“Bring her up.”
He hesitates for a moment. “Of course, sir.”
I imagine the raised eyebrows and whispered gossip already spreading through the building. After all, there are employees who remember when security escorted her out the front door as she clutched her box of personal effects.
From a camera feed in my office, I’d watched her go.
And now she’s back.
Gossip can be damned.
My jaw ticks. They don’t know everything. Don’t know she very nearly brought me to my knees three years ago. Don’t know she’s mine.
But they will.
They will.
I prop my hips against the edge of her desk, arms crossed, trying to leash the heat coiling low in my gut.
When the elevator dings, I snap my head up.
The glass walls give me a clear view as she steps into the suite, flanked by two security guards who are looking straight ahead.
My breath catches, and my cock twitches against my zipper. But goddamn it, she’s in the damnable maid’s uniform, black skirt hugging her hips, white blouse now rumpled. Her dark hair is pulled back, and a few strands have pulled loose from her ponytail to frame her flushed cheeks.
Seraphina Hollis is a walking contradiction—defiant, vulnerable, and so fucking beautiful it hurts.
The guards linger for a moment, their gazes flicking between us, barely hiding their curiosity. I wave them off with a sharp gesture, and they retreat, the door clicking shut.
She stands there, chin high, but her hands twist together, showing her delicious nervousness. Her eyes blaze with that same fire that called me out in a boardroom three years ago. I want to drag her across this desk and ruin her.
“What the hell are you thinking, wearing that?” My voice is low, a growl that vibrates between us.
She doesn’t flinch at my threatening tone. “You gave me an hour to get here, Mr. Blackwell. What did you expect?”
“That should’ve been enough time to go home and change.”
“It was barely enough time to finish what I was doing, clock out, get to my car, and drive across town. You should be grateful I made it here this fast.”
Grateful? Does she have any idea how I’ve unraveled, waiting for her?
I push off the desk, my gaze raking over her, lingering on the way the skirt clings to her thighs. My fingers itch to rip it off, to see how much further her defiance goes. “Surely you had street clothes with you.”
“I did. But I doubt you would have found them any more suitable.”
I wait.
“Booty shorts and a crop top.”
What the fuck? She allows herself to be seen in public like that? My eyes narrow, searching her face for a lie, but her cornflower eyes hold steady, unflinching.
She’s not tormenting me—she’s telling the truth. My blood boils at the image of her in some skimpy outfit, bare thighs and maybe a flash of stomach, other men’s eyes on what’s mine.
“They’re in my car if you’d still like me to change.”
Heat coils low in my gut, a dark fantasy flashing through me—her pressing those hips against my desk, my teeth dragging that crop top up, tasting the skin beneath. What the hell is she doing to me? “Fuck no.”
She hums, a small, defiant sound that makes my cock ache. “Didn’t think so. So you have two choices. I can wear my maid’s uniform or I can grab my after-work clothes. And I do have some flip-flops I could slip into. Which do you prefer?”