Page 55

“I was,” he says again, lower now, gaze locked on mine, “until I realized I didn’t give a fuck. Because all I could think about was you.”

His words unfurl like smoke, wrapping me tight, sinking claws into my spine.

“I should be thinking like your boss,” he continues, softer now. Like his voice might shatter if he pushes too hard. “But I haven’t been for a long time.” He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “I don’t think I ever have.”

I don’t answer. Because I can’t. My body is full of contradictions—fight and fall, flee and fling myself into danger. My heart doesn’t know how to distinguish fear from want anymore.

Especially not with him. Not when he’s saying what I’ve only barely let myself think.

My lips part. No sound comes out. I lick them instead, suddenly aware of everything: the heat nestled low in my core, the stretch of silence between us, the too-neat seam running along the desk I’m now unconsciously leaning against, as if its sharp edge can hold me together better than my collapsing restraint.

Maybe it’s ridiculous, standing there as if I’m a nineteen-year-old, face flushed from too much whiskey and too little good judgment—but this isn’t a crush. It feels dangerous in a way that isn’t clean or one-dimensional. It’s heat and hunger. Fury and fear. A need I’ve never allowed myself to be selfish enough to feel.

My mouth parts—whether to speak or breathe, I don’t know. Something trembles inside me, a wire pulled too tight.

Malachi doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. But the space between us feels razor-thin. Like if I exhale too sharply, we’ll both fall into it.

I stare at him, throat burning, heat blooming low in my belly despite every reason to stay calm. I’ve made an entire life out of keeping myself contained. Professional. Steady. Never putting myself first. But nothing about him lets me stay that way.

And maybe, just for tonight, I don’t want to.

I press my palms flat against the edge of the desk behind me, grounding myself. “This isn’t smart,” I say quietly, like maybe he’ll agree and end this before we go any further.

“Probably not,” he agrees, and my stomach sinks before launching into my throat when he continues. “But I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

Malachi’s breathing changes. Deepens. Not noisy, but noticeable. His whole body slows down as if time’s thickened between us. Something primal blossoms in the way his gaze drops to my mouth. The tempo in my chest doubles. My breasts feel tight against the thin fabric of my dress, nipples pressing up like they’re reading Morse code through the air.

“Tell me,” he breathes.

“What?”

He steps in. Close enough that the heat of him grazes my skin. His hands don’t touch me, but it’s worse. The restraint is its own kind of caress.

“Tell me what you want.” His voice is wrecked silk. “Tell me I can have you.”

My heart slams out of rhythm. But he doesn’t kiss me. Of course not.

He waits for me.

I look up at him—this man who’s always been more wolf than sheepdog, more storm than shelter—and God help me, I know. I know what I want.

I reach up, hand trembling, and tug him forward by the lapels of his jacket.

And then I kiss him.

The air between us snaps.

It’s desperate. Dangerous. Our mouths collide in a tangle of teeth and tongue and pent-up ache. I’m shaking with adrenaline and hunger and the fierce clench of something I’ve tried to starve in myself for too long. When he groans into my mouth—sharp and ragged and real—I bite his bottom lip like an apology and grip his coat as if he might disappear.

His hands dive into my hair, yanking me back so he can devour my neck with more reverence than worship. Heat rushes through me like a fever. I want him to touch every ruined, bruised part of me and make it something else. I want him to sink those fangs of his into my flesh. I want him to consume me.

One hand palms my ass, the other sliding under the fabric of my thigh—pulling me up. His strength isn’t human, God, I know that, but it doesn’t stop me from gasping when he lifts me like I weigh nothing at all, planting me on the edge of the desk. The shock of cold seeps through my skin from the polished wood, but my thighs flutter open, hungry, bare inches from pulling him in.

He mutters something hard and low in a language I don’t recognize. His lips find mine again, but it’s different this time. Possessive. Slow. Like he wants to savor this one. Like it’s a memory in the making.

Then his hand slides beneath my skirt. Those dexterous fingers gliding over the lace of my thong.

“Blake.” He breathes it like prophecy.