Page 38 of His Verdict
He laughs, a genuine, warm sound that echoes in the quiet office. He walks in and sits in the chair opposite my desk, stretching his long legs out. He looks tired, but in a satisfied, end-of-a-long-day kind of way.
“You’re enjoying this,” he states. It isn’t a question.
“I enjoy competence,” I counter, leaning back in my chair. “And I enjoy winning. I assume that’s a prerequisite for working here.”
“It is,” he says, his eyes glinting over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip. “So far, you’re off to a good start.”
We sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the soft hum of my computer. The city lights are a glittering tapestry behind him. Right now, he isn't Jasper Sinclair, heir to a criminal empire. He is just my boss. A demanding and ridiculously handsome man who happens to appreciate my work.
I break the silence, a playful, reckless impulse bubbling up inside me. “Is that all I’m good at?” I ask, my voice a low, deliberate purr. I raise an eyebrow, a direct, flirtatious challenge.
The shift in the air is immediate. The comfortable, professional atmosphere evaporates, replaced by the familiar, crackling heat of our personal dynamic. His eyes darken, his lazy posture sharpening into a predator’s stillness.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips. It is the smile of a man who has been patiently waiting for a specific, crucial signal, and has just received it.
“No, Olivia,” he says, his voice a low, guttural promise that makes my stomach clench and a hot, wet slickness pool between my thighs. “That’s not all you’re good at. Not by a long shot.”
I have just willingly stepped back onto the playing field. And by the look on his face, he is more than ready to play.
Chapter 18
His voice, a low guttural promise that wraps around my insides and squeezes, is an ignition. The last of my carefully constructed professional walls crumble into dust. The air in my office, which a moment ago was cool and still, is now thick and crackling with a voltage that is all too familiar. The game is on.
I lean forward in my chair, planting my elbows on my desk, my chin in my hands. I let my gaze sweep over him, a slow, deliberate appraisal from the tips of his expensive Italian shoes to the dark, hungry look in his eyes.
“Is that so?” I murmur, my voice a silky, confident purr I barely recognize as my own. “And here I thought you were only keeping me around for my encyclopedic knowledge of contract law.”
“Your knowledge of contract law is… adequate,” he says, his eyes glinting with amusement. He sets his whiskey glass down on the corner of my desk with a soft, definitive click. “But your other talents are far more… compelling.”
A reckless, giddy thrill shoots through me. This is the first time since the day he walked into my life that I feel like I'm on even footing. Not because I have any real power over him, but because I have finally, consciously, decided to wield the one weapon I possess: his undeniable, obsessive desire for me.
I stand slowly, the fabric of my dress whispering against my skin. I smooth a non-existent wrinkle from the front of myskirt, a deliberately provocative gesture that draws his eyes to my hips.
“Well,” I say, starting a slow, deliberate walk around my desk toward him. “If you’re not going to praise my legal brilliance, I suppose I should just pack up and go home for the night.”
I reach his chair and trail my fingers lightly over his shoulder as I pass, a fleeting, electric touch. I don't wait for his response. I turn and walk out of my office, my hips swaying just a little more than is strictly necessary. I hear his chair scrape against the floor behind me.
The chase is on.
I’m not running. I'm leading. The vast, empty office space of Donovan & Creed is our private playground. The lights are dimmed, the city glitters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the silence is broken only by the soft click of my heels on the polished marble floor and the heavier, more purposeful, sound of his footsteps behind me.
I don't look back. I don't have to. I can feel the heat of his gaze on my back, a tangible pressure. He is letting me have a head start, enjoying the pursuit. I lead him through the deserted cubicle farms, down the silent hallways, past the darkened offices of people whose names I am only just beginning to learn. The thrill of it is intoxicating, a dangerous, exhilarating dance.
I reach the end of the hallway to his office.
He doesn't grab me. He simply opens the door for his vast, dark office. I step inside, my nerve endings singing. I only make it two steps into the room before he is on me. He slams the heavy office door shut, the sound a definitive, echoingboomthatseals us off from the rest of the world. He spins me around, and my back hits the cool, solid wood of the door with a jarring thud.
His mouth crashes down on mine.
It is a kiss of pure, unadulterated starvation. A raw, desperate claiming. All the pent-up tension from the last few weeks, all the forced patience and careful handling, explodes in this single, violent act of possession. It is not gentle. It is not tender. It is a brutal, hungry kiss that tastes of whiskey, power, and a deep, possessive need that steals the breath from my lungs.
His hands are everywhere, tangling in my hair, gripping my ass, pulling my body flush against his. I can feel the hard, thick ridge of his erection pressing against my stomach, an insistent, undeniable promise of what is to come. I kiss him back with a ferocity that matches his own, my hands sliding up his chest, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. I am just as starved as he is.
He drags his mouth from mine, leaving me gasping, my lips swollen and throbbing. “Fuck,” he groans, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath coming in ragged gusts. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? What hearing you talk to me like that, looking at me like that, does to me?”
Before I can answer, his hands are on mine, strong and unyielding. He captures both of my wrists in one of his large hands and pins them to the door above my head. I am trapped, my body exposed, my arms stretched. The position is one of complete vulnerability, of total surrender, and it sends a fresh wave of liquid heat straight to my core.
“Don’t move,” he commands, his voice a low, guttural rasp.