Page 21 of Grace

The meeting drags on, and I’m steadily trying to focus on the words, take fewer notes, understand what’s being said under all the business talk.

Then Daniel’s hand brushes mine. His forearm is against mine on my arm rest. Assuming he needs more space, knowing that touching could be something of a problem, or at least it would distract me, I move my arm so it’s against my thigh.

“Cut the high-level talk. If you have to make it more complicated to explain it, then you don’t understand it,” Daniel spits out.

The man up front changes how he’s speaking and suddenly, I understand. Which also means I see a whole lot of loopholes that can be used and serious issues being ignored. How can they make a proposal like this while completely overlooking the obvious problems? These are the kinds of things that people whodon’t knowI.T. would point out, let alone hackers.

I nod along to the meeting, then feel a weight on my thigh. I ignore it until something brushes across my knee. Since I have on a pencil skirt, I’m hyperaware of Mr. Brooks’s pinky lazily dragging over my skin, rubbing as if it’s calming him down one stroke at a time.

Staring at his hand still doesn’t connect the dots in my head. When he starts to use his whole hand, I can’t pretend that it’s notintentional. His fingers spread around my knee, then drag up slowly. I think he says something to the other men in the room, but my temperature shoots up until I’m sure I’m blushing and burning up.

I adjust my shirt, trying for casual, but his fingers slip along the inside of my knee, his pinky disappearing under the fabric of my skirt. I glance at him from the corner of my eyes and see he’s focused on the meeting. He even asks questions.

Maybe he doesn’t know he’s touching me or sending me into a tailspin. There’s a table in here instead of a desk, but would he put me on it, lay me back, tear my button-up shirt right down the middle as his hand pushes all the way under my skirt and to my panties where—

No, no, no…

I let out a little gasp, then grab my skirt and pull it down as quickly as I can without anyone noticing. It doesn’t do anything to change what’s happening. It doesn’t change that I like what Mr. Brooks is doing. It sure as hell doesn’t stop my heart from trying to hammer out of my chest.

What if he doesn’t stop? What if he keeps going higher? There are other people here. What if they see and get the wrong idea?My thoughts get louder and louder until the room doesn’t matter. All that matters are the eyes that could turn my way to notice that Daniel is touching me, lightly stroking the inside of my thigh.

Squeezing my legs together, I suck in a deep breath and end up dropping my pen. I can’t do this. Just letting my dirty thoughts get the best of me like last time ended up with me sent home because I was ‘sick’ even though I’m betting he knew what was happening even then, or he wouldn’t be playing this game with me now.

“Mr. Brooks?” someone asks.

“I was very clear. Leave the room. I need to think this over before we continue. For the second half of your report, keep it direct and straight forward. Stop backing away from the problems you see and spell them out so we can attack them,” Mr. Brooks says, authority rolling off him in waves.

His hand retreats, lying on the armrest while I start to get up.

“Not you, Grace,” he says clearly, but his voice is much gentler than before.

My face must be redder than my hair now. He doesn’t move from his chair, but he slowly strokes his fingertips over my thigh. “Are you distracted, upset, or… turned on?”

I stare at him, our eyes catching. There’s something dark and needy in his gaze. He leans closer. “Use your words.”

“I… why are… I…” I can’t mange more than nonsense, apparently.

He tightens his grasp on my knee, then uses one finger to spread my legs as he inches closer to me. Oh, dear God. Every breath feels like a choking hazard when I have all his attention on me. He tilts his head to the side. “Are you nervous about something?”

“They could have seen you…”

“Doing what? Stroking your knee?” he guesses.

I nod weakly.

“Does it turn you on?” he asks, his voice rougher, huskier.

I swallow. Answering feels so dangerous. “Y–Yes, sir.”

He groans and rests forward. “And yesterday, you were turned on. That’s why you couldn’t focus and that’s why you ran from me last night?”

“Yes, sir,” I breathe.

He grunts. “Good girl.”

eleven

Alittle whimper I don’t recognize leaves my throat, and I realize he’s not the only one who’s pushing boundaries. I’m slipping closer to him, as if he’s going to follow those two words with a kiss that will have me questioning my sanity and every thought swirling though my head.

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