Page 103 of Tuned To Break
“Nearly noon. You’ve been in here for hours.”
“Have I?” She checks her watch, frowning. “I was reviewing the quarterly financials for Arden and got caught up in some discrepancies.”
“Anything serious?”
“No. Just invoicing errors from a few months back—before we implemented the new systems.” She stretches, rolling her shoulders, tension bunching along her neck.
“You look tired,” I observe, moving around her desk to stand behind her chair.
“Just a bit. I’ve been staring at numbers for too long.”
Without asking, I set my hands on her shoulders and work at the knots. She melts under my touch, a soft sigh slipping out that goes straight to my cock.
“That feels amazing,” she murmurs, her head tipping forward as my thumbs dig into the tight spots along her neck.
“You’re wound tighter than José after three Red Bulls,” I tease, easing a stubborn knot. “When’s the last time you took a proper break?”
“I took a break yesterday. For lunch.”
“A ten-minute sandwich at your desk doesn’t count.”
“It does if you’re busy.”
I work down to the tension between her shoulder blades. Heat radiates through the thin fabric of her dress, and when another quiet moan escapes her, I have to bite back one of my own.
“Better?” I ask, voice rougher than intended.
“Much.” She tilts her head back to look at me, and the trust and desire I see in her green eyes makes my chest tight. “You have very talented hands, Mr Walsh.”
“Do I now?” I bend, my mouth close to her ear. “You should see what else I can do with them.”
Her breath hitches; her pulse quickening at her throat. “Jake, we’re at work.”
“Are we?” I glance around the office, noting the closed door, but the blinds are open. In three long strides, I reach the wall of windows, yank the string, and shield us from view of theworkshop. “Looks to me like we’re in a private office with a very comfortable desk.”
“Someone could come in.”
I take another step. “Door’s locked,” I say lightly. I’d turned the deadbolt when I walked in.
I reach her desk, lean down, and spin her chair to face me.
“The guys will notice if we’re both missing.”
“They’re flat out. And if they notice, they’ll assume we’re having a meeting.”
“What kind of meeting?” she asks, breath quickening, resistance crumbling; the current between us is at a low boil.
“A very important discussion about… workplace morale,” I murmur, kissing the sensitive spot behind her ear.
She shivers, and I can feel her melting further. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Among other things.” My hands slide from her shoulders down her arms, then rest on her thighs. Even through the fabric of her dress, I can feel the heat of her skin, and when my thumbs stroke along her inner thighs, she lets out a low whimper.
“Jake,” she breathes—more plea than protest.
“Stand up,” I command softly.
She rises without question, and I swear to God that alone makes me want to forget all about professionalism.
