Every rule we broke

"What do you think you're doing, Tamara? We're at the office."

"So what you are saying is that you do not enjoy it?"

"You're playing with fire. You know that, right?"

I smiled, biting my lip. He didn't say a word; he slammed the door shut behind him.

The numbers blurred in front of me.

I had stared at the same spreadsheet for forty-five minutes. My eyes burned, and my brain wouldn’t cooperate. Julian expected perfection for the quarterly projections due tomorrow. He made this clear in his usual cold, clipped tone.

"Again."

His voice came from across the conference table. I looked up. He was leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened. A single strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead. He looked nothing like the polished CEO who had greeted me on my first day.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"The formula in cell F14 is wrong. Again." He tapped his laptop screen. "I don't know how you have got 1.4 million from those inputs, but it's not even close."

I looked at my screen. He was right. I'd transposed two numbers. Again. "Sorry," I muttered, correcting it. "I am tired."

"Then go home."

"I cannot. You said we needed to do these by the morning."

"I said I needed them done. I didn't say you had to stay until midnight to do them."

I glanced at the clock on my laptop. 11:47 p.m. The executive floor was dark for now. It was only us, the glow of our screens, and the hum of the city twenty floors below.

"I'm fine," I said. "Give me a minute."

He watched me for a long moment. Then he stood, walked to the coffee machine in the corner, and poured two cups. He set one in front of me without a word.

"Thanks," I said. He nodded.

The coffee was strong. Bitter. I drank it anyway. For a while, there was only the click of keyboards and the rustle of paper.

I reached for my pen and knocked it off the table. As I leaned down to grab it, Julian also reached for a file on the floor.

Our heads collided.

"Shit," I hissed, pulling back, my hand flying to my forehead.

He was already sitting up, rubbing his jaw. "You've got a hard head."

"And everything about you is hard." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He went still. "What did you say?" His voice was quiet.

"Nothing. I didn't mean to."

"Tamara." His voice was different now—lower, rougher.

I swallowed. "I said you've got everything hard."

He stared at me. Then laughed.

"You have no filter, do you?"

"I'm tired," I said, my cheeks burning. Why did I even say that?

He leaned back, studying me, his gaze locked on mine. "What else is in that unfiltered brain of yours?"

I should have said nothing, but he was looking at me like he actually wanted to know.

"I dreamt about you," I said.

He lifted his brown eyes. "What kind of dream?"

"The kind I shouldn't be telling you."

"Say it."

I took a deep breath. "The kind where you pin me against the wall, and pull me close like you can't live without me."

His jaw tightened. "Is that what you want?"

"I do not know."

"Is that so?" He lifted my chin with his hand.

I tried to hide how desperate I looked. My fingers were shaking.

"Tamara," softer this time, "look at me."

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said, his voice low and rough. "Sitting across from me every day in those skirts. Biting your lip. The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."

"Are you watching me?"

"Every damn day."

He pulled me close, closing the space between us. I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

His mouth crashed onto mine. His mouth was demanding and rough. His hand found the back of my neck, gripping my hair, tilting my head. I caught my breath against his lips.

He pulled back just enough to breathe.

"I've been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you," he breathed against my skin. "Do you have any idea how hard it has been to sit across from you every day and pretend I don't want to pull you into my arms?"

"Then don't pretend."

He pulled me out of my chair. Turned me around. Pushed me gently back against the conference table, my hands bracing against the cold wood.

"About this, too," he said, his voice rough in my ear. "About taking you right here, while the whole city watches."

"Julian..."

His hand found my waist, pulling me flush against him. He kissed my neck, his breath hot, sending shivers straight down my spine.

"Look at you," he said, his voice wrecked. "You've been dreaming about this, haven't you?"

"Yes."

He held me tight, our breathing ragged and uneven, chasing the frantic edge of what we both wanted.

We stayed like that for a long moment, forehead to forehead, listening to the hum of the city glittering beyond the glass.

Then… A knock at the door.

"Mr. Cross? Is everything okay? I heard a noise."

Security.

Julian stepped back immediately. He smoothed his shirt, adjusted his cuffs, and walked to the door in three strides. He opened it wide enough to block the guard's view.

"Everything's fine," he said, his voice calm. Professional. "I dropped something. Go back to your rounds."

The guard hesitated. "Do you need me to stay?"

"No. I'm leaving in five minutes."

The guard left.

Julian closed the door and turned back to me. My legs were still shaking slightly. He walked over, brushed a strand of hair from my face, and took my arm gently.

"We're leaving now."

"Julian…"

He didn't give me time to argue. He led me to the private elevator. The ride down was silent. He walked me to his car, a black Range Rover, and opened the passenger door.

"Get in."

"What about my car?"

"I'll bring you back tomorrow. Get in."

He drove in silence. His hands were tight on the wheel. He locked his jaw. He did not look at me once.

When we pulled up to my old apartment building, he turned off the engine, sat there, and stared straight ahead.

"Julian…"

"Don't." His voice was flat. Dead. "Don't say anything."

"Really? After everything?"

I opened the door, got out, and walked towards my building without looking back.

The door clicked shut behind me in the elevator. The lights flickered. I pressed my forehead against the cold metal wall and closed my eyes.

When I got inside my apartment, I stood in the dark for a long time. Then I walked to my studio, grabbed a brush, and slammed it against the canvas.

Red. Black. Gold.

I painted without thinking. His eyes. His hands. The way he'd looked at me right before he pulled me close. And God help me, I couldn't bring myself to hate him.

I painted until my arm screamed, until paint dripped down my wrists. Then I threw the brush across the room.

"Fuck you, Julian." My phone buzzed.

I grabbed it; it was a message from Derek with a photo attached.

I'm standing by the conference table. Julian is right behind me, his hands on my waist, pulling me close.

Below it, one line.

"What would your mother think if she saw this?"