Chapter Twenty
Nolan
I glare at Jack, who suddenly looks very interested in his computer screen.
Subtle. Real subtle.
He's the one who threw the pens—I heard them hit the floor—and now he's pretending they just magically leapt off his desk to experience freedom?
I sigh. Of course.
Being the bigger person (and the only person here who respects office supplies), I scoop the pens up and drop them back on his desk with a loud clack. Not even a flinch. He stares at the monitor like it owes him money.
Fine. I turn to go—
—and get yanked.
"What the—" I stumble, because apparently gravity works different near smug alphas. Jack's hand closes around my wrist and pulls me forward until I'm standing between his knees like I volunteered for this.
He doesn't let go. Just tips his head back to look up at me with that unreadable expression that says I've made three decisions and you'll only like half of them.
"Don't you want a break?" he asks, voice casual but his eyes are anything but.
"No, thanks." I tug once. Twice. He doesn't release me. My pulse trips over itself. This is normally the part where I'd throw a punch and storm out, but somehow this—whatever this is—scrambles the wiring.
His fingers linger one beat longer before he lets go. "Fine," he murmurs, like he's humoring a toddler.
He leans back, chair rolling a few inches with a lazy squeak, and gestures at the desk. "There's dust there."
I follow his hand. There is, objectively, a molecule of dust. Maybe two, if you squint.
"I'll get to it later," I say flatly.
"I want it cleaned now," he replies without missing a beat.
Drama queen.
Still, I grab a cloth and start wiping. Methodical strokes. Efficient. Totally normal.
Except I can feel it—his gaze.
Heavy. Unapologetic. Heating the air between my shoulder blades. Tracing down my arm, across my side, lower—
Focus. Dust is your friend. Dust has never hurt you.
I take a breath, drag the cloth a little slower. Not suggestive slow. Just… precise. Thorough. Responsible citizen slow.
My back arches slightly to reach the far corner. Only for ergonomics.
That's when a hand lands on my ass.
I freeze. Ice shoots down my spine. I turn slowly, very slowly, and pin him with a look that could salt the earth.
"What do you think you're doing?" I grind out.
Jack lounges deeper into the chair like the picture of good behavior, which is bold for a man who just committed a felony in Dusting Court.
"I thought," he says, shameless, "it was an invitation."
His gaze tracks up my legs, over my torso, lingers at the hem of my tank top like the fabric personally offended him, then slides back to my face with a lazy smirk.
I stare. "When did I give you an invitation?"
He tilts his head, patient, condescending.
"Am I supposed to believe you weren't purposely…" His palm settles at the back of my thigh—slow, deliberate—then starts to travel upwards. "…enticing me with this?"
And before I can even reply, he smacks my ass. Hard.
I jump. "Ow. I was not."
Both brows climb. "You bend over in front of me in those shorts, wiggle like it's choreographed, and then act shocked when I react?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie—bold-faced, baldly.
I turn back to the desk, all business, ready to clean this one-square-inch spot until there's a crater. Jack has other plans.
In one smooth, audacious motion, he catches me at the waist, turns me and drags me onto his lap.
I land there with a small, undignified grunt, straddling him, chest-to-chest.
The air tightens. The room shrinks. My breath does something traitorous.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I hiss, which would be more effective if my voice didn't sound like it had just woken up from a nap and decided to flirt.
"What you're not stopping," he says softly, the words ghosting up my throat as he pulls me deeper into the cradle of his lap.
I should shove him. Plant a forearm across his chest and move. I don't.
Because his eyes—dark, intent, hungry—snag mine and hold. It's not a suggestion; it's a claim. The kind of look I've watched him give Ciel from across rooms, and I hate that a spark of something ugly and bright flares in my chest.
And worse—I don't look away.
He smells like salt and clean sweat and that expensive cologne of his, edged with something warm I can't name. Beta noses don't get pheromone fireworks, but the baseline is more than enough right now. It slides under my ribs and sets up home.
"This is a bad idea," I say to him, to me, to the laws of physics.
He smiles, small and wolfish. "Probably."
His hand spreads at my hip—big, hot, steady—and my brain forgets how doors work, how words work, how no works. My palms are still on his shoulders; I can feel the muscle there, the heat, the stupid steady calm of him while my insides riot.
"Say stop," he murmurs. "And I'll stop."
The challenge sits between us like a lit match.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
"Nollie!"
Ciel's voice slams into the moment like cold water.
I jerk like I've been burned and scramble off Jack's lap so fast I nearly trip over the edge of the chair.
"Shit—" I hiss, smoothing down my clothes like they've somehow betrayed me. I don't even look back. I practically flee the office like I'm escaping a fire, which, let's be honest—I am.