27. Hannah

TWENTY-SEVEN

He hasn't said anything. Hasn't reached for me. Hasn't moved a muscle. But my heart has started racing, and my chest feels heavy with each breath.

Carefully, so I don't draw his attention, I reach my hand out and press my fingertips to the wall, bracing myself.

The elevator comes to a stop on our floor, and Maddox doesn't move.

My hands start to tremble. Not from fear, but from something else.

When another long second passes without him moving, I step forward. Maybe he's not getting off here. Maybe he's just waiting for me to exit, then he'll press the selection for the parking levels.

His wide frame is half blocking the door, so I have to shift sideways to get out. And I give him my back as I shuffle past.

Something brushes against my ass, and I take my next step quicker.

Just get to my office. Get my purse. And go.

Footsteps follow me off the elevator.

They follow me down the hall.

All the way to my door.

I turn the handle, push my office door open, and step inside.

I don't turn around, but I hear Maddox follow me.

I hear him shut the door.

And I hear him lock it.

I stop beside my desk, facing the windows that look out into the city. They're tinted like upstairs, so we can see out, but no one can see in.

There's a footstep, then another.

"What are you doing?" I whisper.

Maddox steps closer until the front of his body presses against my back. "I'm reminding you."

"Of what?"

Hands settle on my hips. "Of the type of man you need." Warm breath ghosts against my neck. "The type of man you crave."

I try not to arch my back. I try really hard. But when he flexes his fingers against my soft flesh, I cave.

"We shouldn't." I try to reason— with him, with myself.

"We shouldn't." He pulls me flush against his body, letting me feel how ready he is. "But we're going to."

And fuck if that isn't the truth.

"Turn to me," Maddox demands against my ear.

He's putting it on me.

Making me be the one to do it.

I reach down and place my hands over his.

It would be so easy to push his hands away. To not turn around.

So easy.

But fucking impossible.

I twist, turning to him.