Chapter 5: THE FIRST SPARK

He made a sport of it over the next three days.

Cole never broke his cool, professional veneer in front of the staff, but whenever the hallway cleared, his discipline vanished. A palm resting heavy against the small of my back as he passed me in the corridor. Fingers lingering against mine for two seconds too long when I handed him his mail. The subtle, deliberate brush of his shoulder against mine in the narrow butler’s pantry.

I told myself I didn't care. I told myself the heat spiking through my stomach was just adrenaline, a natural reflex to being cornered by a dangerous man. My head knew better. My body wasn't listening.

On Thursday morning, his summons came via the intercom.

When I entered his private study, he was standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp white dress shirt. A charcoal silk tie hung loose around his neck.

"Help me with this," he said, not even turning around.

I paused by the door. "You have hands."

Cole turned slowly, his dark eyes fixing on mine. "I want yours."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and crossed the floor. He didn't move an inch as I stepped into his personal space, standing close enough to catch the sharp, familiar scent of cedar and expensive cologne. My fingers felt clumsy as I reached up, looping the silk over itself.

"You're nervous," he murmured, looking down at me.

"I'm fine."

"Your hands are shaking."

Before I could pull away, his large hands clamped around my wrists. He didn't squeeze, but his grip was absolute as he drew my hands flat against his chest. Beneath the fine cotton of his shirt, his heart was beating with a slow, heavy thud.

"You're thinking about me," he said softly.

"I'm thinking about what I'm making for lunch."

The shadow of a smirk played at the edge of his lips. "Liar."

He released my wrists, but before I could take a step back, he moved forward. I retreated instinctively, my heels clicking against the hardwood until my back hit the wall beside his desk.

Cole didn't stop. He pressed in close, planting his palms flat on the wall on either side of my head, trapping me completely within the frame of his shoulders.

"See something you like?" he asked, leaning down until his shadow fell over my face.

"I was looking at the clock behind you."

"There's no clock on that wall, Cleo."

He shifted half an inch closer, his chest almost brushing mine. "Try again."

My breath hitched. "I was looking at you."

"Satisfied?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Cole lowered his head, his lips grazing the sensitive skin right beneath my jawline. A shiver ran straight down my spine as he trailed light, searing kisses down the slope of my neck, lingering at my collarbone until I had to grip his forearms just to keep my balance.

"I think about you too," he rasped against my skin. "All day. It's becoming a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"The kind where I can't focus on work, can't sleep, and can't think about anything except turning you against this wall."

To prove it, he shifted his weight, crowding his hips firmly into mine.

A quiet gasp tore from my throat. He was rock-hard. Through the fabric of his trousers and my thin linen skirt, there was zero mistaking the ridge of his arousal pressing directly against my core.

"You feel that?" he whispered, his breath hot against my ear.

"Yes."

"That's what you do to me."

He rocked his hips against mine—slow, heavy, and excruciatingly deliberate. The sheer friction sent a wave of liquid heat straight between my thighs. I couldn't hide it, and judging by the sudden, sharp intake of his breath, he knew it.

"God, Cleo," he groaned, his hips rolling again, harder this time. "You're soaked."

"You're not exactly subtle."

"I haven't been soft since you walked into the room."

His mouth slammed down on mine, aggressive and hungry. His hands left the wall to frame my face, angling my head to deepen the kiss while his body kept up that punishing, rhythmic pressure against my hips. Lost to the friction, I hooked one leg around his thigh, pulling him closer, grinding back against him with a desperation that shattered whatever sanity was left in the room.

A sudden, sharp knock cut through the air.

We both froze, breathing raggedly against each other's lips.

"Mr. Salvatore?" his assistant's voice came through the thick oak door. "The board is waiting in the conference room."

Cole closed his eyes, his forehead resting against mine as his chest heaved. "Give me five minutes," he called out, his voice dark and rough.

"Yes, sir." Footsteps faded down the hall.

Cole pulled back slowly, his gaze sweeping over my swollen lips, my flushed face, and the disheveled line of my uniform.

"This isn't over," he said, his voice dropping into a low command.

"What is this?" I breathed, trying to gather the shattered pieces of my composure.

"I don't care what it is. I just know I'm not stopping." He stepped back, adjusting his belt with hand-shaking efficiency before turning to face me one last time. "Tonight. My room. Midnight."

"And if I don't show up?"

A dark, knowing look passed over his features as he opened the door. "You will."

He walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

My knees gave out, and I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my pulse hammering in my ears and my body still thrumming with an unbearable, unsatisfied ache.

I hated him for being right. But as I touched my swollen lips, I knew the truth: when midnight came, I’d be standing at his door.