Page 25 of The Devil You Know

I cross the room to grab another box of files and catch his gaze on the seam of my stockings, traveling up to the hem of my skirt. His jaw shifts, and he throws down his pen in disgust, looking away.

Maybe I’m not the only one who’s distracted.

“You okay?” I ask. “You look like you’re having a stroke.”

“It’s cute that you’re worried about me,” he says, even more irritated than before.

“It’s cute that you think that was worry, not optimism.”

I dump the box on the table and go to the other end of the room, mostly because I need space from him. I pop a coffee pod in the Nespresso, though I’m already so wired I half-expect small sparks to shoot from my fingertips momentarily.

“How are things with Thomas?” he asks.

I turn, squinting in confusion. “Who?”

“Your chef, with his romantic cottage on the shore.”

“You continually utter the word chef as if it’s a euphemism,” I reply. “It’s a real job.”

“And you say chef as if he’s Gordon Ramsay, when he’s probably just the guy in charge of the deep fryer at Bennigan’s.”

The devil on my shoulder is suddenly there, goading me louder than he ever has before, manipulating me like I’m his fucking marionette. I’ve led an extremely careful life. It’s that thing inside me that wants to overthrow the system. That wants to take my career and my future and my carefully honed image and set them on fire. “Someone like that will get a lot further with me than you ever will,” I say.

He’s gone instantly alert, an animal about to pounce. Suddenly all his focus is on me, and it makes my breath catch in my throat with its intensity.

“Oh, is that right?” he asks, the muscles in his forearm tensing as he tightens the grip on his pen. His eyes sweep down my body, and I swear I can feel his gaze like it’s a physical touch. “And why is that?”

There’s a tension to his voice, a challenge. Goose bumps crawl over my skin. My nipples tighten until they’re visible beneath the thin fabric of my blouse, and his eyes dart immediately to my chest.

I touch my neck. “You wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

I am throwing down a gauntlet I know he can’t pick up.

His gaze sharpens. And then he rises from his chair. “What did you just say?”

My breath skitters over my lips while I contemplate repeating it, but I’ve done this before, and it didn’t end well for me. “Nothing.”

His steps glide over the carpeted floor—slowly, purposefully—until he is directly in front of me. My pulse triples.

“No, I want you to say it again.”

His eyes dip to my mouth, and I find words emerging from my throat, words I don’t approve of.

“Fine. You. Wouldn’t. Know. What. To—”

His hands slide through my hair, gripping it tight, and then his mouth is on mine.

His lovely, full mouth. I shiver at the perfection of it. Kissing him is like sinking into a warm bath when you’re freezing cold. His lips open, his tongue teases, and everything about him is suddenly soft and warm and hungry. His hands, holding my face, are firm and rough, possessive and gentle all at once. The voice in my head screaming, “but we hate Ben!” is overridden by every ounce of blood in my body, which is straining toward him.

He pulls away only long enough to breathe, and then he’s back, even harder now, more determined. His hands slide down my back and grab my ass firmly, as if it’s the award he’s wanted to snatch for years. The hard bulge of him, pressing into my abdomen, makes that devil crow with delight.

I already know how he’d be in bed—the way he’d be so fucking focused until the end, pinning me with his gaze until he started to fall apart. There’s nothing I want more right now than to watch Ben Tate wind tighter and tighter until he explodes.

My fingers dig into his hair, desperate for that moment; it can’t come soon enough.

He pulls away though. His eyes are hazy, intense—but there’s a hint of a smirk on his mouth, which suggests maybe this wasn’t about me at all. Maybe he just wanted to fucking win.

I push him away, missing the heat of him even as I do it. His smile doesn’t fade at all, smug fucking asshole that he is. If he thinks he’s won something, he’s gravely mistaken.