He steps back.
The loss of his heat is immediate and devastating. One moment he's consuming me, his mouth claiming mine with three years of obsession behind it. The next moment, there's cold air between us and his expression is shifting into something that makes my stomach drop.
Not anger.
Worse.
Cold calculation.
His chest is still heaving, his breathing uneven, evidence that the kiss affected him as much as it affected me. But his eyes—his eyes have gone absolutely glacial. Like he's just received new data and is processing it, reorganizing his entire strategy in real-time.
"Fine." His voice is eerily calm. Controlled in a way that feels more dangerous than his passion. "You want to play this game? We'll play."
"Dominic, I'm not—"
"Playing a game?" He straightens his shirt with deliberate precision, each movement calculated to show me he's regaining control. "Yes, you are. You kissed me back. You admitted everything. And now you're trying to maintain some illusion that you have a choice in what happens next."
He walks to the door, and I watch in confusion as he types something on his phone. The locks disengage. The windows clear. The building systems return to normal.
He's letting everyone go.
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out small, uncertain.
He turns back to me, and his smile is absolutely terrifying. Not because it's cruel—because it's certain. Because it's the smile of someone who's just figured out exactly how to win.
"Giving you what you asked for." He opens the door, and I can hear the murmur of confused voices outside. Thirty powerful people wondering what the hell just happened in this conference room. "Everyone can go back to work."
He pauses, his hand on the door handle, and looks at me with those dark eyes that see everything.
"But we're not finished, Bella. Not even close."
DAY ONE: THE REASSIGNMENT
I arrive at work the next morning with my stomach in knots and Marcus's engagement ring still on my finger.
I didn't go home last night. I couldn't face him. Instead, I stayed at my apartment—alone, thinking about the kiss, touching my lips like I could still feel Dominic there.
I expected Dominic to be cold today. Distant. Angry that I didn't immediately break my engagement and fall at his feet.
Instead, I find an email from HR waiting in my inbox.
Effective immediately, you are reassigned to Executive Strategy Division. You will report directly to CEO Dominic Ashford. Your new office is located adjacent to his private office. Please see facilities management for key card access.
My hands shake as I read it.
He's not pulling away. He's pulling me closer.
When I arrive at the executive floor, I find that my new office shares a private entrance with his. There's a door connecting our spaces—currently open, like an invitation I didn't ask for.
Dominic is at his desk when I walk in. He doesn't look up.
"Your schedule for today is on your computer. We have three client meetings. You'll attend all of them with me."
His voice is professional, detached. Like yesterday didn't happen. Like we didn't kiss in a sealed conference room while the entire board waited outside.
"Dominic—"
"That's all, Ms. Chen." He still doesn't look at me. "I expect you to be ready in fifteen minutes."
THE CLIENT MEETINGS
The first meeting is with a tech startup looking for acquisition funding.
Dominic is brilliant. He always is. He dissects their business model, identifies weaknesses, proposes solutions that make them look like children playing at business. The founders are intimidated and impressed in equal measure.
And throughout the entire meeting, his hand rests on the small of my back.
It's subtle. Professional, even. The kind of gesture that could be dismissed as polite guidance. But his fingers press just slightly too firmly. His thumb traces small circles against my spine through my blouse. And every few minutes, he adjusts his position—always maintaining that contact, always keeping his hand on me.
By the end of the meeting, I'm hyper-aware of every point where his skin touches mine.
The second meeting is with a Fortune 500 CEO discussing a potential merger.
I'm supposed to be taking notes, documenting the conversation. But Dominic keeps handing me documents, his fingers brushing against mine each time. Not accidentally. Deliberately. Holding the contact just a second too long before releasing the paper.
At one point, he asks me to pull up financial projections on my tablet. I do, and he leans over my shoulder to review them—close enough that I can feel his breath against my neck, close enough that his chest presses against my back.
"Interesting numbers," he murmurs near my ear, loud enough that the other CEO can hear but quiet enough that it feels intimate. "What's your analysis, Ms. Chen?"
I force myself to speak professionally about market trends and ROI calculations, but my voice is shaky. My hands are trembling. And Dominic knows it because his hand settles on my shoulder, his thumb brushing against the side of my neck.
"Excellent analysis," he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice.
The third meeting is at a restaurant—a working lunch with a potential investor.
Dominic sits beside me instead of across from me. His thigh presses against mine under the table. When he reaches for documents, his arm brushes against mine. When he gestures while speaking, his hand finds my knee—briefly, casually, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Each touch is calculated. Each contact is deliberate. And each one makes me more aware of him, more attuned to his proximity, more desperate for the next moment he'll find an excuse to touch me.
DAY TWO: THE AWARENESS
I go home to Marcus that night.
He's waiting for me with dinner and questions about my promotion. I lie through my teeth about the reassignment being a professional opportunity. About Dominic recognizing my potential. About this being good for my career.
Marcus believes me because he's kind and trusting and completely unaware that his fiancée spent the entire day being seduced by her boss through strategic touching.
When he tries to kiss me goodnight, I turn my head. I claim I'm getting a cold. He accepts this because Marcus always accepts my excuses.
I lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment Dominic's hands were on me.
The next day is worse.
Or better.
I don't know anymore.
Dominic takes me to a site visit at one of his construction projects. We wear hard hats and review architectural plans. His hand finds my waist when we navigate uneven terrain. His fingers brush my arm when he points out structural features. His body shields mine from construction dust, pressing close enough that I can feel every hard line of him.
"Be careful," he murmurs when I step over debris. His hand tightens on my waist. "I don't want you getting hurt."
The concern in his voice sounds genuine. But his eyes tell a different story. They're dark with satisfaction. With certainty that his plan is working.
DAY THREE: THE REALIZATION
By the third day, I'm a mess.
I can't focus during meetings because I'm anticipating his next touch. I can't sleep at night because I'm replaying the touches from the day before. I can't even have a normal conversation with Marcus because every word feels like a lie.
And Dominic knows it.
During a morning briefing, he stands behind my chair, his hands resting on the backrest on either side of my shoulders. Not touching me directly, but close enough that I'm caged by his presence.
"Your thoughts on the acquisition, Ms. Chen?"
I stumble through my analysis, hyperaware of how close he is. How if I leaned back even slightly, I'd be pressed against him.
When I finish speaking, his hand drops to my shoulder—just for a moment. A gesture that could be congratulatory or reassuring or a dozen other innocent things.
Except there's nothing innocent about the way his thumb brushes against my collarbone.
DAY FIVE: THE ADDICTION
By day five, I'm not even pretending anymore.
I position myself where I know he'll have to reach past me. I lean slightly toward him during meetings. I find excuses to hand him documents so our fingers will brush.
I'm actively participating in my own seduction.
And he notices. Of course he notices. Dominic Ashford notices everything.
During a late afternoon meeting, he asks me to retrieve a file from the cabinet behind his desk. When I reach for it, he's suddenly there—his body behind mine, his arm reaching over my shoulder to point at the correct folder.
"That one," he says softly. His chest is pressed against my back. His breath is warm against my ear. "Do you see it, Bella?"
I can't speak. I can barely breathe. I just nod.
His hand covers mine on the cabinet handle. "Good girl."
The words send electricity through my entire nervous system.
He steps back, and I retrieve the file with shaking hands.
DAY SEVEN: THE CRAVING
A week after our kiss in the conference room, I finally admit the truth to myself:
I'm addicted to his touch.
Every casual contact has become a need. Every brush of his fingers leaves me wanting more. Every moment without his hands on me feels empty.
I catch myself positioning my body to invite contact. Angling toward him during meetings. Standing close enough that "accidental" touches are inevitable.
I'm waiting for him.
Craving him.
Desperate for the next moment he'll find an excuse to touch me.
During a late evening work session, I'm reviewing documents at the conference table in his office. He walks past me—unnecessarily close—and his hand trails across my shoulders as he passes.
I gasp. Actually gasp. Like that simple touch has undone me completely.
He stops.
Slowly, he turns back to me.
"Something wrong, Bella?" His voice is innocent. Professional. But his eyes are absolutely dark with knowledge.
"No." My voice is barely a whisper. "Nothing's wrong."
He walks back to me, his hand settling on my shoulder again. His thumb traces patterns against my skin through my blouse.
"You sure about that?" He leans down, his lips near my ear. "Because you seem... tense."
His other hand finds my other shoulder. He's standing behind me now, both hands on me, his presence overwhelming.
"Maybe you should go home," he says softly. "Get some rest. You've been working very hard this week."
But his hands don't move. They stay on my shoulders, possessive and claiming.
"Or..." His voice drops lower. "You could stay. We could continue working. Just the two of us. Late into the night. Like we used to."
His hands slide down my arms, slowly, deliberately.
"What do you want, Bella?"
I close my eyes. The answer is terrifying in its simplicity.
I want him to keep touching me.
I want more.
I want everything he promised when he kissed me.
But I can't say it. Not yet. Not while I'm still wearing Marcus's ring.
"I should go home," I whisper.
His hands tighten on my arms—just for a second. Then he releases me.
"Of course." His voice is back to professional. "Tomorrow, then. Eight AM. We have the Singapore delegation arriving."
I gather my things and leave his office on shaking legs.
But as I walk away, I realize the terrifying truth:
I didn't want to leave.
I wanted to stay.
I wanted him to keep touching me until touching wasn't enough anymore.
And he knows it.