Chapter 9

June POV

I turn away from the sight of him before my ovaries file a formal complaint.

Adjusting the coffee in my grip, I start to move toward his desk, determined to keep it together.

Do not look at him again. Don’t. I tell myself, chin up, eyes low.

But of course, I do.

And there they are. His forearms. Those veins muscles, his sleeves rolled up just enough to make me remember.

And just like that, my brain betrays me.

I remember those same hands — the way they pushed me back against the hotel wall, firm and hurried. How they gripped my waist like they’d done it a hundred times before, tugging me close until our hips aligned until I could feel the thick, straining length of him pressed hard against my stomach.

My fingers twitch, which made the cup shifts, and I nearly spill it.

Shit.

Before I can recover, his hand snaps out and grabs my wrist firmly, controlled, and steady. His touch burns through me like an electric