AURORA
His “good morning” kept echoing in my head as if it had been whispered inside my skull instead of beside my desk.
I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and gathered up all the dignity I had—which wasn’t much that morning—before turning my head to face the man who had officially been throwing me off balance ever since he returned from England.
Adrian Thorne.
The CEO.
Walking danger.
The man from last night.
The predator with the restrained smile.
The devoted touch.
The broad hands that still seemed to be marked on my skin.
“Good morning, Mr. Thorne,” I replied, trying to sound professional, indifferent, mature.
It came out more like “teenager with a forbidden crush.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying my face as if searching for something hidden. Maybe he was. Maybe he saw more than he should—he always seemed to see more.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice deep, but carrying that softness no one here suspected he was capable of using.
And then, of course, my mind decided to project a vivid image of him gripping my hips last night, pulling my body against his with the arrogant confidence of someone who had already lived through—or survived—far too much.
Holy shit.
I should get a raise just for managing to function as a human being after that.
“I am,” I replied, far too quickly. “Tired. I woke up early.”
One eyebrow lifted, as if he had just detected a microscopic lie in my tone of voice.
“I imagine so,” he murmured.
My stomach took that awful inward plunge that made me feel exposed.
But before I could come up with an excuse to stand and disappear, the manager’s phone rang beside me, far too loudly, saving me from collapse.
“Excuse me,” I said, turning to answer it and hoping he would simply leave for some floor where I wasn’t.
He didn’t.
He stood there.
Behind me.
I swear I felt the air shift, as if his presence had physical weight, its own gravity. It was like a warm shadow—or a pleasant chill kissing my skin.
I answered the phone and tried to look functional.
“Administrative department, Aurora speaking. Good morning…”
The person on the other end spoke, but my words came out automatically, my brain completely focused on the fact that Adrian was still there. Standing. Much too close. Far too silent.
That wasn’t normal.
Nothing about him was normal.
He didn’t breathe like other people—his breathing was so subtle that sometimes it seemed nonexistent.
He moved with an almost… antiquated precision.
And his eyes?
His gaze carried a weight no man in his thirties should have.
It was like looking at someone who had watched wars, kingdoms, and eras pass by.
Like looking at something too old to fit on a CEO’s nameplate.
I hung up, let out my breath slowly, and finally turned around again.
He was still there.
Of course he was.
His eyes traveled over my face, then dropped to my neck—quickly, almost imperceptibly, but I saw it. Or felt it. I wasn’t sure.
My heart decided to start doing a wildly undignified samba.
“You’re trembling,” he observed, serious, almost clinical, as if he were analyzing a phenomenon.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Because it was true.
And it was his fault.
So I pretended to be brave and took a deep breath.
“It’s just too much coffee,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
“You are not a very good liar,” he murmured.
Then he took a step.
One.
Just one.
But it was enough to make my entire spine straighten as if it were being pulled by a magnet.
He shouldn’t come this close to me in the workplace.
I shouldn’t want him to.
“Aurora Bennett,” he said slowly, savoring my last name as if he were tasting it. “You seem… disturbed.”
“I’m busy,” I replied, crossing my arms because I needed some kind of physical armor. “That’s different.”
He smiled faintly.
Not a full smile.
That restrained, dangerous half-smile that seemed to hide a dirty secret.
“Right. Busy,” he repeated, in a tone so disbelieving it almost offended me.
He leaned in slightly, and for an instant I smelled—or imagined I smelled—his cologne.
There was something about him that wasn’t simply expensive cologne.
It was almost… metallic. Deep.
Like the smell of cold just before it snowed.
Like the scent of old pages.
Like something forbidden, but familiar.
And then I remembered what he really was.
What I shouldn’t know.
What I still didn’t understand.
And for some absurd reason, I seriously doubted he had ever taken another girl to a motel and done what he’d done with me the night before.
My breath faltered.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
“Aurora…” he called softly. “Look at me.”
I looked.
Because I always looked when he asked.
His eyes were far too intense.
Far too deep.
Far too old.
They didn’t look like a man’s eyes.
They looked like the eyes of a creature that had watched the world turn to dust and rise again.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he said without blinking.
And I almost laughed.
Almost.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I replied, my voice low, almost sincere.
But he gave me half a smile.
As if he knew that was exactly what I should be.
“You should be,” he replied.
My pulse quickened.
My entire body responded.
And the worst part was, it wasn’t fear.
It was the opposite.
The part of me that loved a mystery.
The part that ran toward danger just to see what happened.
The part that had made me get into his car yesterday and end up at a motel as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I opened my mouth to argue—but he was already walking away, taking calm steps toward the private elevator.
“We have a meeting in thirty minutes,” he said without looking back. “I want you there.”
“Which room?” I asked, trying to sound professional.
“Mine.”
The elevator doors opened.
He stepped inside.
His gaze met mine one last time.
And before the doors closed, he said, quietly enough for only me to hear:
“And, Aurora…”
“Yes?”
“I can still feel you.”
The doors closed.
I collapsed into my chair.
And thought:
How am I supposed to survive this man without letting him drink my soul, too?