ARIANNA (CAMILA)
I've never been this humiliated.
Or this turned on.
One second, Saint's eyes were burning into me, his chest brushing mine with deliberate, slow pressure. His thigh wedged between mine like a silent dare. His hand, warm and broad, caressed my cheek as if he owned it. My body betrayed me. Skin flushed. Breath ragged. Heart knocking against my ribs like it wanted out. I couldn't move. I didn't want to.
Then he vanished.
Gone with a smug smirk and that damn thermos clutched like it held secrets. Maybe it did.
The silence after his exit hit louder than his voice ever could. I blinked, still leaning against the edge of his desk, still catching my breath like I'd run a mile.
Christ.
Last time I had sex was a year ago. A one-night stand at the club. With his best friend, of all people. Who strangely got married three months ago and moved to London.
And here I am, wet for my so-called enemy.
I hate him.
I hate how he affects me. How my skin still burns from the ghost of his touch. How the insides of my thighs pulse with a memory that shouldn't exist.
How just the scent of his cologne and the rough warmth of his thigh sent a pulse straight to my core. How I clenched involuntarily when he leaned in. How every part of my body betrayed me in real time, arching inward like it already knew the shape of his mouth, the press of his hips. I could still feel the pressure between my legs, like his thigh had left an imprint deeper than skin.
I was seconds away from grinding on him. From forgetting my own damn name. I wanted him to touch me. Truly touch me. Not just tease. I wanted him to push my back against that desk and claim me like I was something he earned.
He knew I was lying.
He knew I was snooping.
And instead of calling me out, he cornered me with his body, with his knowing eyes, with his quiet, devastating intensity. He made me feel caught and wanted at the same time. Like I was both the suspect and the prize.
And he didn't even kiss me.
God, why didn't he kiss me?
And what the hell is wrong with me?
I collapse into his chair. It smells like leather, cologne, and something uniquely him. A mix of amber and smoke. A little spice. Something sinful. The seat is still warm. I don't know if it's from him or from the fire he left behind.
The curve of my breast is still tight against my bra. My nipples ache from where they pressed into his chest. I imagined the feel of his mouth there. Hot. Slow. Greedy. I imagined his hands gripping my hips, lifting me onto his desk, parting my legs with the same ease he tore through my composure.
My thighs are slick. Shame curls around it, but not enough to smother the desire. I imagine riding that thigh, lips parted, nails digging into his shoulders. His voice in my ear, low and cruel, telling me I was his now.
The folder in my hand crinkles slightly as I grip it harder. It's proof. Proof that my father is entangled in something far more complicated than I thought. But I can't even focus.
Because all I can think about is Saint Camden.
Saint Camden and his maddening restraint.
Saint Camden and how he didn't kiss me.
There's a faint ticking from the old clock on his bookshelf. The office is too quiet now. The hum of the ceiling lights, the rustle of trees from the cracked window, the low city murmur from the streets below—all of it feels distant. Unreal.
I check my phone. My hands are trembling slightly. A single message flashes on the screen:
> "Last chance. I'm waiting downstairs."
I know exactly who it is.
And I know exactly what it means.
I close the folder, slip it into my tote bag, and push myself up. My knees wobble. Not from fear. From the war inside me. Between what I came here for and what I just felt.
What I still feel.
I should be angry. I should be focused on my father. But instead, my thoughts circle back to the moment he almost kissed me. The way his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, like he was marking territory. Like he wanted to see me fall apart and remember who made it happen.
I step out of his office, the door clicking shut behind me. I keep my eyes on the elevator light as it blinks slowly. Floor by floor.
Ding.
But I don't move.
My fingers curl around the strap of my bag. My heart is racing again.
The doors open, and he's there.
Saint. Leaning against the wall like he's posing for a magazine cover. One hand in his pocket, the other holding that damn thermos like it's a joke between us now. His dark eyes flick up to mine. Calm. Dangerous. Amused.
He says nothing.
Neither do I.
The air between us is charged again, like a storm waiting to crash.
I take a single step in.
The doors close.