His lips are tracing a path from my jawline to my ear, and I've forgotten how to breathe.
Not kissing. Not yet. Just the ghost of contact—warm breath and soft pressure that makes every nerve ending in my body stand at attention. It's torture. It's deliberate. It's three years of wanting condensed into one unbearable moment.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is rough against my skin, all pretense of control abandoned. "Tell me to stop, and I will. But look me in the eyes and tell me you actually want me to."
He pulls back just enough for me to see his face.
His eyes are absolutely dark—not with calculation or strategy, but with raw, desperate hunger. The kind of hunger that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with need. With want so consuming it's crossed into something primal.
For three years, I've seen Dominic Ashford as untouchable. Cold. Controlled. A man who bends the world to his will through sheer force of intellect and money.
But right now, looking at him, I see something completely different.
I see a man who's barely holding himself together. A man who's one word away from either pulling back or consuming me completely. A man who wants me so badly it's written in every tense line of his body.
"This is wrong," I whisper, but the words have no conviction behind them anymore.
His smile is dark, honest, terrifying in its intensity.
"The best things usually are."
His hand on my hip slides lower. Not far—just enough to be deliberate. Just enough to make his intentions crystal clear. His palm is warm through the fabric of my skirt, possessive and claiming.
And I don't stop him.
I should. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to push him away, to create distance, to remember that this man is my boss and this situation is the textbook definition of inappropriate.
But I've been rational for three years. I've been professional. I've been appropriate.
And I'm so tired of pretending.
His other hand tangles deeper in my hair, tilting my face toward his.
"Last chance, Bella." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Tell me no. Tell me to walk away. Tell me this isn't what you want."
My mouth opens. The word "no" is right there. Two letters. One syllable. The easiest word in the English language.
It doesn't come out.
Instead, I do something I'll spend the rest of my life either regretting or remembering as the moment everything finally made sense.
I close the distance between us.
I kiss him.
The moment our lips touch, everything detonates.
This isn't gentle. This isn't tentative or questioning or soft. This is three years of suppressed wanting exploding all at once. This is every late night working alone together. Every touch that lingered too long. Every look that said too much. Every moment I pretended I didn't feel what I felt.
All of it crashes together in one devastating kiss.
His hand in my hair tightens, tilting my head to exactly the angle he wants. His other hand on my hip pulls me against him—not gently, but with absolute certainty that I belong there. His mouth claims mine like he's been waiting his entire life for permission to do this.
And maybe he has.
I respond without thinking, without analyzing, without any of the careful control I've maintained for three years. My hands fist in his shirt, gripping the expensive fabric like I'm drowning and he's the only thing keeping me above water.
He makes a sound deep in his chest—something between a groan and a growl that has nothing to do with civilization and everything to do with possession.
His tongue traces my lower lip, demanding entrance, and I give it to him. The kiss deepens, becomes more intense, more consuming. He tastes like coffee and something darker, something uniquely him that I'll spend the rest of my life trying to identify.
My back is still pressed against the glass wall. His body is flush against mine, and I can feel every hard line of him—the muscles in his chest, the strength in his arms, the absolute certainty in the way he holds me.
This isn't a kiss between equals. This isn't a romantic gesture or a sweet expression of affection.
This is a claim.
This is Dominic Ashford marking me as his in the most primal way possible. This is three years of obsession finally finding an outlet. This is possession masquerading as passion—or maybe passion that's always been possession.
I don't care anymore.
His hand slides from my hip to my lower back, pressing me impossibly closer. His other hand releases my hair and cups my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone even as his mouth devours mine.
The kiss is everything a boss-secretary kiss should never be. It's inappropriate and intense and crossing every professional boundary that exists. It's the kind of kiss that ends careers and destroys reputations and creates scandals that last for years.
And it's absolutely perfect.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us.
"Bella." My name is rough on his lips. "Tell me—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't ask me to explain it. Don't make me analyze it. Just... don't."
His hands are still on me—one cupping my face, one on my lower back. He's not letting go. He's not creating distance. He's keeping me exactly where he wants me.
"Cancel the engagement." His voice is absolute. "Call Marcus right now. Tell him it's over."
The words hit like cold water.
Reality crashes back in—brutal and unforgiving. The sealed conference room. The locked building. The thirty people waiting outside who know something happened in here. Marcus's messages on my phone. The ring on my finger that suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
"I..." My voice cracks. "I can't just—"
"Yes, you can." His eyes are burning now, fierce and possessive. "You just kissed me like your life depended on it. You just admitted everything without saying a word. Now finish what you started. End it with him."
"Dominic, it's not that simple—"
"It is exactly that simple." His hand on my face tightens slightly. "You choose him or you choose me. You choose comfortable lies or terrifying truth. You choose mediocrity or this."
His mouth crashes back down on mine, and this kiss is even more intense than the first. It's demanding. It's claiming. It's showing me exactly what I'm choosing if I choose him—a life where I'm consumed completely, where nothing is simple, where every moment is this intense.
When he pulls back this time, I'm trembling.
"Choose," he demands.
I look at him—really look at him. At the man who's been obsessed with me for three years. Who's controlled aspects of my life I didn't even realize. Who's manipulated situations and monitored my movements and systematically isolated me from other options.
The man who knows me better than anyone ever has.
The man who terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
The man I've been running from because I knew if I stopped, I'd never be free of him again.
"No." The word comes out as barely a whisper.
His expression goes absolutely cold.
"No?"
"No." Louder this time. "I'm not calling Marcus right now. Not like this. Not in this room with you watching. Not as some kind of performance to prove my loyalty to you."
I expect fury. I expect threats. I expect him to double down on his ultimatum and show me exactly what happens when I defy Dominic Ashford.
Instead, he does something completely unexpected.
He steps back.
He walks to the conference room controls and unlocks the doors. The sound of seals releasing echoes through the space. The windows begin to clear, returning to transparency. The building systems return to normal.
He's letting everyone go.
"What are you doing?" I ask, confused by this sudden reversal.
He turns back to me, and his expression is unreadable.
"You're right." His voice is calm now, controlled in a way that's somehow more terrifying than his passion. "I won't force you to choose in front of me. I won't make this a performance."
He walks toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle.
"But make no mistake, Bella. This isn't over. You just admitted everything by kissing me. You just showed me exactly what you want, what you need, what you've been denying yourself for three years."
He opens the door, and I can hear the murmur of confused voices from the people outside—board members and executives wondering what the hell just happened in here.
"So go." He gestures toward the open door. "Go back to Marcus. Go home. Go wherever you need to go to think about what just happened."
His eyes lock onto mine, dark and absolutely certain.
"But when you come back tomorrow morning—and you will come back—you're going to make a choice. Him or me. Your comfortable lie or this insane, intense, inappropriate truth."
"And if I choose him?"
His smile is cold, calculating, terrifying.
"You won't."
He walks out of the conference room, leaving me standing there alone, my lips still tingling from his kiss, my body still trembling from his touch, my mind spinning with the certainty that everything just changed and there's no going back.
I touch my lips. I can still taste him.
And I realize he's right.
I won't choose Marcus.
I stopped choosing Marcus the moment I kissed Dominic back.
The only question now is whether I'm brave enough to admit it.