Clementine, a social media manager with fiery red hair and emerald green eyes, was a contradiction. Shy in person, her mind buzzed with fascinating trivia just waiting for the right listener.
Sebastian Montgomery as the tabloids dubbed him, was an...
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Clementine barely remembered making it up the creaky stairs to her tiny apartment. She shut the door behind her, twisting the lock with shaking fingers, as if that could somehow keep out the storm raging inside her.
Her heart was still pounding.
Her throat still tingled where his fingers had been.
The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a streetlamp filtering through the rain-streaked window. It was small—too small, especially compared to the world Sebastian Montgomery lived in. Her bed was tucked against one wall, barely large enough for her to stretch out. The kitchen was a few steps away, the old countertop chipped, the cupboards worn.
She dropped her coat onto the chair near the door, running her hands through her hair, trying to shake the feeling of him.
But she couldn't.
Sebastian had barely touched her. A brush of his knuckles, the heat of his palm against her throat. But it was enough. Enough to leave her shaken. Enough to leave her aching.
She pressed her back against the door, closing her eyes.
It was wrong. He was her boss. Way older. And he wasn't just any man—he was Sebastian Montgomery. Cold, unreadable, powerful in a way that made her stomach twist.
He shouldn't be looking at her like that.
She shouldn't be wanting him to.
But she did.
God, she did.
She thought about the way his hands gripped the steering wheel, the way his lips had parted slightly when he looked at her, like he was holding himself back. She thought about his broad shoulders, the way his suit stretched over his frame, the way he smelled—clean, expensive, something dark and masculine beneath it all.
Her breath came faster.
Her hands moved without thinking, sliding up her sides, over the swell of her breasts, her fingertips teasing against the lace of her bra. A sharp gasp left her lips as she squeezed, tilting her head back against the door.
Would he touch her like this? Would he press her against a wall, take control the way she knew he could?
Her fingers drifted lower, tracing the curve of her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her pajama shorts.
She shouldn't.
She shouldn't.
But the thought of his hands on her, his voice rough in her ear, made her stomach tighten, made her thighs press together.
A whimper escaped her lips as her fingers dipped lower, grazing where she was already warm, already aching.
She imagined his mouth against her throat, his hand between her legs, his breath hot against her skin.
