I smirked a little, my attention still on the screen, though my heart was soaring at his admission. “I kind of want that skirt.”

“B, you’re killing me here. Please, look at me.”

I glanced down at my work uniform, unflattering and stiff, and asked, “So, what do you think of my outfit?”

“Better than Cher’s. Way better.”

I met his gaze then. “You sure?”

I watched him nod so vigorously it almost looked ridiculous, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

“And?”

“Cher wishes she could pull off what you’re wearing.”

“And?” I prodded, needing to hear more.

“And if you wore a trash bag, I’d still think you were the most beautiful thing in the room.”

I snorted, hiding a grin. “That’s what they say in rom-coms.”

“No, that’s how I feel. You could wear anything, or nothing at all, and you’d still be the most breathtaking person in the room, B. Always.”

“Always, huh?” I echoed, a little amused.

Blake McHayes, all six-feet-something of him, was kneeling at my feet, looking up at me as if I held the key to his next breath.

I let the silence stretch, making him sit in the agony of waiting.

A ragged breath escaped him. “Can I touch you?”

It was a question wrapped in uncertainty and hesitation.

I studied his face, allowing each expression and subtle detail to register before finally deciding to respond.

“You want to touch me, Blake?”

He swallowed hard and then nodded slowly.

“Hm. What makes you think I’d let you?”

The muscles in his arms tensed, as if he was physically restraining himself from grabbing me. “I need to touch you, B⁠—”

The confession sent something hot down my spine.

“Get up,” I said, my voice barely working. Blake stayed on his knees. “Get up,” I repeated, my voice a little stronger this time.

“You wanted me to beg,” he said softly. “I’m begging.”

I grabbed him by the collar, my fingers digging into the fabric as I shoved him roughly into the nearest seat. His body sank into the red cushion, but his eyes never left mine. He exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling in ragged movements. His pupils were dilated, desire and restraint warring within them.

I leaned down slowly, bracing my hands on the armrests, caging him in. “You need to touch me, huh?”

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Then sit there,” I told him, “and don’t move.”

I reached for the hem of my work uniform and lifted it over my head in one fluid motion, leaving me in a thin white crop top and Tommy Hilfiger jeans.

Blake’s jaw clenched as he adjusted in his seat.

Without warning, I lifted one leg and straddled his lap. His hands lifted immediately, but I caught them mid-air and pinned them down against the armrests. “No touching.”

He let out a strangled sound. “Pl⁠—”