Primal Instinct

11– SUPERNATURAL FEELINGS

The day started like it wanted to test me. The mountain light poured through the glass walls of the building, clean and merciless. Turning every reflective surface into a mirror that showed too much, my tired eyes, my tense jaw, the faint shadows of sleeplessness under my skin. I told myself it was fine. That work would ground me. But sometime after nine, the office felt wrong.

It wasn’t the work. The work was easy. Calendar blocks, quick-fire emails, contracts flagged for review. I’d fallen into the rhythm fast—anticipating needs before they were spoken, clearing problems before they hit his desk. That part of my brain hummed just fine.

It was my body that rebelled.

I’d been fine after lunch. Tired, sure. Worn thin from the first night’s weirdness, the tonic Lyric had brought, the way my bones still remembered pain that wasn’t supposed to exist. But “fine enough” to function.

Then it started. At first, it was just a slow, pleasant warmth low in my belly. Something I could explain away as too much coffee, not enough food, the way his voice settled under my skin when he was on a call. But within an hour, it had teeth.

I caught myself pressing my thighs together, shifting in my chair. The fabric of my slacks felt too soft, too present, dragging against skin that suddenly knew every seam. My chest felt tight—not painful, just… full. My heartbeat tripped over itself every time I heard his footsteps.

“Ms. Carter.” His voice came from the doorway to his office, smooth as always, deep and cool.

I jolted, silently cursing whatever part of me was determined to embarrass us both. “Yes, Mr. Steele?”

He stood there, one hand braced on the doorframe, jacket off, tie loosened, throat exposed. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, veins shifting under the skin when his fingers flexed. There was a faint sheen at his temples, though the office was cool.

“My schedule,” he said simply. “You missed a margin note.”

“I’ll fix it,” I blurted, every nerve raw.

“You’ll do better than that.” His tone calm but the weight behind it pinned my chest in place. “When I ask for something, it shouldn’t need fixing.”

I bit my cheek “Understood.”

“Bring in the Miller contracts,” he said. “And the acquisition brief from Atlanta. We’re going to go through them now.”

I nodded and grabbed the folders, ignoring the way my fingers trembled. The air seemed thicker when I crossed the threshold into his office. His scent hit me—cedar, smoke, something darker at the edges. It slid into my lungs, spread through my chest, and woke up the warmth low in my stomach like someone had poured gasoline on it.

Focus, Nai. He sat behind his desk, posture perfect, expression unreadable. I laid the files in front of him, careful not to brush his hand. We misjudged the distance by half an inch. The back of his fingers skimmed the side of mine. Barely a touch. A blink. It was like being plugged into a live wire.

Heat shot up my arm, straight to that low, pulsing ache. The hum under my skin roared. I sucked in a breath I hoped he didn’t hear. His hand froze. His gaze, already on the documents, snapped to me. For a second, his eyes weren’t brown, they flashed silver, just a ring, quick and sharp, like moonlight skimming steel. His jaw locked.

“Sit,” he said quietly.

I reclaimed my hand and lowered myself into the chair opposite him, trying not to move too fast, too slow, or too anything. My body felt like it didn’t belong to me. The seat was suddenly too soft, the air too thin. I crossed my ankles, clasped my hands together in my lap, and tried very hard not to squirm.

He opened the first folder. The man was a machine when he worked—eyes flicking over paragraphs in seconds, making decisions that would take other people weeks. Today, though, something was off. I watched his throat work as he swallowed, the way his fingers gripped the pen too tightly. His breathing sounded a fraction too deep, like he was measuring each inhale.

“Walk me through the flagged sections,” he said, gesturing to the pages.

I leaned forward to point out a clause. The movement dragged the neckline of my blouse down a little, cool air brushing over suddenly hypersensitive skin. His gaze dropped, just for a second, then snapped back to the text.

The warmth between my legs flared. I shifted, and the chair creaked softly.

His eyes lifted again, slow. “Is there an issue with your seat, Ms. Carter?”

I swallowed. My throat felt dry, even though I’d been sipping water all day. “No. Just… long day.”

“Mm.” His gaze lingered on my face. “You’re flushed.”

“It’s warm in here,” I lied.

His lips curled, not quite into a smile. “It isn’t.”

Another wave hit. This one was sharper, like the ache had teeth. It rolled through my abdomen and lower, tightening everything inside me, pulling me toward him in a way that made no sense. My fingers dug into my skirt under the desk. He watched. Of course he noticed. He seemed to notice every flicker, every shift.

“Continue,” he said, as if nothing were wrong. “You highlighted section seven for a reason.”

I tried. I really did.

I opened my mouth. Words came out. I explained the potential breach liability, the arbitration terms, all the things I knew how to do in my sleep. My voice sounded almost normal.

But my heartbeat was wrong—too loud, too fast. And every time he leaned back in his chair, the open collar of his shirt exposed more of that warm skin and gold chain, and the heat inside me responded like it was tied to him on a string.

I stumbled over a sentence, losing my place.

He caught it. His pen tapped once against the desk. “You’re distracted,” he observed.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

His nostrils flared, subtly. “You’re not.”

The hum between us thickened. I could feel it now—like an invisible thread stretching from him to me, tugging with every breath. His scent intensified, layered with something richer, wilder, as if the control he wrapped around himself like a second suit was slipping.

His hand tightened on the pen until the plastic cracked. He stared at it, then at me, as if my very existence offended the discipline he’d built his entire life on.

“Stand up,” he said abruptly.

My stomach flipped. “Why?”

“Because I said so, Ms. Carter. Stand.”

The command dropped into my bones like a stone. I rose, legs trembling in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

He circled the desk with slow, measured steps, coming to a stop too close in front of me. His presence hit like a wall. Up close, the silver in his eyes was more visible, swirling faintly under the brown like storm clouds behind glass.

“Look at me,” he said. I did. God help me, I did.