Page 83 of For the Plot

I tap my pen against my notepad, chewing the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. We’ve barely said two words to each other since that morning after. He’s kept everything professional. Like he’s trying to pretend I didn’t get on my knees and make him fall apart with nothing but my mouth. And I’ve let him pretend.

Mostly.

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed the way his voice goes rough when he says my name. Or how he closes his officedoor more often now. Or the way he curls his fingers into fists when I walk by to avoid touching me.

He’s losing it. And it’s kind of fun to watch.

“Anything else before we wrap?” he asks the room.

Someone from accounting mutters something about timeline adjustments. I zone out. I’m too focused on the way he’s rubbing his thumb along the edge of the conference table. The same way he touched the seam of my thigh-highs last week. The same rhythm.

I shift again. He looks at me, noticing as I watch his movements. A minute later, the meeting ends in a shuffle of laptops and polite nods. I start to gather my things, but Reece’s voice stops me.

“Skye.”

I look up. “Yeah?”

He’s standing now, one hand still braced on the chair. “What are you doing tonight?” he asks.

I blink. “Uh… nothing. Why?”

He shrugs like it’s casual. “I’ll be by around seven.”

My stomach flips. He turns to leave before I can say anything else. Just like that. No wink. No smile. I sit there, stunned, for a full five seconds before I realize my pen is still frozen midair.

Holy shit. He’s coming over. Tonight.

I gather my laptop and practically trip over the conference room chair as I stand. I don’t know what to wear. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I’m so nervous but I do… because the idea of him coming into my home, my private and intimate space, suddenly feels a little too close to feelings and emotions for my wounded heart.

I’ve never cleaned my apartment this aggressively in my life.

There’s a candle burning in every room, my throw pillows are perfectly fluffed, and I just refolded the bathroom towels for the third time.

This is insane. He’s just a man. A very hot, very powerful, very emotionally constipated man. Who also happens to have made me come so hard my legs gave out. Twice.

I check the clock. It’s 6:49 p.m. Panic flares in my chest. I should change. I should put something sexier on. Or something more casual. Or both? Is that possible? I pace to my bedroom and yank open the drawer. I grab a sleep shirt, drop it, grab jeans, toss them, then land on a casual little dress.

Simple. Effortless. Hot if you squint.

I slip it on and swipe on a little lip gloss, then shake out my hair. I immediately regret the lip gloss and wipe it off. Another glance at the clock shows it’s now 6:58 p.m.

I stand in the middle of my tiny living room like a statue, my heart pounding hard enough I can feel it behind my ribs. I shouldn’t be this nervous. But I am. I feel something when I’m around him. Not just lust. Something heavier. Something that makes me want to unravel in front of him. To be known. And that scares the shit out of me.

I’m still spiraling when I hear three sharp raps at the door. I freeze. My throat goes dry. Then I take a breath, cross the room, and open it.

Reece stands there in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark jeans that hug his hips like sin, and that look in his eyes. The one that says he’s not here for polite conversation.

“Hi,” I say, voice softer than I meant it to be.

“Hi.” His eyes sweep over me, slow and intentional. “You gonna invite me in?”

“Yeah. Yeah, come in.”

I step aside, heart thundering as he walks past me. He takes in my space without comment. One couch, a bookshelf I assembled mostly correctly, a few framed art prints, and a coffee table that’s seen better days. It’s not like his penthouse. There’sno skyline view or custom lighting or seven-thousand-dollar Italian espresso machine.

But it’s mine. And suddenly I feel like that’s not enough.

“I know it’s small,” I blurt.