Page 12 of His to Command

The question feels invasive, as if he knows about my dreams. "Fine, thank you."

Now he turns, eyes scanning me from head to toe. "Liar."

Heat floods my face. "Mr. Roth?—"

"Hudson."

"—I don't think this is appropriate workplace conversation."

He steps closer. "You didn't sleep. Neither did I."

My heart stutters. "We have a 9 AM meeting with legal," I say, desperate to return to professional ground.

A slight smile curves his mouth, knowing, triumphant. He lets me redirect, but his eyes promise this conversation isn't over.

The day unfolds in a series of charged moments. During the legal meeting, Hudson sits beside me rather than at the head of the table, his thigh occasionally pressing against mine beneath the polished surface. In the elevator between meetings,he stands too close, his breath stirring the hair near my ear. At lunch in his private dining room, he watches me eat with an intensity that makes swallowing difficult.

Each moment builds on the last, creating a current of tension that hums beneath my skin. I try to focus on work, on the actual responsibilities of my job, but his constant proximity makes it impossible. My body betrays me, hypersensitive to his every movement.

By evening, I'm exhausted from the effort of maintaining composure. The office empties gradually, until it's just us on the executive floor. Hudson has been in back-to-back meetings all afternoon, and I've used the reprieve to catch up on actual work, to remember that I'm more than this bundle of nerves and inappropriate desires.

At 8:45 PM, his office door opens. "Robin."

I look up from my computer. He's removed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves. The formal armor stripped away, revealing the dangerous man beneath.

"I need you to take notes while I prepare for tomorrow's board meeting."

I should say no. I should cite labor laws, reasonable work hours. Instead, I gather my tablet and follow him into his office like a moth drawn to destroying flame.

He's arranged documents across the conference table in his office rather than working from his desk. Another strategy—sitting side by side instead of across from each other, eliminating the barrier between us. I take the seat he indicates, careful to maintain space between us.

"The Anderson merger," he begins, sliding a folder toward me. "I need all the weaknesses identified and countered before I present to the board."

We work together in a rhythm that would be comfortable if not for the undercurrent of awareness that makes my skinprickle. He's professional, focused, brilliant in his analysis. I match him point for point, finding flaws in the proposal that even he missed. For brief moments, I forget the tension as we engage intellectually, challenging each other's thinking.

Then he reaches across me for a document, his arm brushing my chest, and electricity jolts through me.

"Sorry," he murmurs, not sounding sorry at all.

Hours pass. The city lights blur outside the windows. We order dinner, eating as we work. I grow increasingly aware of small details—the way his jawline tightens when he's thinking, the precise movements of his hands as he arranges papers, the slight indentation between his brows when he concentrates.

"You're staring," he says without looking up.

I flush, caught. "I wasn't."

Now he does look up, eyes locking with mine. "More lies, Robin? I thought we were past that."

"I don't know what we are past," I say, frustration finally breaking through. "I don't know what this is, what you want from me. One minute you're my boss, the next you're...something else. I can't work like this."

His expression darkens. "Can't? Or won't?"

"Does it matter? This is inappropriate. I'm your employee."

"Is that all you are?"

The question hangs between us, dangerous and laden with possibility.

"Yes," I say firmly, though my racing pulse betrays my uncertainty. "That's all I can be."

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