I’d even tried to use David for inspiration. Once. But like all the other nights, I shut my eyes, imagining nothing at all. Pushing back a sheet of red hair over my shoulders, I let my hands skim over the button of my white blouse, let them float to the lace between my legs. When they find warm and wet contact, the touch on my clit turns electric, my eyes drifting closed only to find a familiar face—gorgeous and strong-jawed—behind my darkened eyelids.
I fling my eyes open immediately, startled to discover my skin hotter than ever at the thought of… Heath.
I’d snatch my hands away, but the heat makes them stay. An attraction, raw and without reason, quickens the pace of my delving hands. Fanning its way across my body, a blush brushes its way down my thighs, and in the midst of a tiny moan, dreaming about the dusting of dark hair along Heath’s jaw, the deep brown crop of strands at his temples matching his earthy irises, those goddamned shoulders broad enough to take a seat on, I discover an ecstasy I’d thought I’d lost, my pulse picking up, my skin twitching as warm sensations take me over, washing over my entire being.
Because despite his cockiness, his imposition, and the fact that he pokes at my most sensitive nerves… Heath Sparrow has a sexiness that can’t be denied.
I—like every other woman with a pulse—am utterly incapable of ignoring it. I wish I could…because within minutes, I am panting at the thought of Heath’s hands, his wicked smile—his lips. My fingers sliding frantically across my clit, circling and sinking, the hot as hell image of Heath brings me to the brink, an impending orgasm streaming through my system when suddenly… I’m not the only person coming.
The sound of heavy footsteps echo across the carpet outside my office, and I bolt upwards in my leather chair, nearly knocking my laptop over, my fingers snatching from my skin as if the very surface were on fire.
“What’s going on?”
The steps across the threshold behind me throttle my senses, and I grab for the hidden bottle of mace in my purse, wrapping my shaking fingers around the plastic tube before turning to face whatever stranger might be dawdling in my doorway.
I pivot, poised to spray when a pair of cocoa eyes stare back at me.
It’s the devil himself…and he’s staring at me, his brown eyes scanning my body with a sleep-like gaze—hooded and dangerously sexy.
I can barely breathe as my brain scrambles to catch up with my mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I pant.
I exhale like I’ve been running a marathon, and Heath—coolly decked in blue jeans and a white tee—regards me closely, his earthy eyes squinting as he gazes openly at me through the room’s muted light.
He steps closer, and I thank the universe that the room is too dim for him to see the sweat at my neck. He glances around the small square space.
“I left behind some notes. Thought they might be in here…” he trails off, his dark brows lowering. “Do you always stay in here after hours?”
His reproach plays teasingly on the edge of a question. Speaking with the conviction that says he already knows the answer, his low voice rumbles as always, his blatant approach and presence placing a sudden weight in the room, making a palpable tension thrum through the air.
His deep voice steals what little is left of mine, and I try to push through my sudden shyness, the accusation in his eyes and the faint smell of my dampness creating a thickness in my throat that makes it hard to breathe.
His broad chest fills the entirety of the doorway.
It is almost intimidating…but I scrounge every inch of my integrity to fight back against the shrinking of my own ego.
I inhale slowly. “I work here every night.”
Heath simply stares. “Hard at it, it seems.”
He blinks innocently, the hint of a smile on his face revealing anything but innocence. And I wonder: Could he have heard my tiniest of moans?
Indignation inflames under my breast, trumping embarrassment, and I scramble to straighten the reports on my desk, turning stolidly away.
“Right. So if you’ll excuse me…” I say, standing.
“I don’t think I will, actually.” Heath walks several steps to plant himself in front of me. I suck in a breath that hurts, and he inches close enough to almost touch me.
“Now, everybody here at the firm can keep pretending to play nice…or I can take advantage of this extremely rare moment alone with you to tell you what I suspect you already know…because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t take such extreme measures to avoid me like you do.”
Heath eyes me, his jaw tilting by the slightest fraction.
“Don’t lie, Keats.” He sucks in a breath, blowing it out of his nostrils. “Is this firm planning to represent clients who may sue Chris Jackson?”
The beat of my heart picks up at the mention of Brett’s father’s name. It’s a name that’s unspeakable in this building, and with the unfortunate incident involving Managing Partner Fitzgerald Sparrow AKA Heath’s dad, nobody wanted to touch any case implicating the long-time friend to the firm.
At least, nobody but me.
The truth? The firm wasn’t representing clients looking to sue Chris Jackson.
But I was.
Secretly vetting some of his most-affected victims after official office hours, I’d hoped my late-night sessions—sexual or otherwise—wouldn’t catch up with me. But I should have known that I would never fool a man like Heath, who was as sharp as he was shrewd. As sexy as he was sinister.
He looks at me, his cinnamon eyes blazing under the dim light.
“King & Sparrow is a good firm,” he utters slowly, “…but it could be great. Our focus is too litigation-based, our arguments uninspired. Our research has become stagnant, and what’s worse is that we’re better than this.”
“We’re?” I lift a skeptical eyebrow.
Heath glares. “Yes, we’re. I’m here now, aren’t I? That makes me part of the firm’s future. For now, at least…”
His last sentence is scarily ominous, but I ignore it.
“Our staff is too fucking good to put up with any ratings-grabbing bullshit. That’s why I’ve banned any talk of representing Chris or any of his crooked ass associates.” He glances quickly behind him. “But if you think you have a shot at going against him, I do have some notes I want to share with you…if you can stand being in the same room with me long enough to look them over.”
It’s a question. Not a command.
A first for a male Sparrow, I’m sure.
Heath Sparrow—the mighty Heath Sparrow—just set a record by making a decision that was entirely self-motivated. In the low amber light, he looks different today—stronger somehow. It’s almost as if the curtain of cold he keeps up has set as soon as the sun does, and when he leaves the room and returns, a heap of notes in his hands, I am breathless, my body struggling to adjust to this new man before me, who seems so much stranger than the last.
He places his folders on the edge of my desk, pulling up a chair. I sit and as we work in silence, the room grows still around us, the atmosphere turning thick. You could cut the tension between us with a well-placed spoon and as I watch Heath’s full lips part to speak, a cell phone rings, shattering the uncomfortable quiet between us.