James prayed—prayed—she wouldn't slide lower and discover just how hard he was for her. The humiliation would destroy him. Her body rocked against his, subtly but rhythmically, sending lightning bolts of friction straight through him. She moaned freely into his mouth, a low, throaty sound that reverberated through his chest.
His fingers gripped her hips now—not to pull her closer, but to hold her still. To stop the damn rocking that was driving him out of his mind.
Still, he didn't kiss her back. Couldn't.
With a supreme effort of will, James finally broke away, pressing himself against the car door to put maximum distance between them.
"Ms. Sharp, please," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "We shouldn't blur these lines between us. It's not appropriate."
For a brief, irrational moment, James hoped she might contradict him. Might say something about genuine feelings, about wanting more than just this physical moment. But Victoria merely tilted her head, studying him with curious detachment.
"I suppose you're right," she conceded, smoothing her hair with one hand. "That would complicate matters unnecessarily."
James nodded, swallowing back the words he wished he could say. "I should go." He reached for the door handle, desperate to escape before his resolve crumbled entirely.
"Mitchell," Victoria said as he opened the door, her voice returning to its usual professional tone as if the past minutes hadn't happened at all. "Don't sexually harass me anymore," he warned, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended.
Something flashed across Victoria's face—surprise, perhaps confusion—before her expression smoothed into careful neutrality. "I can't sexually harass what is mine."
"I'm not yours." James voice trembled as he argued.
"Yes you are." He very well knew the meaning of those possessive words, words he shouldn't confuse but rather chose not to respond to in lapse to her momentary whim.
"Goodnight, Ms. Sharp," James said quietly, unable to meet her eyes any longer.
He exited the car quickly, the cool night air a shock against his flushed skin. He didn't look back as he hurried toward his building entrance, painfully aware of the physical evidence of his desire straining against his pants. Only when he heard the car pull away did he allow himself to exhale fully, leaning against the building's exterior wall for support.
What the hell had just happened?
Inside his apartment, James slammed the door and immediately loosened his tie with shaking hands, running his fingers through his hair until it stood in scattered disarray. He paced the length of his living room, his body still thrumming with frustrated desire, before collapsing onto his couch with a groan that was half agony, half lust.
"You fucking idiot," he muttered to the empty room, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "You goddamn noble fucking idiot."
Victoria Sharp had kissed him again—had willingly wanted him, at least physically—and he had rejected her. The woman he'd fantasized about had pressed her perfect body against his, had tasted him with that clever tongue, had literally moaned into his mouth... and he'd pushed her away.
He laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet apartment. "Always doing the right thing, aren't you, Mitchell? Always the professional." He stood abruptly, stripping off his jacket and throwing it carelessly across a chair. "Wasn't this what you wanted? For her to notice you? What's the point of careful grooming and maintenance? She was right there, willing and ready, and you... you fucking Boy Scout."
He can't believe years of secret wooing ended just like that. He didn't fight for it, at least he could have conceded regardless of her dominant wishes. Tonight, when she'd pounced on him he should have neglected her expectations and chased his secret fantasizes but, he'd turned that down.
James stalked to his kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door with unnecessary force. He grabbed a beer, twisted off the cap, and drank half of it in one long swallow.
"You could still be in her car right now," he told himself, wincing at the physical ache the thought provoked. "Maybe things would have progressed further, you could be touching her, tasting her... but no. You had to protect your precious feelings."
The truth was, he didn't want to be Victoria's momentary distraction, a conquest she could discard when she lost interest. His feelings, however inconvenient and inappropriate, were real. And they deserved more respect than a backseat impulse after a successful dinner.
"Because I can," she'd said. The casual dismissal still stung.
He finished the beer and contemplated another, then decided against it. Tomorrow would be difficult enough without adding a hangover to the mix.
"Why do I always do the right thing?" he asked the empty apartment, collapsing back onto the couch. "Just once, couldn't I have thrown caution to the wind? Unleashed three years of wanting her? Would that have been so terrible?"
Yes, a more rational part of his mind supplied. Because come Monday you'd still be her assistant, and she'd still be your boss, and nothing would have changed except you'd know exactly what you were missing.
Induced in his soliloquy, he heard his neighbor knock, he provides a brief response to which she acknowledges before she left and then he's back to thinking about Victoria Sharp.
Still, as James eventually dragged himself to bed, he couldn't help wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake. Would Victoria freeze him out now? Would their working relationship become unbearably awkward? Or worse—would she act as though nothing had happened at all like before, denying him even the acknowledgment that for one brief moment, she had seen him as something more than just her efficient assistant?
Sleep eluded him as he replayed the evening over and over, questioning his choices. He'd done the right thing professionally, he was certain. But personally? The memory of Victoria's lips against his, the taste of expensive champagne and desire, the wet sounds of her mouth devouring his—these sensations haunted him into the early hours of the morning.
James laughed again, softer this time, at his own predicament. "Always doing the right thing," he murmured as exhaustion finally began to pull him under. "Always the goddamn hero."
Monday would reveal whether he'd preserved his dignity at the cost of everything else that mattered to him—his career, his relationship with Victoria, and the fragile hope that someday she might see him as something more than a convenient distraction.