Page 19 of Executive Privilege

"Thanks," I say, stopping beside my car and fumbling for my keys.

Nicholas stops too, closer than usual.

"Sadie," he says, and there's a roughness in his voice I've never heard before, but have definitely fantasized about.

I look up at him, and something in his eyes makes my breath catch. This is dangerous territory. Whatever's happening right now, whatever's building between us in this dimly lit parking garage, it's going to change everything.

"Nicholas," I whisper, and I'm not sure if it's a warning or an invitation.

He steps closer, eliminating the last inches of space between us. "I should let you go home."

"You should," I agree, but I don't move away.

"This is a bad idea."

"Probably the worst idea ever."

"We work together."

"You're my boss."

"I don't want to be your boss right now," he says, his voice rough with hunger.

And then his hands are in my hair, just like I imagined, and for a second I wonder if I am imagining this, but his mouth is on mine, and every professional boundary we've carefully maintained for the past month explodes into nothing.

The kiss is hungry and his lips are warm and demanding, and when I open my mouth to him, he groans against me like he's been dying for this.

I drop my keys, my purse, everything, and grab the front of his expensive suit jacket to pull him closer. He responds by backing me against my car, his body pressing against mine in a way that makes it very clear this attraction isn't one-sided.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, and the profanity from perfectly controlled Nicholas Blackwood is the hottest thing I've ever heard.

His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, tangling in my hair—and I can't get enough. I've been pretending this tension between us was professional chemistry, but this kiss is proving how much I've been lying to myself.

When he trails his mouth down my neck, I gasp and arch against him. "Nicholas..."

The sound of his name seems to break whatever spell we're under. He pulls back suddenly, breathing hard, his eyes wild.

"Christ," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Sadie, I—"

"Don't," I say quickly, because I can see him already trying to take it back, trying to find a way to make this professional again. "Don't apologize. Don't say it was a mistake."

He stares at me for a long moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "It wasn't a mistake," he says finally. "But it can't happen again."

The words sting, but there's weight in his voice that suggests he's trying to convince himself, not me.

"Can't, or shouldn't?" I ask.

"Both."

I bend down to retrieve my keys, needing to do anything with my hands that isn't touching him. "So what happens now?"

"Now you go home," Nicholas says, his voice carefully controlled again. "And tomorrow we pretend this never happened."

"And the art gallery?"

He's quiet for so long I start to think he's going to cancel. Then: "The art gallery has nothing to do with this."

Which is complete bullshit, and we both know it.