It hit him before he saw her.
That scent.
Soft, warm, faintly sweet—like jasmine tangled with something darker, muskier. It wasn’t just perfume; it was a reminder.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, pretending to focus on the email in front of him, but his pulse betrayed him. Every inhale carried her closer.
Emily.
She stopped by his desk without saying a word, setting a thin folder down. Her blouse brushed the edge of his arm as she leaned forward, and suddenly, that perfume wasn’t just in the air—it was on him.
“Sign here,” she said softly, tapping the page.
He looked up. Mistake.
Her hair was loose today, falling over one shoulder. The neckline of her blouse dipped lower than usual, like she’d decided—maybe for herself, maybe for him—that rules didn’t matter as much today.
He signed, careful, deliberate strokes, trying to ignore how close she was standing. But she didn’t step back.
Her finger rested lightly on the edge of the paper, and when he handed the pen back, her thumb grazed his knuckle—slow, unhurried, deliberate.
God… she knew exactly what she was doing.
Ryan swallowed hard, trying to sound casual. “You always wear this one?”
Her lips curved, the faintest smile. “Why? Too much?”
“Not enough,” he said before thinking, voice lower than he meant.
She held his gaze a beat longer than necessary, then walked away, hips shifting under the soft fabric of her skirt in a rhythm that felt designed to test him.
But she didn’t leave the office. She stopped at the copier, right across from his desk, her back turned but her reflection visible in the glass wall. She bent slightly to reach the lower tray, blouse stretching, skirt lifting just enough to make his throat tighten.
Ryan clenched his jaw, fighting it. He couldn’t want this. Not here. Not her.
Emily was his boss’s wife.
That was the part that made his chest ache and his hands shake—the part that should’ve stopped him.
It didn’t.
She glanced over her shoulder, caught him watching, and didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled—small, wicked, knowing—and pressed a single finger to her lips. Shhh.
The copier beeped. The room was too quiet. His pulse was everywhere.
When she returned to his desk, she set down the papers but didn’t move her hand right away. Her fingertips brushed his wrist again, softer this time, like a promise.
“You missed one,” she whispered.
He looked at the paper. Perfectly fine. She knew it. He knew it. But he played along, reaching for the pen again.
This time, when he handed it back, her hand stayed on his longer—warm, steady, lingering. Her perfume was stronger now, close enough that it wasn’t just something he smelled; it was something he tasted on the back of his throat.
Ryan leaned in before he realized he was doing it, words caught somewhere between breath and want. “You’re making this… impossible.”
Emily tilted her head, letting her hair fall forward, shielding them like a curtain. Her lips were inches from his ear when she whispered, “Then stop trying.”
The pen dropped between them.
There was no more pretending.