He was probably going to lose his shit right now. He was probably going to give her the mother of all lectures about appropriate workplace relationships and friendly interactions, and then he might throw several handbooks at her head and lock her in this room and possibly call a priest to cleanse the horniness out of her.

Except he . . . didn’t. Instead, he leaned closer—so close she stopped breathing. She actually held her breath, and the tightness in her chest was mirrored by a sudden, delicious squeeze in her lower belly. Even lower, if she was being honest. She’d been hot and glittering inside since the moment he’d examined her sex toy with such laser focus. When he’d wrapped his long, strong fingers around something she’d orgasmed on just last night, she’d felt her clit swell. He’d tilted his head as he stared at it, questioning her in that steel-and-stone voice, and her breasts had felt heavy. Her pulse throbbed between her thighs. Every fold of her pussy grew slick and sensitive, rubbing against the dampened cotton of her underwear.

And now here he was, leaning so, so close, and everything was getting worse. Arousal wound through her body as slow and sinuous as the music playing in the background. Which was “Special Affair” by The Internet, because of course a sexy-as-shit song would start playing right now. Of course it would.

She shifted slightly in her seat, hoping the action was subtle, but apparently it wasn’t.

“You’re wriggling, Eve.”

“Well,” she huffed, “you could be a gentleman and not point it out.” But there was no irritation in her voice; she was too breathless, and too desperate, for that.

“I could,” he agreed, before continuing to ask questions that made her bare skin feel electrified. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I—” She shifted just so and the cushion beneath her became a sweet pressure between her thighs.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”

She looked up at him sharply and saw, in those cool eyes, a white-hot understanding. One so certain, it made her wonder what he saw in her face. “Jacob—”

“What do I fantasize about, in your head? Tell me. You might be closer to the truth than you expect.”

Oh. Oh, gosh.

It had occurred to her occasionally over the past week (mostly when he looked at her chest for a moment too long): Maybe Jacob is attracted to me. But she’d dismissed the thought every time, because Jacob was too sensible for inconvenient feelings, and because they’d barely even liked each other for five minutes, and because—because she was attracted to him, so clearly her perception couldn’t be trusted. She’d chalked it all up to wishful thinking and attempted to move on.

But now common sense was slapping her in the face with a list of facts a mile long, starting with him calling her Sunshine and ending with the way his tongue slid out to wet the curve of his lower lip. His eyes were hungry on her, his focus dizzying. Not just wishful thinking.