Chapter 2
By the third week, Naomi knew his schedule better than her own.
Not because she tried to—she told herself that often—but because Davis moved through the office with a precision that made him impossible not to notice. He arrived early, always before eight-thirty. Left late. Ate lunch at his desk unless pulled into meetings that smelled like money and urgency. He never lingered, never hovered, never gave anyone more than they earned.
Except her.
It started with small things.
A pause when she spoke in meetings—just long enough to say I hear you. A quiet “good morning, Naomi” that landed lower than it should have. Once, when she reached for the coffee pot at the same time as him, his fingers brushed her wrist.
Electric.
She told herself she imagined the heat.
But then came the thoughts.
They arrived like whispers through a wall—soft, intrusive, unmistakably not her own.
She smells like something warm.
Naomi froze mid-step.
Her breath caught as she passed his desk, heels clicking too loudly on the polished concrete. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—skin tightening, pulse thudding between her thighs.
She didn’t look at him.
She couldn’t.
The first rule she set for herself was simple: do not react.
If she treated this like a hallucination, maybe it would behave like one. Fade. Lose interest. Leave her alone.
But it didn’t.
The thoughts came at odd moments. When she leaned over a coworker’s shoulder to review a layout. When she laughed too freely at someone else’s joke. When she stood by the window, city light spilling over her skin like something meant to be tasted.
Stop thinking about her legs.
Naomi nearly dropped her phone.
She escaped to the restroom and locked herself into a stall, palms pressed flat against her thighs. Her reflection in the metal partition looked flushed, eyes bright in a way that made her uneasy.
This wasn’t romantic. This was invasive. Dangerous.
And yet—
Her body hummed.
That afternoon, she was assigned to assist Davis directly. Temporary, they said. Just for the Morrison account. High profile. Luxury fashion house expanding globally. Pressure thick enough to chew.
Naomi nodded like this was normal.
Inside, she was screaming.
His office was glass-walled, sleek, restrained. Masculine without trying. He gestured for her to sit, rolling his sleeves up just enough to expose his forearms—strong, veined, beautiful in a way that felt unfair.
“Your deck was smart,” he said. “You think structurally.”
She smiled, professional. “Thank you.”
God, her mouth.
Naomi’s thighs clenched.
She inhaled slowly, grounding herself the way her grandmother had taught her when emotions ran too hot. Feet on the floor. Breath in. Breath out.
“Let’s walk through the timeline,” Davis continued, eyes focused on the screen, not her. His restraint felt deliberate now. Controlled.
Don’t look at her like that.
She swallowed.
Every thought carried weight—not just desire, but effort. He was fighting something. Fighting himself.
And she was winning without touching him.
They worked late. Too late. The city outside darkened into a constellation of lights, and the office thinned until silence stretched between keystrokes.
At one point, Naomi leaned over his desk to point out a discrepancy in the budget.
That was when it hit her—sharp, unfiltered, hungry.
I would take my time with her.
Her breath stuttered.
Images flashed through her that were not hers—his hands on her hips, his mouth at her neck, the slow reverence of a man who didn’t rush because he knew he didn’t have to.
Naomi straightened abruptly.
“Everything okay?” he asked, finally looking at her.
His eyes were dark now. Not predatory. Controlled—but barely.
“Yes,” she lied.
She has no idea what she does to me.
She grabbed her bag.
“I should go,” she said too quickly. “Subway gets unreliable.”
He stood. Too close. The air between them tightened, charged, intimate in a way that felt almost physical.
“Naomi,” he said, softer now.
Her name sounded different in his mouth. Like a question. Like an invitation.
She looked up.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
If she stays, I won’t be able to pretend.
Her heart pounded.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and fled.
That night, sleep refused her. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard him—his doubts threaded between desire.
Debt. Hospital bills. Don’t get attached. Don’t want her to see the mess.
The ache in her chest surprised her.
He wasn’t arrogant. He wasn’t untouchable.
He was holding himself together with discipline and silence.
By morning, Naomi had made a decision.
If she could hear him—really hear him—then maybe she could help. Quiet the noise. Ease the pressure.
Just small things, she told herself. Nothing invasive.
That afternoon, she slipped an idea into the client presentation that subtly reframed Davis’s strategy—positioning him as indispensable. Later, she mentioned a grant program she’d “heard about” that helped with medical expenses. Watched his shoulders relax a fraction.
How did she know that?
Naomi smiled innocently.
The power was intoxicating.
And dangerous.
That evening, the office hosted a rooftop mixer. Champagne flowed. Music pulsed low and intimate. Naomi wore a black dress she almost hadn’t bought—sleek, simple, expensive-looking.
Davis found her near the edge, city wind lifting her hair.
“You clean up well,” he said.
“So do you.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, not touching.
I want to kiss her.
Her breath hitched.
He turned toward her, gaze dropping to her mouth.
But if I start, I won’t stop.
The thought cracked something open inside her.
Naomi leaned in.
And then—
She shouldn’t know this. No one should.
Her vision blurred. A pain—sudden, searing—cut through her head like a warning.
She gasped.
Davis caught her arm instantly. “Naomi—what’s wrong?”
But the thoughts kept coming now. Louder. Faster.
If she ever finds out what I’m hiding—
Black.
The city lights vanished.
And Naomi collapsed in his arms.
