All Yours

VIII

...

One week. Seven days have stretched endlessly, dragging me through the most excruciating torment of absence. Since I last saw her, my life has unraveled into a haze of monotony, each second drenched in the gnawing ache of longing.

Aurora.

I thought that putting some distance between us would ease the taut string pulling at my sanity, but the distance has done nothing but tighten the cord. Every mundane task, every fleeting moment, her image seeps into my mind as ink spills into water, darkening everything.

And now, after feeling her skin beneath my hands, after inhaling her delicate, intoxicating scent, retreat is no longer an option. I crave more. More of her trembling, more of her fear, more of her.

That night... God. The look on her face when she saw me standing in her hallway—the pure, undiluted terror in her wide eyes—was an aphrodisiac I'll never forget. Her fear wasn't just delicious; it was art. She's so expressive, her emotions pouring from her in waves. It makes her my perfect canvas, one I can't resist painting with my presence.

I sit here now, suffocating under a mountain of paperwork in my office. The corporate world demands my time, and my attention, but my thoughts are tethered to her.

Needing a reprieve, I open the file I've meticulously compiled for her, scanning through each detail as if it's a sacred text. My eyes catch on a bold sentence: "Latest occupation: Duke's Café, but recently fired for misconduct in the workplace."

Interesting. Very interesting. I'd seen her work ethic firsthand and witnessed her attentiveness and grace when she didn't know I was watching. Misconduct? I don't buy it. There's a story here, one I intend to uncover.

I read a little further and read lots of information about her relationship with her mom and grandma mostly, and about her diagnosis.

My thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door, jarring me from my reverie. "Come in," I bark, irritation already bubbling at the intrusion.

The door swings open and in steps the front desk assistant. Her presence immediately irritates me, but I mask it behind an impassive expression. She's all faux confidence, her lips painted too bright, her blouse strategically unbuttoned at the top.

"Mr. Moretti, you asked to see me?" Her voice oozes with a sweetness that grates on my nerves. She leans slightly against the doorframe, her arms folded just so beneath her chest, accentuating her figure.

I keep my focus on the document open in front of me, not even sparing her a glance. "Yes, I need the list of upcoming interviews for the open secretary position. Email it to me immediately." My tone is clipped, leaving no room for small talk.

But predictably, she doesn't take the hint. Instead, she takes a step closer, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.

"Of course, sir," she says, dragging out the word in a tone meant to be sultry. "And if you need anything else..." Her voice lowers, deliberately suggestive. "Just let me know. I mean anything." She's so insufferably oblivious that it's almost comedic. She fucking winks. Winks. At me.

She doesn't even try to mask her innuendo. Pathetic.

Her arms shift, pressing her chest forward. The shameless attempt to seduce me is laughable at best, but my patience snaps. Slowly, I close the document, lean back in my chair, and finally look up at her.

Her smirk falters under my gaze—a gaze that is as cold and unyielding as ice.

"Miss Clarke," I begin, my voice calm but laced with steel. "I strongly advise you to rethink the direction of this conversation."