The next morning, the office felt colder than usual.
Not in temperature - but in atmosphere.
Sasha sat at her desk, hands trembling slightly as she typed. Her body still ached with memory - not pain, not soreness... something worse.
Need.
Every time she blinked, she felt it.
His mouth on hers.
His hand under her blouse.
Her breast in his palm, the moan she'd tried to hold in and failed.
She shivered, despite the warmth in the room.
And hated herself for it.
She touched her chest once when no one was looking - where his fingers had squeezed. Her skin tingled as if marked, as if claimed, and she pulled her hand back fast, cheeks burning.
It wasn't just memory.
It was like her body wasn't hers anymore.
And that terrified her.
The internal line buzzed suddenly.
Line 1 – Mr. Blackwood: Bring the Evercrest portfolio. Now.
She swallowed, grabbed the folder, and made her way to his office. The glass doors loomed, heavier than usual.
She stepped inside.
Xavier stood by the tall windows, back to her, holding his morning coffee. He didn't turn.
"Sir," she said, quietly. "The Evercrest files."
"Desk," he said without looking.
She placed the folder gently down.
He still didn't move.
The silence clawed at her.
"About yesterday-"
"Don't."
His voice was low. Sharp.
"I don't entertain personal distractions during business hours."
He finally turned.
His face was unreadable. Blank. His tailored suit was perfect. His cufflinks gleamed like polished ice.
Sasha stared at him, her throat tight.
"I just wanted to explain-"
"Unnecessary."
He walked closer.
The closer he got, the more her skin prickled, as if it remembered him before her mind did.
"What happened was unprofessional," he said, his voice like cold steel. "And it will not be repeated."
Her stomach dropped.
He was close now. Too close. The scent of him - spice and control - made her knees lock.
"I have an additional task for you," he added.
She looked up, startled.
"You'll be working after-hours today. At my penthouse."
Her eyes widened. "Sir-?"
He cut her off. "You'll help organize and prepare documents for the Milan project. We're behind. I need precision."
Her voice wavered. "But... after hours?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Is there a problem?"
She looked down. "No, sir."
"There will be compensation. Triple your usual hourly rate."
He paused, watching her closely.
"Which I assume you need."
Her breath caught. Her heart dropped into her stomach.
He knew.
Maybe not the details, but he knew she was desperate.
"I'll be professional," he continued, coldly. "You have my word. Nothing inappropriate will happen. Business only."
Her mouth opened. She wanted to argue - to say she didn't feel safe, didn't trust herself around him.
But the hospital bills.
Her mother.
She needed the money.
"Yes, sir," she whispered.
He gave a single nod. "7:30 sharp. Don't be late."
She turned to leave, but he spoke again before she reached the door.
"Wear something less distracting."
She froze.
Didn't turn around.
Didn't reply.
But the heat that crept up her neck was worse than shame.
She stepped out, heart pounding, skin on fire - not from fear... but from something far more dangerous.
★★★★★★★
By lunch, Sasha's head was spinning.
She pushed her salad around her plate without eating a bite. The cafeteria buzzed around her with laughter and conversation, but her thoughts were trapped in that office - in his voice, his closeness, his scent.
She didn't even notice when someone dropped into the chair beside her.
"Girl."
Sasha blinked up.
Stella was already unwrapping a sandwich, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"What?" Sasha asked.
"You've stabbed your lettuce fifteen times. What did it do to you?"
Sasha sighed, dropping her fork. "Nothing."
Stella raised a brow. "So... Mr. Iceberg barked at you again?"
Sasha hesitated.
Then whispered, "He wants me to work overtime."
Stella frowned. "Ugh, classic. When?"
"Tonight."
"That's brutal. Where?"
Sasha lowered her voice, leaning in.
"...His penthouse."
Stella stopped chewing.
Her eyes went wide.
"...I'm sorry, his what now?"
Sasha quickly added, "For work. Just business. He said I'd get paid extra. Triple."
"Triple?" Stella blinked. "I'm still stuck here pulling payroll and he's taking you to his personal layer of hell with bonus pay?"
Sasha shook her head. "Stell, it's not like that. He said it'll be strictly professional. Nothing else."
Stella leaned forward like a conspirator.
"Oh, honey. That man looks at you like he wants to peel you out of your blouse and devour you. Professional, my ass."
Sasha turned red. "No! I told you-it was just work. He said nothing will happen."
Stella grinned. "Sure. That's what all romance novels say before chapter ten."
"Stella!"
She laughed. "Come on. Just imagine it - you show up, maybe in a tight little skirt. You're holding a file, right? And he opens the door in a black shirt, no tie, two buttons undone-"
"Stop it."
"Wait, no-he walks past you in his penthouse and brushes your hand, and suddenly the file drops, and bam-his hand's on your waist and he pins you to the wall."
"Stella!"
"And then he says, 'You've been driving me insane, Miss Hart. I've been trying to behave... but I'm done behaving.'" She paused, lowering her voice dramatically. "'Now moan my name.'"
Sasha buried her face in her hands. "Oh my God, stop!"
Stella was howling with laughter.
"You are the worst," Sasha groaned.
"I'm just saying! Billionaires don't take their secretaries to penthouses at night for paperwork. This isn't an Excel emergency, babe."
Sasha peeked through her fingers, half laughing, half mortified.
"I told you-it's just business."
Stella smirked. "Then why do you look like your body's still remembering what his hand felt like on your-"
"Stell!"
She laughed again, nudging her. "Okay, okay. I'll behave. But just promise me this: if he does throw you onto some ridiculously expensive Italian leather couch and kisses you breathless... you better come back with details."
Sasha rolled her eyes. "I'm not like you."
"Nope. But he's definitel
y not like anyone else."
Sasha looked away, her smile fading slightly.
Because the truth was...
She didn't know what scared her more - the idea that nothing would happen tonight...
Or that everything might.