The office was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that pressed into the skin, thick and unrelenting. Amelia's heels clicked against the marble floor as she entered Adrian's glass-walled sanctuary, carrying a folder too heavy with tension to be just paper. She had avoided him all morning, burying herself in tasks, answering calls, scheduling meetings, anything to distract from the way last night replayed in her head like an endless loop. His hand on hers at the restaurant, the way his eyes had darkened when she'd laughed, how the air between them had seemed to crackle with something raw and unspoken.
He didn't look up immediately when she entered. He was behind his desk, jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up, a storm brewing in the lines of his face. He was studying numbers on a screen, his jaw locked in that familiar rhythm of restrained power. But Amelia knew—she felt it deep in her chest—that he was aware of her the moment she stepped into the room.
"Mr. Kane," she started, her voice steadier than she expected. "The quarterly report—"
"Leave it," he cut her off, his voice low, gravel dragged across steel. His eyes flicked up then, pinning her in place, and Amelia forgot how to breathe.
Something inside her twisted. She should put the folder down, step back, and retreat into the safety of professionalism. But her feet didn't move. Neither did his gaze.
"Amelia." He said her name like it cost him something, like it tasted dangerous on his tongue. "Why are you really avoiding me?"
Her lips parted, a weak denial perched there, but the truth was louder. Because you terrify me. Because every time you look at me like that, I forget who I am. Because last night, I almost leaned across the table and kissed you, and I don't know how much longer I can pretend that I don't want to.
She swallowed. "I'm not avoiding you. I've just been… busy."
The corner of his mouth twitched, though it wasn't quite a smile. He stood, moving around the desk, and Amelia's pulse spiked. There was something predatory in his stride, the air shifting as though the room belonged entirely to him. When he stopped a breath away, she caught the faint scent of his cologne—dark, addictive, like smoke curling over bourbon.
"You're lying," he said simply.
Her throat tightened. "You think you know me so well?"
"I do." His voice dropped, each word deliberate. "I know the way you bite your lip when you're hiding something. I know the way your voice changes when you're nervous. And I know"—his eyes dragged over her face, slow, consuming—"that you've been thinking about last night as much as I have."
Heat rushed up her neck, burning her cheeks. Her hands tightened on the folder, her only shield, though it felt laughably fragile now. "Adrian…" His name escaped before she could catch it, soft and trembling, and the sound of it hanging in the air seemed to undo him.
In one swift motion, he took the folder from her hands and tossed it onto the desk behind him. Papers scattered, but neither of them looked. His fingers brushed against hers in the process, and that slight touch was enough to shatter what little distance remained.
"You drive me insane," he muttered, more to himself than to her. His hand hovered near her waist, close enough that she felt the heat of him, yet not quite touching. It was restraint, a thread pulled tight, threatening to snap. "Every damn day, Amelia. Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"
Her breath hitched. She should stop this. She should remind him he was her boss, remind herself she had everything to lose. But logic drowned under the weight of the way he was looking at her, like she was the only person who had ever truly rattled the walls he'd built.
Her hand lifted of its own accord, fingers brushing against his forearm, tracing the line of muscle there. The contact was featherlight, tentative… yet it ignited a spark that raced up her arm and lodged in her chest.
Adrian's eyes closed for half a second, his jaw clenching, as though he was fighting himself. When he opened them again, the restraint was still there, but it was fraying fast.
"This is a mistake," she whispered, even as her body leaned closer.
"Maybe," he said. His lips were so close she felt his words graze her skin. "But it's the only thing that feels real."
The tension snapped. He pulled her against him, his mouth crashing down on hers with the force of a dam breaking. It wasn't gentle; it was desperate, consuming, like years of control crumbling in an instant. Amelia gasped against him, her hands gripping his shirt as though the ground had disappeared.
The kiss deepened, heat spiraling, pulling them under. Every press of his lips, every drag of his tongue, tasted like forbidden promise. He held her like a man starved, one hand cupping the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist, anchoring her to him.
She melted, surrendering, the world narrowing to the feel of him—hard, unyielding, overwhelming. But beneath the hunger, there was something else, something softer that scared her even more: the way he kissed her like he needed her, not just her body, but her presence, her very existence.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing ragged, his forehead rested against hers. The silence that followed was deafening, their hearts pounding in sync.
"This…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "We can't…"
His thumb brushed her lower lip, swollen from his kiss, and his eyes burned with conflict. "I know. But tell me you don't feel it. Tell me you don't want this, and I'll stop."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the truth clawing at her. She couldn't lie—not when her body betrayed her so thoroughly, not when every nerve screamed for him.
"I do," she admitted, the confession barely audible. "I want this… I want you."
Adrian closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as though the words both freed and destroyed him. He kissed her again, softer this time, lingering, before pulling back just enough to meet her gaze.
"Then we're already past the point of no return," he murmured.
The sound of a knock on the office door shattered the moment. Amelia froze, panic flooding her veins. Adrian didn't move immediately, his body still pressed to hers, his breath warm against her temple. But after a heartbeat, he straightened, releasing her, his expression hardening into the familiar mask of composure.
"Come in," he called, his voice impossibly steady.
One of his managers stepped inside, oblivious to the storm that had just raged in that room. Amelia scrambled to collect herself, smoothing her hair, adjusting her blouse, and praying her lips didn't look as bruised as they felt.
As the man droned on about numbers, Adrian returned to his desk, every line of his body controlled, but Amelia could see it—the tension in his shoulders, the flicker in his eyes when they met hers across the room.
Something had shifted irrevocably. The line they'd been toeing for weeks was gone, crossed, and burned to ash.
And Amelia knew, with a mix of fear and exhilaration, that nothing between them would ever be the same again.