The rough yet desperate touch from Garrick Valentino always left the exact same effect on Valera Dawson—a hollow ache that burned her conscience into ashes. When the link of their lips finally broke beneath the dim desk lamp of the fiftieth floor, Valera was no longer crying. Her tears had dried along with her self-respect, which was eroding slowly on top of the surface of this cold black glass desk.
Garrick slowly released his grip from the nape of Valera's neck, allowing his large fingers to brush the strands of her messy blonde hair with a movement that almost resembled regret, before his frozen CEO mask slipped perfectly back into place.
"Go home, Valera. Finish the analysis of the remaining Swiss accounts at your apartment if you do not want the lower staff to suspect your overtime
