Page 13 of The Boss's Forbidden Assistant

‘Mr da Rocha,’ she murmured, using her best professional, ice-queen voice, then kept walking towards the coffee machine set up on a bar in the communal area of their office.

‘Ms Lawson.’ He frowned, looking at her as if from a long way away. Whatever he’d been reading was clearly engrossing.

‘I’m just getting a coffee,’ she explained unnecessarily, then could have kicked herself for prolonging the encounter. It was as if she couldn’t help herself.

‘Good idea.’ He put the documents down by his side and walked with her to the bar. It was way too small a space for both of them to occupy, given they were sharing it with a cloud of awareness she couldn’t shake. Silence fell, an awkward silence, charged and heavy with words unspoken.

‘After you.’ She gestured to the machine.

‘It was your idea,’ he said with a lift of his shoulders. ‘You go first.’

‘No, I—’

‘Ms Lawson, we’re both too busy to stand here arguing over who gets to use the damned machine first. Make your coffee.’

She flinched, unprepared for the growl in his voice, the tone of his words or the effect they had on her. He was frustrated. Her eyes flew wide as she stared at him, comprehension dawning. It wasn’t about the coffee. This was something more—the same drugging need that made it impossible for Harper to sleep or think was overtaking him. Wasn’t it? Was it? She could have screamed with annoyance, because she truly didn’t know. She suspected so, but everything was so murky. Perhaps it was just her own feelings making it impossible to see his clearly?

She fed a pod into the machine and waited for the liquid to spool out, not daring to look anywhere near his direction. But that didn’t matter. She could feel him. She could hear him. Each exhalation wrapped around her, breathed through her, as tantalising and distracting as the rolling waves of the ocean and the salty sea breeze that was gently brushing through the open windows. Birds sang outside, breaking through her fog, or perhaps adding to the magic of what she was feeling.

‘All done,’ she said, snatching the cup quickly from the machine and turning to leave. Only she turned too fast, without looking properly, and bumped right into Salvador-bloody-da-Rocha’s impressive wall of abdominals.

She groaned and pressed a palm to her forehead.Seriously?

‘I’m so sorry,’ she muttered, sounding angry rather than apologetic. After all, he’d been standing too close, he’d been... No. It had been her fault. She’d been so desperate to escape him, before she said or did something really stupid, and instead she’d done this.

She lifted a hand, pressed it to the dark stain spreading across his chest and felt the moment he breathed in, hard and fast, the second her fingers pressed to his shirt. His reaction was unmistakable, the power of that single breath sapping her willpower, her knowledge of what was right and necessary.

‘Mr da Rocha,’ she pleaded, looking up at him even as he lifted a hand and curved his fingers around her wrist, holding her hand right where it was.

‘Yes, Ms Lawson?’ he volleyed, his voice steady but slightly off-pitch. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly filled with dust.

‘I...’ She stalled, unsure what she’d been about to say. ‘If you tell me where your room is, I’ll go get you a clean shirt. I— That was so clumsy of me.’

‘You were running away.’

Her eyes widened at his perceptive, frank assessment.

‘Yes.’ She couldn’t deny it. Her eyes fluttered shut. His grip on her wrist tightened then relaxed, his thumb padding over her sensitive flesh so she was awash with awareness.

‘It’s smart of you.’

Neither moved. They were so close. If she inched forward just a little, their bodies would be touching. With his eyes still on hers, his hand holding her wrist where it was, he lifted his other to the top button of his shirt and flicked it, effortlessly parting one side of fabric from the other, then the next button and the next, revealing mahogany skin and a sprinkling of dark hair that arrowed towards his trousers.

Oh, good Lord.

Even with one hand holding hers he was able to unbutton the whole shirt and shrug out of one side of it, but as he reached the other he had to let go of her wrist.

It was a turning point. The moment she could have stepped backwards, stung, and quickly left the room. Instead, she stayed where she was, looking up at him, helpless, flooded with desire and desperate to see more of him. She’d dreamed of him for the last two nights, sensual, high-fantasy dreams that had been filled with what she imagined his naked form looked like. But now she had a chance to colour her vision better and she wasn’t going to squander it.

Swallowing, she held her ground as he removed the shirt completely and placed it on the counter to his right, where the coffee machine was.

Her eyes followed the action, then returned to his chest, drinking in the sight of him, the beauty of his sculpted chest, his masculine frame and his leanly muscled arms. He smelled woody and spiced, and her stomach churned, the fragrance drawing her in almost as completely as the sight of him.

‘You’re beautiful,’ she said simply, repeating his observation of her from the night before.

His lips quirked into a half-smile then dropped, a look of frustration crossing his face.

‘Ms Lawson—’

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