Page 91 of When Hearts Ignite

My face heats at his message, and my fingers fly over the keys.

Grace

You sound like a vampire from one of the romances I read.

Steven

I’m beginning to understand the drivel you read. I just want to keep you tethered to me so I can kiss you and smell you and fuck you at my whim. You make me feel so many things. It’s like I’m seeing the world for the first time with you.

My heart bolts to my throat at his words and what he’s not saying. We haven’t had time to be together since the weekend because every minute of our day has been devoted to work, whether it’s late nights or early mornings.

He’d insist on driving me home each night. His eyes would rove over my neighborhood, a few blocks away from Columbia University, in approval. No more strange neighborhood kids smoking pot on the steps or graffiti on the walls. Considering we’d leave the office well after midnight each day except for last night, when I had a standing dinner date with Taylor, we were too exhausted to do anything else.

But he’d kiss me. Those bone-melting, heart racing kisses that made my panties wet. The ones that made us want to give the middle finger to catching a few hours of sleep to prepare for the next day, and instead tangle ourselves in each other’s arms, finding the various ways we could make each other groan in pleasure.

“I’ve never had the urge to kiss anyone until you, and now all I can think of is the taste of your lips, the sweetness, the drug.”

He told me that was his golden rule in the past and my heart can’t help but skip several beats every time his lips touch mine. It’s as if he can’t get enough, like he has saved all his kisses for me. In the early morning hours, when we resumed our private breakfast dates, he’d bring the freshest bagels from Estrelle’s, a popular bakery I had always wanted to try, but was too expensive for my tastes.

“Any plans for the weekend?” I’d asked, a teasing smile on my face. Just like the old times, but also very different.

“Spending it with the woman who has captured my heart,” was his response, and I blushed, pretending not to know who he was talking about before he laughed in that sexy deep voice of his and he’d then kiss me softly on the lips. We spent half the time working side by side in his office, and the other half making out like horny teenagers.

The last few days have been like an extended foreplay.

He isn’t like any other men I’ve encountered in the past. Not like my one ex-boyfriend, not like Mom’s exes. He has made me feel treasured, loved, and safe. The only person who has ever made me feel a fraction of what he does was Uncle Bobby, who took that feeling of security with him when he left us.

The thumping in my chest, the way my breath catches when I see him striding down the hallways at the office, the way my nerves awaken and spark with energy when he grazes my fingers as he passes by, or when he pulls me into darkened corners for a brief kiss are all signs my body and heart are giving me that I’m in way over my head.

The feelings I have for him are burgeoning, growing at the speed of light, and I’m helpless to stop it. And if I were to be honest with myself, I don’t want to stop it.

But deep down, there’s an insidious thread of fear which reveals itself right before I fall asleep, a hollow voice from deep inside my soul warning me…this is the honeymoon phase, he’s a rich man, and haven’t you met enough rich assholes to last you for a lifetime? What if he’s just like the rest of them? What if he ends up being a disappointment and leaves you after pulverizing the rest of your heart into powder?

A sharp ache slices through me at the thought, and I quickly brush it away as I type my response.

Grace

You’ve given my world color too, Steven. You have a big heart that was hidden under layers of smoke and dust. If only you could see what I see.

He doesn’t respond after that, and my heart can’t stop the disappointment from creeping in. Was I too intimate? Sometimes, words can feel more intimate the sex and kisses.

“If it isn’t our resident gold digger slacking off in the copy room,” a nasally screechy voice draws my attention from my rioting thoughts. Andrea sneers at me as she and the other girl I bumped into that day at the bathroom stride in, acting like they own the company.

Rolling my eyes, I straighten up and cross my arms. “Cut it out already, will you? It’s hard enough being a woman on Wall Street without us backstabbing each other. What’s your deal?”

She snarls, steps forward, and raises her voice. “My problem is you. You’ve always gotten special attention from Mr. Kingsley. What does he see in you, anyway? Those wide, innocent eyes are as fake as shit.”

I move to sidestep her, not wanting to draw a crowd, but she grabs my arm in a tight clasp.

“Let go of me.”

“What if I don’t want to? What are you going to do about it, you slut? You think you’re better than us because you can crunch numbers and offer some insight? Well, I tell you, you’re even more pathetic than us. You’re from the slums, pretending you belong, and now you’re just sleeping your way to the top. It’s disgusting. God knows that’s probably how you got the job in the first place—”

I twist her arm around and grab her wrist in return. We’re officially drawing a crowd, and out of the corner of my eyes, I see the familiar silhouettes of Chuck and Bradley, along with some other colleagues hovering by the doorway, no one making a move to stop this banshee from attacking me.

Fucking lemmings.

Andrea shrieks.

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