Page 4 of Executive Privilege (Event Horizons Agency #1)

It's a smart approach, and probably the right thing to do from a client service perspective.

But there's something about the way Nicholas is handling this—the way he's protecting the integrity of the work while still trying to meet Morrison's needs—that makes me think his reputation for being coldly professional might not tell the whole story.

"That's good advice."

"It's also self-serving advice. Event Horizons' reputation depends on delivering excellent work, not just fast work."

"Right. Of course." I feel suddenly foolish for reading anything personal into his professional judgment.

But then Nicholas looks at me.

"Also," he says quietly, "I'd rather not see you burn out in your first few months because we took on too much too fast."

The comment is careful, professional, but there's an undertone that might be concern. Personal concern.

"I can handle the workload."

"I'm sure you can. That doesn't mean you should have to."

We're looking at each other across our laptops and empty takeout containers, and suddenly I'm aware of how late it is, how empty the office is, how we've been sitting close together for hours working on a project that feels more like a partnership than a boss giving orders to an employee.

"I should probably head home."

"Probably a good idea." Nicholas starts packing up his own materials. "Do you need a ride?"

"I drove, actually. But thank you."

"Good." He pauses. "Drive carefully. The streets downtown can be unpredictable at this hour on a Friday night."

There's an almost protective quality in his tone. Like maybe he's genuinely concerned about my safety, not just making polite conversation.

We walk to the elevator together, and I'm hyperaware of his presence beside me—the way he moves with quiet confidence.

He holds the elevator door for me to step through and I accidentally brush up against him so slightly that I'm unsure if I should apologize or not.

Considering how that small amount of contact sent my mind reeling, imaging hot elevator sex with my boss, I decide not to say anyting about it and risk fumbling my words.

"Thank you," I say as we reach the parking garage level. "For staying late, for the dinner, for helping with everything. I couldn't have managed all of this alone."

"Yes, you could have. It would have taken longer and been more stressful, but you would have managed it."

"How can you be so sure?"

The elevator doors open, but neither of us moves to get out and my blood starts racing as my mind starts wondering back to that earlier image.

"Because in the last three weeks, you've consistently exceeded every expectation I had when I hired you."

I stare at him, not sure how to respond to what might be the most direct compliment I've ever received from a boss.

The elevator doors start to close, and Nicholas puts his hand out to stop them. "After you, Sadie."

My name coming from his mouth. It's like feeding me chocolate covered strawberries and champaign.

Great, now I'm thinking about him feeding me strawberries.

I came back to Austin to get away from man trouble.

Nothing serious, just a round of the mill breakup, the last thing I expected was to be crushing on my boss.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I should know better than this.

I step out into the parking garage.

"Goodnight, Nicholas."

"Goodnight, Sadie. Drive safely."

I watch him walk to his car, sleek and masculine. He gets in a starts his car but doesn't move. I'm in an odd daze, wondering what he's doing, until I realize he's waiting for me. Of course, he's not going to leave me alone this late in a parking garage.

We exit the garage and I turn left and he turns right. I glance his car disappearing in my rear view mirror and then give my head a shake and turn up the music full blast.

I'm halfway home when my phone rings through my car's Bluetooth system. Emma's name appears on the dashboard display.

"Please tell me you're not still at work."

"I'm driving home now. Just finished up."

"Sadie, it's past midnight. This is not normal human behavior."

"It was a special circumstance. Nicholas was there too, helping me."

"Nicholas stayed late? Your scary boss, Nicholas?"

"He's not scary. He's just... intense."

"Uh-huh. OK."

There's a pause. "Sadie."

"What?"

"Do you hear yourself right now?"

"I hear myself explaining a completely reasonable work situation."

"I know you, Saide, it sounds like someone has a crush."

"Someone?"

"Maybe both of you."

"Don't start trouble, Emma. What are you doing up so late anyway?"

"I always go to bed this late. Did you watch 90 Day Fiancé this week, can we talk about it?"

I laugh, "I haven't yet."

"What? Well stop working so hard and get caught up. Priorities Sadie." She elongates my name into a whine.

"I will, promise."

I get home and rush through my bedtime routine, suddenly exhausted from the long day.

But when I get into bed and close my eyes, I'm back in that elevator. The doors closing, just the two of us in that small space. Nicholas is close enough that I could smell that lemongrass scent again. It's Invigorating.

My whole body starts buzzing, restless, wound tight the way it has been every night this week. I press the heels of my hands over my eyes, willing myself to think about literally anything other than Nicholas Blackwood in a perfectly cut suit and both of us in that mirrored elevator.

My hand slips under the waistband of my bottoms. Then Nicholas Blackwood's mouth is on mine, his hands sliding into my hair, pressing me back against the elevator wall with that same controlled intensity he brings to everything else.

His voice is low and rough: " Sadie."

My skin feels warm, electric. I'm hyperaware of every sensation—the silk of my pajama top against my skin, the way my heart is racing, the pull of desire that's been building all evening. All week.

He's pinning me against the mirrored panel. His thigh slides between mine, slow and deliberate, forcing me open.

I bite down on my bottom lip as my fingers circle, wet and insistent, chasing the pressure building there. H

is mouth is on mine—rough, hungry, like he’s been holding himself back for years.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, hips lifting into my hand.

He palms my thigh, drags my skirt up, slowly repeating my name against my lips, whispering it in my ear. The sound of it undoes me. I rub faster, as he pushes my underwear to the side and forces himself roughly into me.

The orgasm crashes through me, hard and sudden. My back pushes into the mattress, as I shutter and moan with release.

I laugh weakly, finally ready to drift off to sleep. “You’re trouble, Nicholas Blackwood,” I mutter into the empty room. “Absolute fucking trouble.”