Quickly, I returned the clippings and the rest of the spillage to the bag and stood. Slinging the straps over my shoulder, I made a move for the door.
“I don’t love to hate you.”
The words, spoken softly, brought me to a halt.
I turned to face him, and then because I was feeling temperamental, I closed the distance between us. “What do you want, Lucian?” I demanded, looking up at him.
He said nothing. I knew there were feelings and ideas and a freaking personality beneath that beautiful surface, but he’d cut me off from it all.
“You treat me like I’m the worst person on the planet, and then you do sneaky nice things for my parents. You hire homeless single mothers. You pick fights with me, and then you have my favorite burrito delivered. How in the hell do you know what my favorite burrito is anyway?”
He took a step toward me. But I held up a hand before he could answer.
“You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. The only thing I do want to know is what do you want from me?”
For one brief, shining moment, the man looming over me like a pissed-off vampire about to take a bite looked as miserable as I felt.
“I want you not to matter at all,” he said. His tone was calm, but there was heat, a silvery fire in those gray eyes.
It was rude, I’d give him that. But it felt like a damn victory. A heady one. I was tired of being the temperamental one. Of feeling like I was the only one driven to distraction by our mean-spirited back-and-forths.
I mattered to him, and he hated that.
“Back at you, big guy.”
“You should go,” he said suddenly.
“Why? Don’t you like having me here in this very nice office?” I wandered over to his desk. It was a huge pane of glass with sharp corners, empty except for a keyboard, mouse, and two monitors.
I wondered if he liked order or just hated chaos.
I trailed my fingers along the beveled edge, knowing full well I was leaving smudges. “You seem upset,” I said, pausing and locking eyes with him. “Want to talk about it?” I offered before hopping up to perch on the glass surface.
His gaze darkened dangerously, and he took a few steps in my direction before stopping. My heart rate kicked up. “I don’t like who either of us becomes when we’re together,” he said.
I scoffed. “You think I like this?”
“I think you love it.”
Had he moved closer? Or was I leaning toward him? My knees were almost close enough to brush the sharp creases of his trousers. We were magnetized to each other. Enemies drawn together again and again.
I was so damn tired of it.
There was an electric tension growing in the space between us. Like when the hair on your arms stands up just before a lightning strike.
“I don’t,” I insisted huffily.
Then my knees were brushing his legs, and he was stepping between them, parting my thighs as I craned my neck to look at him.
My breath caught.
His fingers flexed at his sides, and then they ghosted over the tops of my thighs before he planted his hands on either side of my hips. God. He even smelled gorgeous.
Lucian dominated my senses. The subtle gray stripes in his tie matched his eyes exactly. The heat pumping off his body felt like I’d entered a sauna. His scent was crisp, clean, deadly. I could hear a heart beat, and it was loud enough to think maybe it belonged to both of us.
“You do. You think that one of these days, you’ll land exactly the right insult, and you’ll be able to see through my cracks.”
His voice was barely above a threatening whisper. His gaze was locked on mine. It created a strange gravity. As if I couldn’t look away or I’d somehow just float off without that anchor.
I didn’t know what was happening here. But I did know I didn’t want him to stop talking. I didn’t want him to step back.
“What would I see beneath those cracks?” I asked.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to break the spell. But I wasn’t going to let him. Not this time. I reached out and did what I’d fantasized about for years. I grabbed his perfect tie and yanked him closer.
“Do not play with me, Pixie,” he growled. His words were a warning, but those eyes were open now, and I saw something else in them. Something fiery.
My biological instincts were scrambled. Instead of fight or flight, my body seemed to have added a third option: fuck.
“Don’t call me that,” I breathed.
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” I whispered. His thumbs simultaneously brushed the outer curve of my rear end where it met his desk, and I absolutely almost lost consciousness.