And if the psychotherapist knew what I'd done to deserve my self-loathing, they'd lock me up. But my mistake can't be undone. My mom can't be brought back from the dead, and my stepfather's death still came too late.
Kylie studies me.
What does she see? A giant, awkward geek? A creepy guy? Or does she see the wolf in my eyes, the predator that wants to put her on her hands and knees and fuck her senseless?
"You like my code." My voice is hoarse, guttural, this close to the change.
"I do." She gives a slow, sensuous smile, as if talking code is foreplay. Her teeth are perfect and white, lips plump and glossed. "Your eyes are lighter than I remembered."
Fuck.
I blink rapidly, forcing back the change. "They change." Not a lie. "I've been working on a new language." Jesus, this really was geek-talk. Next thing I'll be telling her a "once, at band camp…" story.
Her eyes light up, and she moves forward, invading my space. She's toned and leggy, but her tits and ass would make the perfect handful.
"I'd like you to test it for me."
Oh fates-what in the hell am I doing? I never let anyone see my work, especially not a brand-new employee whom I know nothing about.
She leans closer. "I'd love to."
Are her nipples hard?
"It would have to be after hours, on the side. I know Stu has other work for you."
"Sure, great." She isn't daunted by overtime, apparently. Definitely a legit geek.
"My office, six p. m." Sounds like a date. It must have sounded that way to her, too, because the scent of female arousal reaches my nose.
I ball my fists, pressing my blunt fingernails into my palms to keep from snatching her body up against my own. I imagine her naked, sprawled out on my desk with her legs open wide.
No. No, no, no. It can't happen. Some wolves are able to have sex with humans, no problem, but they wouldn't have the urge to mate with one. A human wouldn't-shouldn't-inspire the urge to permanently mark her with my scent. But it seems this one does. And that makes fucking her an impossibility. Because I can't mark her without serious injury or death.
Her berry lips part, as if waiting for a kiss.
I step forward.
"Am I forgiven?" Her whiskey voice goes straight to my cock.
I pin her with a cool glance. "We'll see."
The scent of her nectar grows stronger. She likes my authority.
I leave before I shove her skirt up, rip off her panties, and bury my tongue in her.
Not going to happen. Can't. Happen.
I walk away, body tense. My wolf wants to be unleashed.
Maybe I need to get outside. I use my cell to call my secretary. "Vanessa, cancel my appointment. I'm going out."
~.~
Kylie
Holy sexballs, Batman. Jackson King has a thing for me. Why else would he show up, all growly and intense, and invite me to his office?
He wants to show me his code. Is that what the kids call it these days?
Maybe he's just being nice, making up for his first impression. Maybe he wants to put me, a new employee, at ease on my first day. Throw me a bone. The big one in his pants. Heh.
But no. I'm not that girl. I've never even been with a guy. I didn't read Career Advice for Dummies, but I'm pretty sure sleeping with my boss is not a good idea.
Even if it's Jackson King…
After a few minutes of daydreaming, I shake myself.
No, K-K, I scold my libido. Don't mess this up. I've just landed my dream job. No more life of crime, or being on the run. No more hiding, the only excitement in my life discovering what Mémé made for lunch.
And Jackson King is probably a player. Maybe that's why there's no news about a girlfriend. He probably sleeps with his employees and pays them for their silence. Jerkwad.
If only he didn't have such pretty eyes. I thought they were green. Today, they were light blue.
I tap my keyboard, acting busy in case Stu interrupts me. Even though we can email or chat via the intranet, he drops into my office, often. I still haven't figured out why he was so gung ho to hire me. Glowing recommendations from college professors don't seem like enough.
I pull up Google to do a search on Stu, to see if I can learn more, and end up typing in Jackson King's name instead. There he is, unsmiling as always, in a photo shoot for Wired magazine. He stares through the camera, his thick hair mussed and jaw clenched. His typical leave me alone or else look.
It only makes me want to get closer.
Only a few more hours before I can go see his code. And I actually do want to sit and program with him, even if it means unpaid overtime. Maybe diving into a project will end the awkwardness between us. I'm standoffish and snarky in real life, but online, I'm Catgirl. Leaping tall buildings in a single bound. Solving the world's problems, one hack at a time. When my dad was alive, we moved so much between his heists-unable to stay in one place. The computer was my home. I didn't meet my friends at the mall. I met them online. And coding-the numbers just made sense. A challenge and a comfort at the same time. Something about hiding in plain sight.
For some reason, I think Jackson King would understand.
At six p. m., I leap out of my chair. My heart pitter-patters at a jaunty tempo as I take the stairs to the eighth floor-the executive level.
When I break out of the stairwell-which brings back bad memories, but not as bad as an elevator-I walk briskly. Act like you belong, and people will assume you do. My father gave better advice on blending in than any business book. As a thief, he would know.
I do belong here, I tell myself, as I head to the corner office. For the first time in my life, I belong.