Page 11 of Mine to Ruin

With my heart bungee-jumping to my stomach, I knock on the door Anna indicated and let myself in. I take in the open space with a panoramic view of the strip. Sculptures and paintings decorate his office. A desk with an ergonomic chair sits in front of the big windows, and there’s a black couch with a silver coffee table in the middle of the room, and two doors on each wall.

Something nags at my brain, and I freeze, realizing I let myself in and am alone in his office. Is this a test? Because if yes, I failed. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I sink on the couch, only to jump up again, thinking I should wait for his permission. Where is he? I pace around until the view in front of me ensnares me. My eyes follow the horizon, the Vegas strip, and the fountains offering a show of water forms and colors.

The door opens behind me, and I turn around only to swallow hard. In front of me, in all his glory, is my kissing stranger. Please, no, he can’t be my boss.

His eyes widen and he halts on the spot.

“You? No way! Please no,” I mouth and plead with the universe. This is a cruel joke, or maybe there are hidden cameras, and I am getting punked, that must be it. Anything is better than the alternative. My kissing stranger is my boss, Kian Reyes.

The knowledge sucks the air from my lungs, and I gasp for air––a poor fish caught in an unforgiven net. My heart beats a frantic rhythm, my ears pop. Confusion, incredulity, but also something warm, battle in my stomach where butterflies and nerves elbow each other for a prime spot.

The corners of his eyes stretch with glee and his grin widens as he prowls closer. “So, we meet again.”

“Are you implying you didn’t know it was me?” I cross my arms. He’s lying. My picture is in my portfolio.

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, right.”

Those eyes of his darken, and I am learning he doesn’t like when I don’t believe him.

“I am interested in the art produced, not necessarily the person behind it. If the work impresses me, then I like to meet the creator.” He circles his desk, unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat.

“I don't want what happened between us to get in the way of my job.” I kissed my boss and I liked it—a lot.

I keep replaying it since it happened, so I did more than like it. It was one of those memorable kisses impossible to forget. My mouth dries. I am going to hyperventilate. On his desk is a bottle of water and I eye it with rapt interest. He turns a glass up, fills it and pushes it to me. I gulp it down.

“Why would it?” He sends me an incredulous stare, and it stings.

He sits in his chair like a king on his throne, his legs parted, his face a sculpture of a poker face, and his chin rests on his two index fingers. He scans my portfolio, and he snaps his head up, eyes locking on me.

“Take a seat, please.”

I’m too nervous to sit down, and mutter under my breath, “I kissed you.”

“I am trying to be professional here,” he says, clenching his jaw.

“And I am trying to look at you without knowing how you taste,” I huff, exasperated, yanking at my shirt. It’s getting hot in here.

He jumps from his chair, running his hands through his hair. “Fuck... stop this.”

“We’re going to have to ignore it. Good plan. Good.” I wave him off, and with a forced nonchalance, I add, “Anyway, it wasn’t that memorable. Let’s move on.”

His pupils darken, and the intensity behind his stormy gaze devours me from within. I take a step back, wetting my lips. I did it again. My senses are attuned to his presence, overruled by it, and there is nothing except him.

He prowls over to me, and my back hits the wall. He grabs my face in his hands, tilts my head back, the gray of his eyes keeping me rooted, the greens drowning me.

The same pause as the other night in his movements, the same frantic beat of my heart as I offer a small nod. He presses his lips to mine, and every tingle explodes and spreads on every layer of my body. My hands cross over his neck, and our lips glue together. There is a desperate edge to our kiss, as if we seek for answers toward this pull. I moan into his mouth, and he groans and presses me to him.

I’ve never felt on the brink of my body igniting. But this is close.

I miss his carnal, soft lips the moment they leave mine, and a slight protest escapes me. Why can’t I resist him? I peel my eyes open, and confusion mixes with incredulity on his carved face.

He lets a fuck out. My fingers rush to my swollen lips, and I try to understand how he can go from kissing me to cursing me in the next instant with a vein popping in his neck.

“You kissed me again,” I say breathless.

“You wanted it again,” he replies.

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