Page 20 of Stuffed

The way she says my name shouldn't affect me this much. "Just being thorough."

"Hmm." She perches on the edge of my desk, crossing her legs. The skirt rides up just slightly, exposing a delicious sliver of her bare skin. "Then let's be thorough."

She pulls out her reports, and I force myself to focus on the papers rather than how close she's sitting. How good she smells. How those glasses make her look like every librarian fantasy I never knew I had.

"Your Q3 projections," I say roughly. "Walk me through them."

"Of course." She slides closer, pointing to a chart. Her perfume—that sweet, sultry fucking perfume—wraps around me. "As you can see, we're anticipating a fifteen percent growth rate…"

I try to listen. I really do. But she keeps adjusting those damn glasses, keeps biting her lip while she explains things. Keeps existing in my space like she belongs there.

"Are you even listening?" she asks softly.

"What?"

"I just said we're planning to sell unicorn tears, and you nodded."

"I'm listening."

"Really?" She turns to face me fully, still perched on my desk. "What did I just say about our cost analysis?"

"You…" I trail off, caught in her knowing smile.

"That's what I thought." She leans forward slightly. "Distracted, Mr. Mercer?"

"You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?" She shrugs, pure innocence behind those frames.

"Playing with fire," I growl.

"Am I?" She adjusts her glasses again, and I snap.

My hand shoots out, catching her wrist. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" Her pulse races under my fingers.

"The glasses thing. The desk thing. All of it."

"Make me."

The challenge in her voice hits me low in the gut. I step between her legs, still holding her wrist. "Careful, Miss Marlow."

"Or what?" She doesn't back down, just tilts her chin up. "You'll finally do something about this tension between us?"

"There is no tension."

"No?" She slides forward slightly. "Then why are you still holding my wrist?"

I release her instantly, stepping back. "This is inappropriate."

"What's inappropriate is how long you've been fighting this." She stands, following me. "How long we've been dancing around each other."

"Tessa—"

"Tell me you don't feel it too." She's close now, too close. "Tell me I'm imagining things."

"You're not imagining it," I admit roughly. "But that doesn't make it right."

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