Temptation in Plain Sight

Chapter Four 

Temptation in Plain Sight

NOVA POV 

The day after my friends left me with the man whose company I’ve been dreading again since our last meeting started with my favorite panties going missing.

Not just any panties, it’s my soft pink lace ones. 

The ones I bought after reading Velvet Nights because the heroine wore them before her boss bent her over a desk and ruined her for every other man in the city. They were my “just in case” panties. Just in case something scandalous ever happened.

Nothing scandalous ever happened.

Until now.

By lunch, I was trying to act like I wasn’t sitting at the table in a summer dress… commando.

Grant was already there, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, forearms like a Calvin Klein ad for “Sins You Can’t Afford.” He looked up from his plate, the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he knew something I didn’t.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“I overslept,” I muttered, sliding into the chair farthest from him like distance was bulletproof glass.

His gaze moved over me, not in that obvious way, but slow, assessing. Like he was cataloguing every possible way to dismantle me.

“Did you lose something?”

My fork froze mid-air. My brain screamed. Abort mission, abort mission, he knows.

“What?” My voice cracked like I’d just hit puberty.

“You seem… distracted.” His tone was bland. His eyes were not.

I shoveled food into my mouth to keep it shut, but the more I avoided looking at him, the more I felt his gaze, sliding over me like heat from a fireplace you shouldn’t sit too close to. 

And yes…  most of my thoughts were about him. And none of them were holy.

By evening, I’d taken refuge in the library to ease my stress for  the day. 

Which was ironic, considering the book in my lap had less plot than a TikTok trend and more filth than my search history. I was on the chapter where the heroine’s panties got ripped off in an elevator….Purely academic reading.

The door creaked.

His voice came first, the man I’ve been trying to dodge. . “Educational material?”

I nearly swallowed my own tongue. “It’s… fiction.”

Grant strolled past my chair, not even glancing at the cover. He smelled like clean smoke and expensive trouble. Something soft landed on the table beside me.

My pink lace panties. Folded.

My brain promptly left the building. He had touched them. Held them. Folded them.

“Next time,” his voice dipped low near my ear, “lock your door.”

I turned my head, only to find him leaning over the back of my chair, one arm braced beside my head, the other casually resting on the chair back, caging me in. My heart was beating like I’d just run a mile in stilettos.

“You leave your things lying around,” he murmured, his breath grazing my skin. “Someone might get ideas.”

Oh, but I  have ideas. Graphic, NSFW, 18+ premium-content ideas.

“Someone already has,” I whispered, before my dignity could intervene.

Something flickered in his eyes, a tightening of his jaw, a brief flare of heat before his expression shuttered again.

“Careful, little girl.”

His fingertips grazed my shoulder  just enough for my body to jolt  before trailing down my arm and stopping short of my wrist. I wanted him to keep going. I wanted him to touch me the way men did in my books; hard, claiming and dangerous.

“Careful, little girl.”

The way he said it was low and steady, with the kind of voice authors describe as a growl.. set every book I’d ever read on fire in my head. In the novels, this was the part where the heroine’s pulse would throb in her ears and she’d lose all sense of logic.

Mine was doing exactly that.

“You make that sound like a… warning,” I said, because my characters always challenged the hero before he proved them wrong even if my own common sense was telling me to flee before this gets too far. 

Grant’s smirk was almost imperceptible, the kind you only notice if you’re paying attention and I was. 

“Warnings are for people who listen. But I don’t think you would.”

God. This was a scene. A full-on chapter ripped from the slow-burn section of my bookshelf.

He moved closer, his hand on the back of my chair sliding closer, and suddenly the air was thick enough to choke on. 

In books, this was where the hero cages her in without touching her  except he was touching me, knuckles brushing my shoulder, fingers grazing the side of my neck like they were checking my pulse.

I was certain he could feel it racing.

“You’re quiet,” he said, leaning down so his breath skimmed my ear.

 “Plotting something?”

I almost told him I was mentally outlining exactly how this would go if we were in fiction. He’d pull me up from the chair, set me against the desk, his hand sliding—

“Your cheeks are red.”

“I’m fine.”

He chuckled. 

The deep, rich kind that made my stomach clench  and his fingers drifted down, over my arm, toward my hip.

In my head, I was narrating.

…The heroine’s breath hitched as his touch skimmed the edge of her skirt, a silent promise in the slow drag of his hand.

Except… his hand did find the hem. His thumb brushed bare skin. My breath caught in real life.

“You read things like that for a reason,” he murmured, glancing at the book still in my lap. “You want to know how it feels.”

I didn’t answer partly because my voice would betray me and partly because in fiction, this was where words got replaced by action.

His knuckles skimmed higher, inch by inch. Not rushed or hesitant. He was  deliberate, like he had the patience to watch me unravel one breath at a time.

The books always said, time stopped. I’d always thought it was cheesy. But right now, I couldn’t tell if it was ten seconds or ten minutes before his hand stilled. 

This was the part where the hero would pin her between the desk and his body, where she’d feel the press of heat and muscle, where her knees would go weak but she’d still pretend she could stand her ground.

And Grant…. Mother help me…  was following the script.

He stepped closer, the edge of the desk digging into my thighs, my brain short-circuiting at the scent of his clean, expensive soap with something darker, sharper.

 It was like the smell of chapters where bad decisions tasted like heaven.

“You’re breathing like you’re scared,” he said, voice low, eyes locked on mine.

“I’m not scared.” 

Lie.

My pulse was sprinting.

“No?” His thumb traced along my jaw, tilting my chin up. “Then why won’t you look away?”

Because in the books, you never looked away.

His hand skimmed down, resting at my waist, curling possessively. My stomach dipped. His lips brushed my ear barely. 

“You know what happens to girls who don’t listen?”

My voice was barely a whisper. “What?”

“They end up right where I want them.”

Every nerve in me lit up. My mind was already running ahead, writing the scene where his mouth claimed mine and his hands pushed every of my boundaries.

But then… like a splash of cold water, Lena’s face crashed into my brain. My best friend. My very oblivious best friend.

Oh Mother...

My voice came out shaky. 

“Grant… we can’t… you’re— you’re Lena’s dad.”

The air went still.

His gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened, his mouth curving into something dark. 

“And?”

And? Did he just say ‘And???’ 

The word cut through my flimsy defense and before I could answer, his hand slid from my waist lower, curving over the swell of my hip like he was claiming territory.

 The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric, his thumb pressing just enough to make me aware of how close it was to somewhere it shouldn’t be.

“Does that make you want to stop?”

 He murmured, voice like silk over steel.

“I—” 

My breath hitched as his other hand brushed my hair over my shoulder, fingertips grazing the bare skin of my neck.

“That’s what I thought.” 

His mouth hovered at my ear, not kissing, but letting his breath skate over the shell until goosebumps raced down my arms.

 “You’re trembling.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he said softly, almost like he was pleased about it.

His hand at my hip slid forward, tracing the curve of my thigh. My knees wobbled.

In my head, a hundred filthy scenes I’d read blurred into one —the girl who said no while her body betrayed her, the man who didn’t need to push because he already had her coming apart just by being near.

“Grant…” 

I meant for it to be a warning, but it came out like a sigh.

“Mmm.” 

His fingers brushed higher, the lightest graze over the edge of my dress. 

“You like this. You like knowing you shouldn’t… but you still do.”

I wanted to deny it, to tell him this was wrong, but my mind was wrapped around the way his thumb stroked lazy circles just above my knee, inching upward like he had all night to get there.

The part of me that remembered Lena was fading, getting smothered under the weight of his touch, his scent and  the low rumble of his voice.

And then, just as my body leaned toward him, hungry for whatever came next… he pulled away.

At the door, he glanced back, gaze sliding down me with that same dark satisfaction.

 “Let me know when you’ve dealt with your conscience, little girl.”