Page 149 of Their Arrangement
I froze. Halfway to sitting. My pulse stuttered. A flush crept up my neck. Not embarrassment. Awareness.
Heat spread low in my belly like an echo of breath on skin. He hadn’t told me. Hadn’t warned me. Hadn’t asked. But I knew.
There was only one man in this building who would move something just far enough to make a point. Just enough to claim me without ever laying a hand.
I sat slowly. Like I was lowering myself into somethingsacred. Something dangerous. Every inch of my skin prickled with heat. Not because I was afraid. Because I was seen. Because I was rearranged.
The glass wall of his office gleamed in the morning light. From this angle, I couldn’t miss it. Couldn’t pretend I wasn’t framed in his view.
I glanced up.
And of course—he was there. Seated. Still. Head tilted slightly. One hand at his mouth. Eyes locked on me.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Just sat there. And let me feel it. Let me feel the weight of the new arrangement. Let me feel what it meant to be turned. Just enough. To face him.
My thighs pressed together under the desk. A pulse throbbed between them. Heavy. Demanding.
I adjusted my skirt. Lowered the hem. Didn’t help. The lace beneath was already clinging. The corset bit into my ribs with every breath. The silk blouse stuck to the curve of my spine.
I typed.
Or tried to.
My hands shook. My breathing shortened. The sound of my own keystrokes echoed too loud in the silence. Too sharp. Too fast. Everyone around me moved normally. Answered phones. Sipped coffee. Flipped papers.
But me?
I was centered. Positioned. My whole body aligned like a compass.
And Wolfe?
Hewas the needle now.
The pull. The anchor. He’d tilted my desk like it was nothing. And made me orbit him like it was everything.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
I liked being turned. I liked knowing he’d moved me to face him. I liked wondering how long he’d planned it. I couldn’t stop glancing at the glass. Because every time I looked up…
He was still there.
Still watching. Still waiting. Still owning me—inch by inch, breath by breath—without ever moving from his chair.
My fingers hovered above the keyboard, frozen mid-keystroke.
And then?—
It hit me.
Low.
Deep.
A sudden twist of pressure in my belly. Dull at first. Then sharp. Coiling into something unmistakable.
Pain. Not the corset. Not arousal. Worse.
