Page 4 of Erotic Temptations 1
I was halfway through unwrapping my sandwich when someone cleared their throat. I looked up.
“Mind if I sit here?”
Right away I recognized two things. One. The voice was low, pleasant, and confident, with the kind of cadence that turned heads, and two, it was attached to a man who looked like he’d been air-dropped in from a Banana Republic ad, but with a better jawline.
He smiled, flashing even, white teeth. His suit wasn’t just tailored, it was sculpted, like he’d gotten fitted by a revenge-driven ex. Dark hair, not too short, perfect stubble, eyes so clear and blue they knocked everything else out of my field of vision for a second.
He waited, one brow up, hands careful, as if I might be the kind of person who got territorial over deli seating.
In that moment, I was very much not that kind of person.
“Sure.” I scooted my sandwich and dignity closer to my side of the table. “It’s all yours.”
He grinned, shrugged off his coat, and slid into the seat across from me. I caught a whiff of something fresh and crisp, maybe juniper, maybe expensive aftershave, but nothing like the old cologne samples I used to steal from department store flyers and call “date ready.”
He set his sandwich and bottle of sparkling water on the table.
“Thanks. I’m Aaron.” he said, in a voice that wasn’t putting in any effort, but still had me ready to sign up for a twelve-step program.
“David,” I replied, then immediately regretted not adding something clever.
Aaron’s gaze tracked over my face, and then landed briefly, unapologetically, on my coffee-stained shirt. “You look familiar.”
My mouth, never one for subtlety, almost said, “We met in a dream.” Instead, I just shrugged and tried not to look like the awkward gay guy with half a sandwich in his hands. Which, to be fair, was exactly what I was.
“I know,” he said, pointing. “Accounting. You work at Megalith Data, right?”
I blinked, surprise trumping the last dregs of self-doubt. “Yeah. Second floor. Cubicle ghetto.”
He laughed, a warm, easy sound that made it suddenly okay to be eating a sandwich with mustard and pickles. “Small world. Though, technically, it’s more of a hopelessly inefficient corporate maze than a world. I’m up on six most days. I’m Aaron Rothe.”
My brain did a triple take.
Aaron Rothe. The name felt like a hand grenade rolling under my end of the table. CEO, infamous for not owning a single plain tie, rumored to have once fired someone over a bad pun in a presentation. Okay, maybe not “fired,” more like “gently reassigned,” but office legend had him walking on clouds and swinging a scythe.
He didn’t act like a cloud-walking scythe enthusiast. Up close, his eyes crinkled in a way that broadcasted genuine interest. Not a pre-programmed script. I felt my face go pink, which for me meant somewhere between “mildly embarrassed” and “nuclear meltdown.”
I tried to recover. “I’m…surprised to see you here. Thought CEOs only ate in mahogany-paneled rooms with hand-carved roast beef. Or at least, you know, not at this place.”
He shook his head. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried their turkey. Besides, I needed some space from boardroom politics. Here, it’s just sandwiches and questionable soup.”
Fair point. I hadn’t met a turkey sandwich that judged me for getting quarterly reports wrong.
He unwrapped his lunch and took a bite. Even the way he chewed looked efficient, like he was maximizing flavor and minimizing small talk. I gnawed on my own sandwich, suddenly aware of crumbs on my hands and probably mayonnaise on my face, even though I’d specifically ordered without it.
Aaron watched me for a moment, then grinned again, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Rough morning?” His gaze flicked to my shirt.
I glanced down and shrugged, playing it casual. “My alarm apparently took the day off. Also, my coffee’s goal in life is to ruin my wardrobe. I’m told it’s a good look. Very ‘damsel in distress,’ if you’re into that.”
He laughed, deep and resonant, like he actually found me funny. “Some people pay big money for custom designs. You’ve got natural talent.”
I dragged a fry through the edge of my mustard and tried not to stare at him. He brushed a crumb from his lower lip, and it was possible that everyone else in the deli vanished for a second, replaced by just that dimple and his easy, unhurried smile.
He leaned in slightly. “So, do you usually eat here? Or is this the last resort for lunch emergencies?”
I snorted. “Today, definitely the latter. Normally I bring leftovers, but this morning was moreDie HardthanGood Housekeeping. I’m lucky I left the apartment with pants on.”
His gaze lingered, interested, like he saw straight through the self-deprecating jokes to the guy trying desperately to be seen but playing it cool.