Page 8 of Breathe for Me

His jaw works, but he doesn’t leave. He looms over me, the silence thick all around us.

Tick, tick, tick, goes the clock on the wall. The elevator hums to life as someone rides it on another floor, and I wince—but he doesn’t notice.

He’s too busy staring at me, like he wants to crack open my skull and read my thoughts. “What would you like to hear, Georgina?”

Oof. In that voice? Deep and rich, with that accent? I’d like this man to read me the phone book, please, from A to Z.

“I’d like to hear the magic word.” My pulse flutters, and I can’t help smirking. His eyes glitter, and he’s amused too. I squeeze the edge of my desk, hardly breathing.

“Employee,” he says.

“Nope.” My desk chair squeaks as I lean forward. “Try again.”

“A raise.”

Ha. “We’ll circle back to that. Keep trying.”

He looks younger like this—when he’s teasing me back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s not quite smiling, but he’s not wearing his usual unhappy frown either.

Most mornings, this man marches straight past my desk, hellbent on his work. He goes to that office like a doomed man to the gallows.

Not today. Today, he’s lingering. “I see. Would you like me to grovel, Georgina?”

And just like that, the image slams into my brain—unwanted but so freaking appealing.

Mr Laurent on his knees, nudging my legs apart. Leaning forward to nibble my inner thigh, bottle green eyes flicking up to me as if to ask:There. Are you happy?Trailing closer and closer to my panties, pushing my dress out of his way, his breath hot and panting—

“Um.” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the porn reel playing in my brain. My face is hot. “It—it starts with ‘s’.”

“Sushi for lunch.”

Ooh, yeah. My stomach growls. “No.”

“Sorrow. Great sorrow.”

I snort—I can’t help it. And god, I wish I didn’t like this man, but here we are. Sometimes the things that are bad for us are the most delicious.

I reach out, catching his hand in the air above my desk. The boss frowns at our joined hands like he’s not quite in control of his limbs either.

“You’resorry.” I squeeze his fingers, secretly thrilled by how long and strong and warm they are. His grip is firm. “Did you miss this day in kindergarten? No, don’t tell me. You were probably getting your doctorate by then.”

A flash of embarrassment. I’m not far off. “I am sorry, Georgina.” His thumb skates over the backs of my knuckles, and I shiver.

Now that we’re joined, it’s like my blood rushes faster. My pulse throbs in my wrists, my throat, and… other places.

But what am I doing, touching him? Teasing my arch nemesis boss, like we’re becoming friends? I’m here for one reason alone: to make this man feel like a steaming pile of horse shit.

So I yank my hand back, and I should feel good about the flicker of hurt across his handsome face.

I don’t. I don’t feel good.

Snatching up Mike Wazowski, I squeeze him until his giant eye bulges. He lets out a long, tortured squeak.

“Your three o’clock canceled.” Courtesy of my meddling. “And pest control needs a date to shut the building. Does Thursday work?”

Right before my eyes, Levi Laurent ages a decade. He pushes back his shoulders; scrubs a palm over his face. “Yes,” he says against his hand. “That works.”

And that’s Levi all over: tumbling into exhaustion and despair, but never thinking to blame anyone else. You know, I don’t think it’s even occurred to him yet that someone might be doing all this to him. Doing it on purpose. ThatImight be the reason he’s so freaking tired and miserable.

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