Lily Thompson
It was a painfully slow Thursday.
The kind of slow where every second felt like a full-blown minute, and every click of Ryan’s keyboard across the glass office made my thighs clench like it had personally offended me.
I should’ve been drafting the new report on our product rollout schedule, but instead, I was fantasizing about the man behind the frosted glass.
His jacket was off. Of course it was off. And of course, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up to the elbows. That stupid gold watch of his peeked out every time he moved his wrist, glinting in the sunlight like it knew what it was doing to me. His tie was loosened just enough to make him look dangerous, but not unprofessional. Like he could toss you over his desk and still make it to his 3 p.m. call.
