge, Mr. Cole?” I ask, deliberately grinding against him.
His sharp intake of breath is satisfying. “If you’d like it to be, Dr. Bennett.”
I stand, pulling him toward my bedroom. “I think we should test those bedroom skills, right now.”
“Always happy to practice,” he replies, following eagerly.
We barely make it through the doorway before clothes drop to the floor—my t-shirt, his button-down, both of us impatient. When we reach the bed, I push him down, straddling his hips.
“This is my bedroom,” I remind him, pinning his wrists above his head. “I get to be in charge.”
The flash of heat in his eyes confirms he’s as affected by my tone as I’d hoped. “Whatever you say, Doctor.”
Later, with seven minutes remaining before I need to get dressed and fix my hair for my first interview, I lie sprawled across his chest, both of us catching our breath.
“I think you pass the skills test,” I murmur against his skin. “And you made every minute work.”
His laughter rumbles beneath my ear. “Oh, I pass do I?”
“Don’t let it inflate your ego,” I say, pressing a kiss to his chest before reluctantly sitting up. “I need to shower before my interview.”
“Can I help with that?” he offers, though he makes no move to rise, looking thoroughly satisfied and smug.
“Absolutely not. Your help would turn a two-minute shower into an hour.” I grab my robe from the bedpost, wrapping it around myself. “Besides, don’t you have actual CEO work today? Board reactions to manage? PR strategies to approve?”
“All being handled,” he assures me, sitting up and reaching for his discarded boxer briefs. “But yes, I should check in with Alex. She’s probably wondering why I’m not responding to her ten-thousand updates.”
I pause in the bathroom doorway, struck by a sudden thought. “Does Alex know where you are right now?”
“She knows I’m not in the office,” he hedges.
“But does she know you’rewithme? At my apartment? In my bed?”
His slight hesitation answers before he does. “Let’s say she has made certain logical deductions but hasn’t asked for confirmation.”
“Ethan.” I cross my arms, trying to look stern despite my disheveled state. “Your PR director doesn’t officially know about us? Even though we’re considering a joint interview that will announce our relationship?”
“Alex is...,” he says carefully.
“Fucking terrifying, she will want to kill me.”
“She has made several pointed comments about my god mood and mysterious schedule changes. But no, we haven’t had a formal discussion about our relationship status. I did not think it was at the tell Alex point yet.”
“That seems like an oversight for someone like you,” I say.
“Maybe,” he acknowledges. “Or a deliberate choice to keep some privacy in an otherwise public life.”