The heels I chose this morning were a mistake. Not just because they were high enough to make my feet scream halfway through the walk, but because they made me feel like I was trying too hard to look powerful—when inside, I was an absolute mess.
I hadn't even gotten past the lobby when I saw it—the building. Modern, massive, and soulless. Just like the night I was trying so hard to forget.
The doors opened with a soft hiss. The air-conditioning blasted my skin. And the minute I stepped in, the scent of polished marble and too-expensive cologne dragged a memory up from the depths.
Flashback—Two Weeks Ago
My back hit the hotel room wall with a gasp. Ian's lips were on mine, his hands hot and greedy, his body pressing into me like he wanted to drown in me.
"I shouldn't be doing this," he murmured against my neck, even as he pulled my dress up and tore the strap with a snap of his hand.
"Then stop," I dared him, even as I arched into his touch.
He didn't stop. He worshipped. He devoured.
I had never felt so wanted.
Present—
I cleared my throat and shook the heat from my skin. My ID badge was still backwards as I walked toward the elevator, nerves thrumming like violin strings. Becky's pep talk replayed in my mind: "Just walk in like you own the damn place. Don't let a man—especially a boss—rattle you."
If only she knew.
The elevator dinged at the top floor.
And that was when I saw him.
Ian Stone.
Standing there like the goddamn CEO of sin himself, in a suit tailored so perfectly it should've been illegal. His tie was slightly loose. His jaw tight. And when his eyes locked with mine?
Fuck.
My knees nearly buckled.
His expression froze. Just for a split second. That same mouth—the one that had kissed every inch of my body—pressed into a line. And then it softened. Almost imperceptibly.
"Miss Rosewood," he said, his voice low, calm, and dangerous.
Flashback—Hotel Room
My moan echoed in the room as his tongue teased me, relentless, slow, and maddening. I'd begged. I had actually begged.
And when I came undone on his mouth, he'd looked up with the cockiest smile I'd ever seen. "Still scared?" he whispered before flipping me onto the bed like I weighed nothing.
"Mr. Stone," I replied, just as coolly, stepping into his office.
The air shifted. The silence wasn't empty—it was charged.
He walked past me, so close I could feel the heat off his body. "You'll be working directly under me," he said, his voice rough.
My brain short-circuited at under.
He glanced at me, reading my reaction like a book.
"And I expect professionalism," he added, his tone clipped now. Cold. "No personal entanglements. Whatever… history we have—it's irrelevant here."
I blinked. Did he seriously just gaslight the night of my sexual awakening into a line on a company HR memo?
"Crystal clear," I said, jaw tight.
He leaned back against his desk and looked at me. Really looked.
"You were a virgin," he said, suddenly.
My stomach dropped. My mouth parted. "Excuse me?"
"That night," he said, his voice softer now. "I shouldn't have—" He stopped. Closed his eyes. "But I can't stop thinking about you."
My heartbeat stuttered.
"I dream about you. I wake up hard and angry, and I hate it," he muttered.
"Ian—" I whispered, my voice cracking.
His eyes darkened. "Say my name like that again and I'll lose every ounce of control."
I took a step back. I needed distance. Space. Oxygen.
Too late.
He was already standing in front of me, and his fingers brushed mine—just a ghost of a touch. But it was electric.
"You're my assistant now," he said, voice raw. "So I'll behave."
But his eyes said something else entirely: I'm going to break every rule for you eventually.
I sat behind my sleek new desk, pretending to check emails while actually watching him pace in his glass-walled office. The tension was ridiculous. I could feel his gaze every time I moved. Like I was a walking, talking trigger for all the things we weren't allowed to do anymore.
He hadn't spoken to me again since that whispered confession. But he didn't need to. His body language screamed it.
At one point, he slammed a file shut so hard the glass rattled. The man was fraying at the seams—and honestly? I wasn't far behind.
Be cool, Bianca, I told myself.
And then he called me in.
"Close the door," he said the moment I stepped inside.
The air shifted again—thicker, heavier. Like the walls were holding their breath with me.
I shut the door. Slowly. "Yes, Mr. Stone?"
He was standing by the window, jaw clenched so tight I could practically hear the grind.
"You need to stop looking at me like that," he said.
"Like what?" I asked, my voice thinner than I wanted.
"Like you remember how my mouth felt between your legs."
Jesus.
I sucked in a breath.
"And how you moaned my name when I slid inside you the first time," he added, his tone gravel and gasoline.
I swore my knees buckled. My thighs pressed together instinctively.
"Ian," I warned, "this is not professional."
"Neither was waking up to an empty bed with no name," he snapped, turning to face me fully.
Boom.
There it was. The wound. The sting behind the seduction.
"I panicked," I said softly. "I didn't even know who you were."
"And now that you do?"
"I'm even more scared."
We stared at each other. The air was electric. One step. One inch closer and we'd burn the place down.
"I want to kiss you," he said suddenly, his voice hoarse. "Right now. On that desk."
"Ian…"
He stalked toward me, stopping just a breath away. "But I won't," he growled. "Because you need this job. And I'm your boss."
He stepped back. The restraint in his eyes was agony.
"Now go back to your desk," he said. "Before I ruin us both."
Later that Day
Becky called during lunch. I stepped out to the terrace, phone pressed to my ear.
"So? How's Day One with the mystery man?" she chirped.
I groaned. "He's my boss, Becky."
"No. Freaking. Way. Is he still hot in daylight?"
"Worse," I whispered. "He's like... an alpha male in a Tom Ford suit. And he remembers everything."
There was silence. Then a low whistle.
"Girl, you're gonna combust."
"I already am," I muttered. "And he's trying to stay away but I swear, it's like we're magnets with boundary issues."
Becky laughed. "Just don't jump him in the break room. Or do. But if you do, film it."
I rolled my eyes, but her voice grounded me. Just enough to survive the rest of the day.
Evening – Office Empty
The building was quiet. Everyone had gone home.
Except us.
I was organizing files. He was in his office pretending not to watch me.
I dropped a folder. Bent to pick it up.
He was behind me in seconds.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he breathed against my neck.
I turned. And this time—I didn't step back.
"I know," I whispered. "Because it's happening to me too."
He looked tortured. Torn between impulse and responsibility.
Then—his hand slid to my hip.
"I told myself I'd behave."
"Then maybe I should leave."
He didn't let go. "Don't."
His grip on my waist was gentle, hesitant. Like he knew he was on the edge of something reckless and still wanted to fall.
I looked up at him, and for a second, everything else melted away—the office, the rules, the stupid logic that said we shouldn't.
"You should go," he whispered, eyes burning into mine. "Before I forget every reason not to taste you again."
I didn't move.
And that was all it took for him to almost kiss me.
Almost.
A sudden, sharp cough shattered the moment.
I stepped back like I'd been burned, heart pounding so loud I thought it might crack open.
Standing by the door was her. Naomi.
Sharp cheekbones, a tighter skirt, and eyes filled with venom.
"Oh," she said, her tone sugary but fake. "Didn't realize you were… still working."
Her gaze dropped to where Ian's hand had just been.
"I was just dropping off the Jasper file," she said, walking forward and placing the folder on the desk with all the drama of a mic drop.
Ian cleared his throat. "Thank you, Naomi."
She gave him a sweet smile. "Of course, Mr. Stone."
And just like that, she turned and sashayed out. But not before tossing me a look that promised war.
Four Weeks Later
Naomi never said a word about what she saw that night.
She didn't need to.
Suddenly I had double the workload, double the side-eyes, and a triple helping of office gossip thrown my way.
But I didn't care. Not really.
Because, Ian?
He was worse.
Worse at pretending.
Worse at keeping his eyes off me.
Every meeting turned into an Olympic sport of stolen glances. Every email felt loaded with subtext. And every time he brushed past me in the hallway, the air cracked like lightning.
We were both drowning in restraint—and loving the ache of it.
Late nights became our quiet battlefield. He'd linger. I'd stay behind under the excuse of "overtime." But we never crossed that line again.
Almost. Always almost.
But it was those small things that ruined me:
The way he'd tug at his tie when I entered the room.
The one time his hand accidentally grazed mine and he froze like he'd touched fire.
The night he called me into his office, stared at me for a full minute, and then just said, "Never mind."
My sleep was a mess. My dreams were always tangled sheets, whispered moans, and Ian's voice in my ear.
And the worst part?
I liked it. Craved it.
I was losing it over a man I shouldn't even be looking at.