Chapter 43 Different
RORY POV
I walked back into Alexander’s office.
He wasn’t there.
I was kind of grateful for that because his suit jacket was still hanging where he had left it. The one he had slipped that note into earlier.
I crossed the room and took it off the hook.
It smelled like him. That expensive dark cologne that had absolutely no business smelling that good. I was embarrassingly close to inhaling the entire jacket before I remembered my mission.
I checked the first pocket. Nothing.
I checked the second one. My fingers found paper immediately. I started to pull it out—
“What are you doing Aurora?”
His voice knocked the breath out of me. I shoved the paper back into the jacket immediately and spun around.
“The ja — the jacket fell,” I said. “I was picking it up.”
| stammered, my heart thudding against my ribs.
He walked toward me. Deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it. He took the jacket from my hands — my very much shaking hands — and his fingers went directly to the pocket I had just been in. He pulled the note out. Looked at me while he slid it back inside. Then he hung the jacket back up.
I almost rolled my eyes.
Fucking manwhore.
He stalked toward me again and kept coming until there was barely any space between us. I stepped back instinctively. My ass hit the edge of the desk.
His hands came down on either side of me, palms flat on the table surface, caging me completely. The heat coming off his body was immediate and overwhelming and his blue eyes were boring into mine with that look that made thinking clearly a genuine challenge.
I couldn’t look away. My gaze dropped to the white shirt hugging his chest, the loosened tie, the perfectly styled hair I suddenly wanted to run my fingers through. My throat itched. I unconsciously wet my lips.
“Why did you follow Stacey out?” he asked.
Stacey. So that was her name.
“I told you,” I said, trying to sound unbothered by all of this, by him, by the position we were currently in. “I wanted to ask about her heels.”
“Right,” he said. He scoffed. “And somehow you were also looking for the note she left in my jacket.”
Shit.
“I told you the jacket fell—”
He didn't buy it for a second. "You're jealous, aren't you, Mrs. Miller?" He tilted his head, watching me with a dark, amused glint in his eyes.
"Why would I be? You can fuck whoever you want. It's not like you actually like me."
"Right. So you wouldn't mind if I brought her home? If I fucked her in the next room?"
He was baiting me. Pushing me to see where I'd break.
"Why would you sleep with an employee? Isn't that inappropriate?" | snapped.
“You know damn well 'appropriate' doesn’t exist to me,” he said.
He was right. What was I thinking. This was the man who had killed two people in a ballroom and licked blood off the floor. Appropriate was not a concept that applied to Alexander Miller.
“Good for you then,” I snapped. “You might as well go after her.”
I tried to push away from him. He didn’t move.
His hand found my waist, and with a terrifyingly easy tug, he lifted me. I gasped as my ass landed on the cool mahogany of his desk. My stomach fluttered at the impact.
Sometimes I wondered what it would feel like to be flipped around by him during sex. He held me so easily, like I was weightless.
“You’re getting too bold these days,” he murmured, stepping between my legs. “And it’s turning me on.”
My cheeks flushed. I wanted to rub my thighs together but I couldn’t because he was standing in between them.
"We're in your office," | breathed, my hands trembling. "Someone could walk in."
He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned down, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. I felt the rough stubble of his jaw against my skin, and then, a sudden, sharp pop-pop-рор.
I gasped in shock. He'd tugged at my shirt so hard that three buttons had flown across the room.
The fabric tore open. My breasts spilled out, barely contained by my bra.
I gasped. Hands flew to my chest, trying to cover myself.
“What was that for?” I narrowed my eyes at him.
"Nothing," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the chest. "I just wanted to see your tits."
Oh my God.
He had been so different lately and I didn’t know what to do with any of it. The last time I had mentioned my hearing aids and how they affected my sleep He'd filled the house with mirrors—in the bedroom, the hallways, everywhere-telling me I didn't need my hearing aids if I didn't want them. 'You can read my lips in the glass, no matter which way I turn,' he'd said. He'd started asking me how I slept, how was my day. He wouldn't stop holding me and cuddling me to sleep.
He was making it very hard to remember that I was supposed to hate him.
I opened my mouth to protest about the shirt—
He pulled away. I sighed in relief.
He grabbed the phone, typed something fast, his face hardening. I slowly slid off the desk, holding my torn shirt closed with both hands.
“Time to go home,” he said, voice flat.
I nodded quickly, grateful for the escape.
We walked toward the door. Just as I reached for the handle, his hand cracked across my ass. Sharp, possessive, hard enough to make me stumble forward a step.
The sting bloomed hot across my skin. A gasp tore out of me. My core clenched — sudden, traitorous — sending a fresh rush of wetness between my thighs. My nipples tightened painfully against the torn shirt. My breath hitched, my thighs trembling as I fought the urge to press them together.
I hated how my body reacted. I hated the heat that flooded me. I hated that a single slap from him could make me ache.