Page 8

8

STERLING’S POV

T he day has been interminable, every hour stretching longer than the last beneath the weight of endless investor questions, supplier excuses, and Dr. Kim's quiet concern over sample anomalies. I've kept my professional facade in place, my voice measured, my expressions neutral, but my patience has been steadily eroding beneath the surface.

And not just because of the business.

The real distraction—the one I've refused to name aloud even in the privacy of my own mind—has been Hank Honeyworth. My too-curious, too-bright, too-young human intern, with his restless hands and his eyes that linger far too long. I have tried, truly, to ignore it. Tried to maintain the appropriate boundaries expected of me. Tried to pretend I don't notice the way he stiffens when I enter a room, the way the scent of his arousal saturates the air whenever I pass too close.

But I do notice. Minotaur senses are not forgiving. I can smell his need across a crowded room. I can hear the spike of his heartbeat when my shadow falls over his desk. I can see the visible, undeniable proof of his desire no matter how quickly he tries to rearrange paperwork across his lap.

It's becoming a problem. A dangerous one.

His performance has started to slip. Today alone, I caught him entering the wrong client information, his hands trembling as he tried to correct it under Marina's suspicious gaze. Helena has commented on his jumpiness. Even Marina, diplomatic as ever, asked if there was "something going on" between us, her voice laced with concern she tried—and failed—to disguise.

There isn't. There can't be. The professional boundaries are non-negotiable, the power dynamic is fraught, and the physical realities—well, they are not easily bridged between our species.

And yet.

As I finish the last of today's paperwork, my mind drifts to him again, unbidden. The way he watches me, those sharp green eyes barely hiding his hunger. The way he had confessed—raw and reckless—that he had been tracking me, timing his movements to coincide with mine, driven by a need he could no longer contain. The way he looked standing there in my office afterward, wrecked and desperate, waiting for a verdict I barely had the strength to deliver.

Perhaps I should have fired him that day. Perhaps I should have protected us both from what was always going to happen if I let it fester. But the truth is—I didn't want to.

I check my watch. 6:15. The building should be empty now. Time for my own daily ritual—the act of necessary biological maintenance that keeps my temper and instincts in check.

I rise from my desk, rolling my shoulders to work out the day's tension, and move through the deserted halls toward Room 8. It's my preferred space—private, isolated, safe from interruptions. A place to shed the weight of restraint, if only for a few stolen minutes.

But as I round the last corner, something stops me short. The door is ajar. A thin strip of light spills into the corridor, a sliver of illumination slicing through the otherwise dim hall. I frown, immediately alert. The cleaning crew isn't due for another forty-five minutes. All clients are gone. Staff should be clocked out.

And yet— there is a scent, faint but unmistakable, curling through the air like smoke.

Hank.

And not just Hank. Hank flushed with arousal, steeped in need so thick it punches through the sterile air and crashes straight into my lungs. I stand frozen, parsing the implications, my heart pounding slow and deliberate against my ribs. Had he stayed late to spy again? Had he disregarded every warning, every line I'd drawn, just to satisfy his obsession? The surge of anger is immediate and visceral, my hand tightening into a fist at my side.

But when I push the door wider, ready to confront him—to end this dangerous game once and for all—what I see inside renders me utterly, completely still. Hank isn't hiding. He isn't watching.

Hank is offering.

Spread out naked across the collection mount, his smaller human body arranged with shameless precision. His stomach and chest press against the padded surface, but his back arches in a silent, unmistakable invitation, ass high and exposed, his cock flushed and leaking against the mount. The door has been deliberately left ajar. The position, the timing, the scent—all of it carefully orchestrated.

Not an accident. Not a mistake.

A choice.

He looks over his shoulder, his green eyes meeting mine across the room, wide with nerves but burning with something else—something wild and desperate and willing to risk everything. The impact of the sight is like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from my lungs.

Shock. Fury. Desire, raw and violent, roaring to the surface before I can clamp it down.

For long, endless seconds, I stand there, my massive frame blocking the doorway, my hands trembling with the force it takes not to move. Because I know—I know—if I step further into that room, there will be no going back. No excuses. No more pretending. The professional line I have so carefully maintained will shatter beneath my feet the second I touch him. And worse, I don't want to stop it. Not anymore.

* * *

The first button comes undone with a flick of my fingers, and still, Hank doesn't move.

He just stays there—naked, trembling, so fucking perfect it makes my teeth ache—his ass arched up in offering, his cock leaking across the mount like he doesn't even care who sees. Like he wants me to see. Like he's been waiting for this moment as long as I have.

I undo another button. Then another. My hands are steady, but inside, I'm a goddamn mess. Every instinct I've spent years beating into submission is screaming at me to claim him. To grab his hips, shove my cock deep inside him, knot him so full he won't even remember his own fucking name.

I could smell his arousal the second I stepped into the hallway. Now it's pouring off him in thick, dizzying waves, hitting me harder than any drug ever could. Sweet and sharp and so fucking human, it scrapes against my self-control like sandpaper.

The shirt slides from my shoulders and drops to the floor. My chest heaves with the effort of breathing slowly, pretending like I still have a choice. Pretending like I'm not two seconds from throwing every professional boundary out the goddamn window.

Hank's eyes track every movement I make, wide and wild, pupils blown so wide I can barely see any green left. His fingers twitch where they're clenched around the edges of the mount, like he's holding himself in place by sheer force of will.

Good. Let him squirm. Let him need. Because I'm sure as hell not the only one suffering here.

My hands move to my belt, and I swear to every god still listening that if he flinches, if he even breathes wrong, I'll find the strength to walk away. The buckle clicks loose under my fingers, the leather hissing as I pull it free. I watch him closely, giving him that one last out, that one last scrap of mercy.

He doesn't move.

Not an inch.

Not when my slacks slide off my hips and puddle around my ankles. Not when I step out of them and cross the room in slow, deliberate strides. Not when I stop at the edge of the mount, so close now that the heat of his body sears my skin.

I can see every tremble in his thighs, every drop of cum leaking from his cock, every desperate shudder rolling down his spine.

And he wants this. He wants me.

"Last chance, Hank," I rasp, my voice shredded and low, the words scraping out of my throat like broken glass. "If you want to walk away—do it now."

He presses his forehead to the mount. Doesn't speak, just spreads his thighs wider. Silent. Obedient. Begging without a single fucking word.

Something inside me snaps—loud and brutal and final.

I place one massive hand on the small of his back, feeling the way he jerks under the contact, a full-body flinch like he's been touched by lightning. His skin is hot against my palm, his heart hammering so fast I can feel it through the thin line of his spine.

I brace the other hand on the mount next to his head, caging him in, lowering my face until I can breathe him in raw and unfiltered, until every desperate, reckless part of him seeps into my lungs.

"You think you know what you're asking for," I murmur, my mouth a hair's breadth from the shell of his ear. "You have no idea."

He makes a broken sound, half-moan, half-plea, grinding his hips helplessly against the mount, leaving slick smears of arousal across the vinyl.

And just like that, every rule, every line, every ounce of control I ever had?—

Gone.

Burned to ash under the heat of him. And I'm done pretending I ever had a choice.

My hands tear at the last of my clothing, too rough, too desperate, but I don't give a fuck anymore. I need to feel him. Need to ruin him. Need to mark every inch of his skin until he's nothing but mine.

I move behind him, adjusting the mount quickly, not caring how brutal my movements are, just needing him at the right height, right angle, right place to take what I'm about to give him.

When I grip his hips, he shudders under me, his whole body vibrating like he's barely holding it together.

"You have no fucking idea," I rasp, my voice wrecked, "what you've gotten yourself into."

He pushes his hips back toward me without hesitation, so trusting, so fucking perfect, and it snaps whatever thin leash I had left.

I coat my fingers with lube—fast, messy—and bring them straight to his hole, circling, pressing, feeling him jerk under the touch.

"This is what you wanted?" I growl, my chest heaving, my knot already beginning to thicken just from the feel of him. "You wanted to spread yourself open and beg for it?"

"Y-yes," he gasps, shoving himself back onto my hand like he's starving for it.

"You're gonna fucking take it," I snarl, pushing my first finger inside him without warning. His body clamps down around me, hot and impossibly tight, and the sound he makes—god, the broken little cry he gives—nearly undoes me.

I fuck him open on my fingers, relentless, feeling the desperate little tremors running through his muscles as I stretch him wider. He's leaking harder now, the slick mess of him dripping down the mount, and the scent of his need is so thick it's choking me.

"Greedy little human," I mutter, shoving a second finger inside him, making him jolt forward with a helpless moan. "You came here begging to be ruined, didn't you?"

"Yes," he whimpers. "Please, Sterling."

I curl my fingers hard, dragging them against that bundle of nerves inside him that makes him sob for me.

"You ever been stretched like this before, Hank?" I grind out, my mouth at his ear now, my free hand gripping his hip hard enough to leave bruises. "Ever been finger-fucked by a goddamn minotaur while you hump into a fucking machine?"

He shakes his head frantically, gasping for breath, wrecked and gorgeous and so fucking mine.

"Didn't think so," I growl, adding a third finger without mercy. He cries out, arching into the touch, but doesn't pull away—he takes it, takes all of me, desperate and hungry and perfect.

"That's it," I murmur, feeling him clench and flutter around my fingers, feeling him fucking need it. "Good boy. Open up for me. Show me how badly you want to be split on my cock." The words tumble out, filthy and wild and unstoppable, because I'm gone now, lost in him, lost in the way he gasps and writhes under my hands.

"You're gonna take everything," I promise him, my knot swelling larger with every filthy sound he makes. "You're gonna stretch so fucking wide for me one day you won't even be able to close your legs afterward. You'll walk around leaking my cum for days. Everyone will know you're mine."

"Please," Hank sobs, fucking himself down onto my hand, helpless against the brutal pleasure. "Sterling, I want it—want your knot—want you to breed me?—"

The dirty plea shatters the last of my control. I slam my fingers into him harder, mercilessly fucking him open, watching the way his cock throbs and leaks and strains against the mount. His body is coiled tight, vibrating with need, his prostate swollen and begging for release.

"You're close," I growl against the nape of his neck, feeling him tremble apart under my touch. "I can feel it. You're gonna cream yourself like a desperate little slut for me, aren't you?"

"Yes," he sobs, his entire body jerking, trying to hold back because I haven't given him permission yet.

"You don't come until I say," I snarl, wrapping one massive hand around the back of his neck, pinning him down, owning him. "You'll hold it. You'll be a good boy for me."

"I'll try," he whimpers, the strain wrecking his voice.

"Not good enough," I snap, curling my fingers inside him viciously. "Beg for it. Beg to come for me."

He breaks with a ragged sob. "Please, Sterling—please let me come—please, I can't?—"

I jerk his hips down to the edge of the mount, the head of his cock now positioned at the top of collection mechanism. I slide my own cock against his, pushing deep into the machine, moaning as it starts up, suckling us. I'm so thick now the collection mechanism can barely take it, my knot stretching the opening brutally tight, nearly strangling the head of Hank's cock.

"Fuck," he pants, his entire body shaking, his hips humping the mount, desperate for friction.

"Look at me," I order, and when he lifts his head to the mirror, I see it: his face wrecked, mouth open, eyes wild and glassy, sweat dripping down his flushed skin. Mine. All fucking mine.

"Now," I growl, my voice pure, broken gravel. "Come for me. Now."

He explodes with a strangled cry, hips bucking wildly as he spills himself into the intake, thick and hot and endless. His body milks my fingers, spasming so hard I feel it all the way up my arm.

The sight—the scent—the desperate, broken way he comes because of me—rips my own orgasm from me with brutal, punishing force. I roar his name, slamming my hips forward, knotting deep inside the collection mount as I pump rope after rope of cum into the machine, my vision going white around the edges.

The orgasm crashes through me so hard I can't see straight. For a moment, all I can do is hold onto him, breathing like I've been dragged under by a riptide. My knot throbs brutally inside the collection mount, milking the last shuddering pulses of pleasure from our bodies.

But it's not enough. I don't know if it will ever be enough.

Hank is sprawled across the mount, trembling and wrecked, his soft little gasps still catching in his throat like he's too stunned to process it. His sweat-slick skin glows under the harsh fluorescents, every inch of him marked with my hands, my scent.

Mine.

I drag in a ragged breath, push up onto my elbows, and pull him upright by the waist, flipping him around to face me. He makes a soft, broken sound, pliant and trusting as I adjust the mount, raising it higher until we're face to face.

And then—fuck it all—I crush my mouth to his.

It's not careful. It's not sweet. It's devastation, the kiss deep and brutal and claiming, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. He moans into it—helpless, desperate—and his hands scrabble at my shoulders, clutching for something solid while he melts against me. His cock, still flushed and leaking from the first round, stirs back to life between us, pressing hot and needy against my stomach.

I break the kiss, panting harshly against his swollen lips. "Still hungry, Hank?"

He nods frantically, grinding himself against my abs like he can't help it, greedy little fucker that he is.

Good.

Because I'm not done with him. Not even close.

I push him back onto the mount, spreading his legs wide, his leaking cock jutting up into the air, begging to be sucked. He shudders, moaning when he understands my intention. I line myself up and thrust into the collection mount again, the entrance already a mess of my earlier release and Hank's, the slick, obscene squelch of it making my cock jerk hard inside the tight channel.

God, the thought that it's both of us coating the inside of the device—that I'm thrusting into a mess we made together—sends a savage thrill through me.

I find a rhythm, fucking the mount in slow, brutal thrusts, every drag of the tight sleeve milking more desperate little sounds from my throat. I reach between his trembling legs and wrap my fist around his cock in one smooth, filthy motion.

Hank sobs, his hips jerking helplessly as I squeeze tight, my fingers curling around the flushed head. I groan as I watch as his cock disappears inside my fist, his hands flying to the mount like he needs to hold himself in place.

I don't give him a chance to recover. I slide a slick finger back to his hole, pressing past the tight ring of muscle, feeling him clamp down around me even as he tries to push back, greedy for more.

He's still loose from the brutal stretch of earlier, but not by much. His body grips my finger desperately, a hot, trembling vise that makes my cock throb harder inside the mount. I work him open again as I suck him off, my tongue swirling, my finger pressing deep until I find that sweet spot inside him—the one that makes him whimper and twitch, his cock jumping against my tongue.

I add a second finger, scissoring him open while jerk him off, squeezing tighter with each pass. He's making such pretty sounds now, high and broken, fucked-out and desperate, grinding his hips helplessly against my hand.

"You're going to come for me again," I rasp, sliding my fingers deep enough to make him see stars. "I want your cum spilling all over my hand, Hank. And then I'm going to fuck this machine like it's your tight little ass."

He sobs my name, his whole body shuddering on the edge.

I curl my fingers against his prostate one more time, hard and relentless, and twist my hand over him, increasing my pace.

He comes with a hoarse cry, jerking so hard he nearly bucks off the mount, his cock pulsing hot streams of cum into the air and over my knuckles. I groan, my gaze glued to his face, obsessed with how devastatingly erotic it is when he loses control. I milk him through it while my cock pounds into the mount, the pressure building again until it's unbearable.

The moment he starts to sag, boneless and broken over the mount, I let myself go.

I slam deep into the slick, messy machine and knot hard, the thick swell locking me in tight as I flood it again, the obscene sound of it mixing with the filthy squelch of our mingled releases.

When it's over, I collapse against him, panting against the sweat-slick skin of his abdomen, still locked inside the machine, still buried so deep in the haze of him I can't tell where I end and he begins.

I press a kiss to the hollow of his throat—an instinct, a claim, a promise—and finally, finally force myself to pull away.

Gradually, the intensity drains out of my muscles, leaving behind a raw, aching satisfaction. The knot throbs as it begins its slow retreat, loosening enough for me to pull away from the equipment with careful, deliberate motions.

Hank doesn't move. He's still sprawled across the mount, wrecked and panting, his body shining with sweat, his skin marked up from my hands. Thoroughly used. Utterly ruined. Perfect.

The sight of him like that hits me in the chest so hard I almost stagger. Pride. Hunger. A fierce, gut-twisting concern. And the gut-punch realization that we just crossed a line I can't uncross. I drag my pants on with hands that aren't as steady as I want them to be.

"We need to talk," I rasp, voice rough from more than just the physical aftermath. "In my office. Ten minutes."

Hank nods, still blinking slowly, dazed and blissed-out and making no move to cover himself.

"That was—" he starts, voice cracked.

"We'll discuss it," I cut him off sharply. If I let him finish that sentence—if I let him say something sweet and reckless—I'm going to end up bending him over the nearest surface and making this mistake permanent.

"Clean up," I murmur. "Meet me in my office."

I don't wait for a reply. I bolt. One second longer in that room, and professionalism won't just be dead—it'll be buried six feet under and pissing off every goddamn client we've ever had.

I haul myself into my office, slam the door behind me, and breathe. Fuck. I scrub both hands down my face, trying to shake off the pounding in my veins.

By the time Hank knocks, I've shoved every wild, reckless impulse down deep enough I can pretend I'm composed.

"Enter," I call, positioning myself behind my desk—putting cold, solid wood between me and temptation.

He steps inside, and my carefully constructed armor almost shatters. He looks... Flushed. Wrecked. Fucking gorgeous. The wild tension that's been leaking off him for weeks is gone. In its place is a quiet, dangerous certainty that sinks its claws into me.

"Sit," I say, jerking my chin toward the chair.

He lowers himself into it gingerly, and that little wince—God help me, that little wince—is a brand across my brain, lighting me up all over again with the memory of exactly how deep my fingers were inside him not fifteen minutes ago. I lock it down. Barely.

"What happened in that room," I start, keeping my voice as professional as I can while my blood still pounds in my ears, "changes everything. And nothing."

Hank arches one perfect eyebrow. "That's contradictory."

I snort, sharp and humorless. "Welcome to my life right now."

I lean forward, knuckles whitening on the desk.

"Professionally, nothing changes. During work hours, in front of clients and staff, I am your boss, and you are my intern. Full stop. No favoritism. No flirting. No slip-ups. No exceptions."

"I understand," Hank says quickly, his posture straightening, his voice level.

"Do you?" I pin him with a look. "Because if this gets out—if even a hint of what we did leaks—this facility is done. My reputation? Shredded. Yours too. And don't kid yourself: the fact that it's an interspecies relationship will make it ten times worse."

"I said I understand," Hank repeats, and there's a stubborn steel behind the words now. "I'm not going to jeopardize your business. Or my future. I can handle it."

God. He means it. He has no idea what he's stepping into, and he still means it.

"Good." My chest loosens a fraction, but I'm not done.

"And now for the other side," I say, voice dropping. "If—and I mean if—we pursue this outside work hours, we need rules. Clear ones."

"Like what?" he asks, leaning forward, fearless.

I stare at him, all lit up and burning for me, and every molecule in my body howls to tear the desk out of the way and let him climb me like a tree.

Instead, I set the rules.

"First," I say, voice rough, "consent and communication. Always. No assumptions. No games. You say the word, it stops. Every time."

Hank nods immediately. "Agreed."

"Second." I let my voice dip lower, warning in every syllable. "We take it slow. Especially physically. You are not built for what I'm carrying."

His pupils blow wide at the edge of my words.

"You mean the knot," he says, like it's the most natural thing in the world to talk about.

My cock twitches so hard it hurts. "Among other things," I say, gritting my teeth. "I'm three and a half times your size, Hank. What feels like gentle to me could rip you apart if we aren't careful. And yes—the knot is a unique consideration."

I watch him soak up every word, hunger blazing across his face.

"You'll need prep," I tell him bluntly. "A lot of it. Stretching. Conditioning. Months of it, probably, before you can even think about taking me fully."

Instead of blanching, Hank leans in further, green eyes bright and hungry. "I want it," he says, voice like gravel. "Whatever it takes."

And God help me— I believe him.

I lean forward across the desk, dropping my voice, making damn sure he feels the weight of what I'm about to say. "When my knot is fully expanded, it creates a lock that can't be broken until it goes down on its own. Could be fifteen minutes. Could be closer to half an hour. And if we try for full penetration without months of prep..." I let the silence sit there. Heavy. "It won't just hurt. It could tear you. Hospitalize you."

His reaction isn't fear. It's fascination. It’s a fresh rush of arousal.

"How long exactly does it take to prepare properly?" Hank asks, like we're discussing gym memberships instead of the logistics of getting knotted by a goddamn minotaur.

The question punches the air right out of my lungs.

"That... depends." I clear my throat, forcing my brain to stay on topic and not on the mental slideshow of all the ways I could stretch him. "Weeks. Months. Longer, if we're smart about it."

"And you've done it before?" His voice is steady. Curious. Not scared.

I hesitate. Honesty's the only option if we're doing this at all. "Yeah. Twice." I lean back in my chair, feeling the sting of old memories. "One ended before we got that far. She took one look and ran the other way. The other... we rushed it. He ended up in the hospital."

Hank absorbs it, his face open, serious—but not backing down. "I want to try," he says simply. "When we're ready. When it's safe."

His directness should be terrifying. Instead, it lights something molten under my skin.

"That kind of eagerness is exactly how people get hurt," I bite out, harsher than I mean to. "This isn't a fantasy, Hank. It's real anatomy. Real consequences."

"I know," he says, voice even. "I'm not stupid. I'm just not going to sit here and pretend I'm not interested." His mouth curves, slow and lethal. "Your size. Your strength. Your knot. It's part of why I can't stop thinking about you. Since that first night I watched you using the mount."

His words slam into me, vivid and raw, sharper than any dirty fantasy I've had in weeks. I grip the edge of the desk hard enough to make it creak.

"Your interest is noted," I say, fighting to keep my voice dry and businesslike. "But none of that changes the physical realities we have to respect."

"Of course not," Hank says easily, like he's agreeing to a pizza topping instead of months of body training to take a minotaur's knot. "But it does mean," he adds, flashing me a look so hungry it physically hurts, "that I'll do whatever it takes to feel you rutting into my ass."

Fuck me.

I clear my throat hard, desperate to pull the conversation back from the edge before we both do something monumentally stupid.

"Third boundary," I snap, needing structure like a drowning man needs a rope. "This stays private. No gossip. No slips. No one at the facility, no one outside it, finds out. Period."

He nods immediately, like he'd already decided that hours ago. "Agreed. I don't exactly have a big social circle here anyway. My family's still back in Iowa."

That flicker of loneliness under the words hits me harder than it should. I shove it down.

"Fourth," I continue, holding his gaze. "Either of us can end this at any time. No guilt. No retaliation. You'll still finish your internship. Still get a glowing recommendation, if you earn it."

"Fair," Hank agrees without missing a beat. "Though..." He leans in just slightly, that slow smile tugging at his mouth again. "I can't imagine wanting to stop when we've barely started."

The smile punches me straight in the gut. This kid—this brave, reckless, impossible human—has no idea what he's playing with. Or maybe he does. Maybe that's the whole fucking point.

"Fifth and final boundary," I growl. "Weekly check-ins. Full honesty. If either of us has a problem, we deal with it immediately. No pretending everything's fine while it festers."

"Weekly," Hank echoes, nodding. "Got it."

I narrow my eyes. "You want to add anything?"

He thinks for a second, then—because he's Hank, because he's got more guts than sense—he says, "Yeah. One thing." He meets my eyes dead-on. No fear. No games. "Honesty. About everything." His voice drops. "What you want. What you need. What you're afraid of. No protecting me. No pretending you don't want something when you do."

The words hit me harder than anything else he's said tonight. Harder than hearing my knot doesn't scare him. Harder than seeing him spread out on the mount, offering himself like a fucking gift.

Honesty. About everything.

I nod once, slow and deliberate. "Agreed."

A heavy silence stretches between us. The tension between what we just did—and what we could still do if we weren't both barely clinging to control—fills the space so thick I can taste it.

Hank tilts his head, that wicked, wrecked little smile still ghosting across his face.

"So," he says casually, like he hasn't just turned my entire fucking world inside out, "what happens now?"

A good question. The kind that doesn't have a safe answer. We've crossed a line that can't be uncrossed. Built a goddamn bridge across it. Set fire to both sides for good measure.

"Now," I say, checking my watch because I need something—anything—to anchor me, "you go home. It's nearly seven. The cleaning crew will be here any minute, and I don't need them walking into... this." My voice is too rough, too raw, but it's the best I can manage.

"Tomorrow," I add, "you come back on time. You act normal. Professional. We keep it clean."

"And after hours?" he presses, his voice low, his green eyes locked onto mine like he's already peeling away all the excuses I'm barely holding together.

I exhale slowly, the words burning my throat on the way out. "This weekend. Saturday night. My house. Away from this place, away from the goddamn rules. We'll talk about next steps there."

The smile that lights up his face nearly undoes me. Bright. Unapologetic. It's the kind of smile that says he knows exactly how dangerous this is—and he's already made peace with it. Hell, he's eager for it.

"I'd like that," he says simply.

"Then it's settled." I stand, the scrape of the chair loud in the heavy silence. "I'll text you the address."

Hank gets up too, moving stiffly—wincing just enough to make my mind flash hot with the memory of what I did to him an hour ago. What he begged me for.

I look away before I embarrass myself, before I drag him back across the desk and undo every single rule we just made.

He hesitates near the door, caught somewhere between old habits and new promises. "Good night, Mr. Johnson," he says, all fake formality, that cocky little smile twitching at the corners of his mouth like he knows exactly how wrecked I am.

"Good night, Mr. Honeyworth," I answer, matching his tone with a dryness I don't feel.

He leaves, and the second the door clicks shut behind him, I sit down hard in my chair, breathing like I've just run a marathon uphill.

What the fuck have I done? Crossed lines I swore I never would. Risked my business, my reputation, my sanity—for a temptation I told myself I could handle. Spoiler alert: I can't.

I scrub a hand over my face, forcing myself to gather my things, move through the familiar motions of closing down the office. But the whole time, all I can see is Hank. Laid out beneath me, raw and panting, looking at me like I'm something worth burning for. Looking at my knot like he wants to worship it instead of fear it.

It's reckless. It's dangerous. It's everything I haven't let myself feel in