Page 23 of Making It Burn

“See you tomorrow, Price.”

“Goodnight, Thatcher.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood there in the suddenly too-quiet office, my heart pounding like I’d just run a marathon.

This is a problem.

* * *

The second my apartment door clicked shut behind me, I shed my jacket like it was on fire.My tie followed, yanked loose with a sharp tug, the silk whispering against my collarbone as it slithered free.The briefcase hit the floor with a thud.I needed a hot shower.Needed to feel myself burn.

The water roared to life, steam billowing up to fog the glass before I’d even stepped in.Scalding.Punishing.A heat that should’ve seared the memory of Beau right out of my skin.

It didn’t.

I braced my forehead against the tile, letting the water sluice down my back, but all I could see was Beau—leaning over my desk, his cuffs rolled up to reveal the faint dusting of dark hair on his forearms.The way his fingers had tapped against the wood, restless, like he was fighting the same pull I was.Curiosity, he’d called it.Like I was some goddamn equation he needed to solve.

A groan clawed up my throat.I turned my face into the spray, but the water couldn’t drown out the sound of his laugh—low, rough, the kind that vibrated straight through my ribs.Or the way his voice had dropped when he’d asked about my mother, like he was peeling back a layer of me no one else got to see.It was almost like he cared.

My fingers curled into a fist against the wall.

“God, I hate him,” I muttered.

Except I didn’t.Not even close.

The soap slipped in my grip, suds sliding down my chest, and my traitorous brain supplied the memory of his sweater riding up—just a flash of pale skin, the shallow dip of his waist, the hint of a scar near his hipbone I’d never get to ask about.My stomach twisted.I wanted to trace it with my tongue.Wanted to hear him gasp.

Fuck.

My cock was already heavy, aching, and when I wrapped my hand around it, it was with furious resignation.Like my body had been waiting all day for this.

The first stroke was punishment.

The last was relief.

Beau’s cologne—bergamot and something smoky, like burnt sugar—flooded my senses.I could taste it, could still feel the ghost of his breath against my jaw when he’d leaned in to argue about the damn case, close enough that I’d had to clench my fists to keep from grabbing him.

My hips jerked forward, water sluicing over my shoulders as I imagined him pressed against my office door, his hands fisted in my shirt, his mouth hot and demanding.Or worse—spread across my desk, his dark eyes locked on mine as he dared me to do something about it.

A broken sound tore from my throat.My free hand slammed against the tile, fingers splaying wide as my orgasm hit me like a wrecking ball—pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.Beau’s name burned on my lips, swallowed by the roar of the water, and by the shame curling in my gut.

I sagged against the tile, chest heaving, the aftershocks of release doing nothing to quiet the voice in my head:

You’re so fucked.

The guilt hit immediately—sharp, vicious, and deserved.

I finished showering on autopilot, dried off, and climbed into bed without bothering to turn on any lights.My bedroom was as impersonal as the rest of the apartment: gray walls, white bedding, a single framed photo of my parents on the nightstand.

I stared at the ceiling, my body sated but my mind racing.

This couldn’t happen.Whatever this was—attraction, curiosity, fifteen years of unresolved tension—it couldn’t happen.We worked together.I was on partner track, and I wasn’t throwing away everything I’d worked for because Beau Thatcher had walked back into my life and made me feel things I’d spent years not feeling.

I could absolutely handle this.

Except I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at me tonight—really looked at me, like he saw past the perfect suits and the rigid control to something underneath.Something real.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about how good it had felt to simply talk to someone.To let my guard down, even just a little.