It was almost 9 PM. The courthouse was dark behind me, just a few scattered lights still glowing through tall windows. My body ached from the long day, hours of cross-examination, paperwork, and forced diplomacy. All I wanted was a hot shower, something stronger than coffee, and sleep. I was halfway to my car when it hit me.
Shit.
The flask.
My flask.
The one with my initials engraved, gifted by my late grandfather, who'd said, "Don't ever let anyone else touch it, Saint. Respect and boundaries, those are earned." No one was allowed to use it. Hell, I barely let anyone look at it. And I'd left it sitting on my desk like a damn amateur.
With a sigh and a yawn, I turned around and re-entered the building. The halls were dim, save for the soft hum of overhead lights. The elevator doors opened with their usual creak, and I stepped in alone, pinching the bridge of my nose as the ride carried me back up to the firm.
The hallway outside my office was dead quiet. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago. My shoes echoed off the tile. As I neared the door, I reached for the key out of habit, only to realize the knob wasn't even locked.
I pushed it open.
And froze.
She was there.
Bent over my desk like a thief caught mid-heist. The lamplight glowed softly across her figure, highlighting the sleek curve of her waist as she straightened in alarm. One hand clutched a manila folder to her chest like it could shield her from what she'd just been caught doing.
Arianna.
Or Camila. Whatever the hell she was calling herself these days.
Her blouse was slightly undone at the top, revealing a smooth line of skin down her throat. Her breath hitched when she saw me. Her lips parted, searching for a lie, but her eyes, those dangerous, defiant eyes, held their ground like she didn't regret a damn thing.
I leaned against the doorframe, lifting a brow.
"Lost, intern?"
She blinked rapidly. "I was just dropping off a—"
I shut the door behind me and stepped in, slow and quiet. The rustle of papers somewhere in the hallway drifted through the walls, but here, it was just us and the low hum of the office lights. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and ink.
"I thought I said," I murmured, my voice low and measured, "you weren't allowed in my office after hours."
She stepped back instinctively, right into the edge of the desk. Nowhere to run.
I kept walking.
She tensed as I stopped just inches from her. I placed one hand on the desk beside her hip. Then the other. My chest brushed hers with deliberate ease. Close enough to feel the heat of her skin, not enough to touch. Not yet.
My thigh slid between hers, not roughly, but with slow, deliberate pressure. Just enough to tilt her chin up. She gasped softly, like air was a luxury.
Her scent hit me next—something faintly floral, something warm. Her pupils dilated, but she didn't move. She didn't dare.
She wanted this. I could feel it radiating off her like body heat. Her thighs tensed around mine, whether in hesitation or instinct, I wasn't sure. But I could see the way her lips parted, just slightly. Her chest brushed mine with each shaky breath. Her nipples strained faintly against the silk of her blouse, and I had to dig my fingers into the desk to keep from reaching lower.
She was so close I could taste her skin if I dipped just an inch. My body reacted before my mind could catch up—tight, wound, aware of every inch of her. I could picture it: her blouse slipping off one shoulder, my palm on the small of her back, the sound she'd make if I kissed just below her ear.
But I didn't. Not yet.
"I'm a very curious man, Camila," I said, dragging out her fake name on purpose. My voice dipped lower, grazing her nerves like silk and fire. "And I wonder what I'd find if I opened that folder."
She swallowed. Her fingers gripped the folder tighter against her chest, arms crossed protectively over it. But I saw it—the tremble in her wrist, the slight part of her lips. Her body had already given her away.
She wanted this.
The tension crackled between us like static.
My fingers skimmed up her jawline. Soft skin. Warm. I watched the way her lashes fluttered, her mouth opened a fraction—waiting. Wanting. She was beautiful like this. Untamed. On edge. One word, one touch, and she'd crumble.
I wondered what her thighs would feel like wrapped around my hips. I wondered if she'd claw at my back or bite my neck when she came apart. She was fire wrapped in silk, and standing this close, it took everything in me not to burn.
But I didn't give it to her.
Instead, I let my hand fall, turned around, and walked toward the shelf behind her.
Picked up my flask.
Cool steel in my hand.
She hadn't touched it. Thank God.
I didn't say a word at first, just took a breath and let the silence do the work. I could hear the hum of the street below through the window, the distant sound of a car horn. Inside, the office felt like a trap, lit low, heated with friction, and thick with things unsaid.
She was still behind me, probably trying to catch her breath, probably wondering what I'd do next. I imagined her fingers shaking around that folder. Her thighs pressing together beneath her skirt. The blush in her cheeks deepening now that I'd walked away.
I reached the door and opened it halfway.
Then glanced back.
She still hadn't moved. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her blouse slightly rumpled, her hair a little out of place. Her cheeks were flushed. That folder, still pressed tightly to her body, probably held something she didn't want anyone to see.
I didn't need to ask. I already knew.
She was looking into the case.
She was looking for me.
"You coming downstairs," I asked over my shoulder, my voice light but sharp with meaning, "or are you going to snoop some more?"
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, mouth twitching like she wanted to come up with something witty. But she said nothing.
I smirked.
Then left her standing there, caught between guilt and want.
And if I wasn't mistaken, she enjoyed both.