Page 57 of Meet Me In The Dark
I hate him for making me such a mess of nerves and barely concealed lust, for acting like he doesn’t feel a damn thing while I’m suffocating in a room full of people oblivious to the tension crackling between us.
It makes me want to break him, to crack that controlled, indifferent mask he wears so effortlessly.
I tap my nails impatiently against the polished tabletop, the sound drowned out by the hum of the meeting around us. My gaze drifts downward, resting on my blouse. It’s professional, respectable, and buttoned too damn high.
My fingers hover over it, hesitating just long enough for my self-respect to protest.
Oh, God. Am I really about to do this? Am I about to objectify myself just for a reaction from him? Am I about to use my sexuality for petty revenge?
Yes. Yes, I am.
Goodbye, feminism. Nice knowing you.
With a quick, subtle movement, I pop open the top button of my blouse. Not low enough to be obscene, but enough that when I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table, my breasts lift.
“Have we considered potential adjustments to the main lobby?” I chime in, my voice steady despite the adrenaline racing through my veins. “The current materials won’t fully reflect natural light.”
My chest rises as Julian shifts beside me. It’s so subtle no one else would notice, but I feel the air grow heavier between us. I don’t dare look his way, but I don’t need to. His gaze feels like a branding iron sliding over my skin.
Gotcha.
His jaw tightens, the only hint of a crack in that carefully crafted mask, and triumph surges through my veins.
“You’re confident this timeline is achievable?” he finally asks, eyes locked firmly on mine.
I smile sweetly, innocence in every curve of my lips. “Absolutely, Mr. Blackwood.”
The room continues to buzz with conversation, so I reach for my water, and let my fingers brush his knuckles in passing, an accidental touch that’s anything but.
His hand curls into a fist on the table.
I offer a small smile, as if to apologize.
When the meeting finally wraps up with a murmur of polite farewells, Julian stands and buttons his jacket.
I push my notes together, the thrill of victory pulsing in my chest as everyone files out.
He watches me silently as I begin to leave. Just before I pass him, I nudge my pen off the table so it falls to the floornear his feet.
“Oh, clumsy me,” I murmur, moving quickly to retrieve it.
Julian starts to bend, but I’m faster. I crouch, and the fabric of my blouse falls forward just enough to offer him a perfect view of the black lace framing curves he’s intimately acquainted with.
I lift my gaze, meeting his dark blue eyes from below.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Then, holding his stare, I finish the sentence so only he can hear it and mouth: “Sir.”
A muscle ticks violently in his jaw, and his eyes blaze with dark promises and threats silently clashing between us.
I rise, hold his gaze long enough to savor the tension, then turn on my heel and walk away, leaving Julian in his precious conference room with only the echo of my heels and a raging stiffness in his pants.
Seventeen
Julian
It’s 5:45 a.m., and the streets are washed in pre-dawn gray. Most of the city is still asleep, recovering from the sins of the night, but I’m awake, driving down the empty roads toward Mateo’s.
I stop at a red light, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. My mind is already tangled in thoughts of Celeste and that meeting last week.
