I'm slumped at my desk, elbows propped, chin resting lazily in my hands. It's a posture of pure, indulgent idleness. Across from me, Deniz sits, the very picture of professional focus. His head is bent over a file, his brow slightly furrowed behind his glasses.
The work is a lie, of course—a flimsy, transparent excuse I fabricated just to have him here, in my space, within reach.
My eyes are fixed on him, watching with a shameless, rapt attention that would get anyone else fired.
A soft, besotted smile plays on my lips.
The glasses… he looks even sexier in them.
I trace the line of his jaw with my gaze, the sweep of his lashes, the way his lips move silently as he reads.
My stare inevitably drops, landing on his mouth.
Soft.
A pale, tempting pink.
I really, really want to kiss him.
The urge is a physical ache.
And his neck, the line of his throat where his pulse flutters just beneath the skin…
