3
1260 Words
ISABELLA
Like a deer in the headlights, I was frozen. I knew I should hide, but I couldn't even move. My stomach twisted, but I kept my head down, pretending I was deeply fascinated by the floor. Maybe if I just—
“You look familiar.”
Dios mío.
I forced my muscles not to stiffen, but my hands clenched the mop tighter. There was something irritatingly smooth about his voice, like a man who was used to women melting at the mere sound of it. I could already picture his stupidly perfect face, those sharp blue eyes that had looked up at me through the dim lighting of his penthouse suite.
I lifted my head slightly, offering a bland look. “Do I?”
He tilted his head, scrutinizing me like I was a puzzle missing its last piece. The tailored suit he wore was worth more than my monthly rent, and he looked so put together, so utterly different from the drunk, shameless flirt I had dragged down his hallway.
I turned, intent on escaping before recognition fully struck, but before I could take a step, his hand shot out, catching my wrist.
“Wait.”
His fingers were warm, his grip firm but not forceful. My pulse jumped annoyingly at the contact, and I bit the inside of my cheek.
His gaze sharpened, and then his lips curled into something annoyingly smug.
“You’re the one.”
I sighed through my nose. “And so what?”
That surprised him. A flicker of amusement crossed his face before he let out a laugh, low and genuine. “I like that answer.”
I jerked my wrist free, adjusting my grip on the mop. “Good for you.”
His eyes dropped to my uniform, and I knew the question was coming before he even opened his mouth.
“Why are you cleaning?”
I blinked at him, feigning shock. “What? You mean why don't I come from a long line of hotel heiresses?”
His lips twitched.
I tilted my head. “Why do you think so? The night we fu—” I caught myself, glancing around the empty hallway before lowering my voice, “—the night we met, I was working as a waitress. That didn’t clue you in?”
Realization dawned on his face, and it took everything in me not to roll my eyes.
“Oh,” he said.
I snorted. “There it is.”
He ignored my sarcasm. “What’s your name?”
I lifted a brow. “Didn’t care to ask before?”
He leaned in slightly, like I was suddenly very interesting. “I was a little preoccupied. My name's Logan, by the way. What's yours?”
“I-Isabella.”
“Isabella. Would sound so good when I'm about to orgasm.”
I hated that my skin prickled at his proximity. I hated that I still remembered exactly how his lips felt against mine, how his hands had explored every inch of my body. I hated that standing this close to him made my breath hitch, even though I had zero intention of repeating that night.
I took a step back. “I have work to do.”
“Not yet.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Not yet?”
His smirk deepened. “See me in my office.”
I let out a dry laugh. “You’re funny.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I wasn’t joking.”
A part of me wanted to walk away just to be difficult, but curiosity won out.
His office was just as I imagined, huge, expensive, and designed for intimidation. The air smelled like leather and something distinctly him, a mix of cedarwood and arrogance.
I didn’t sit.
He, on the other hand, made himself comfortable behind his desk, watching me like I was a particularly fascinating challenge.
I crossed my arms. “Alright. What do you want?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood and walked around the desk, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Do you always talk like that?” he mused.
“Like what?”
He stopped right in front of me, close enough that I could see the hint of amusement in his eyes. “Like you’re ready to bite.”
“Only when people get in my way.”
His fingers brushed against my arm lightly and teasing. A test. My breath caught before I could stop it, and I swore his smirk deepened.
I scoffed, stepping back. “You’re touchy, aren’t you?”
“I don’t hear you complaining.”
My eyes narrowed. “Because I’m too busy regretting my life choices.”
He chuckled, but there was something sharper in his gaze now, something hungry.
And damn it, I felt it, too.
For days, it continued. Every time I tried to keep my head down, he was there, watching, teasing, and cornering me in ways that made my heart race. The tension between us was a tangible thing, thick in the air, impossible to ignore.
One afternoon, after another one of his lingering touches, I finally snapped.
“I’m not sleeping with my boss,” I said firmly.
He lifted a brow, looking entirely too amused. “Is that what you think this is?”
“I know that’s what this is.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded, as if he’d come to a decision. “Then let’s change the terms.”
I frowned. “What?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “A proposal.”
I let out a dry laugh. “If this is some twisted way of getting me to date you—”
“It’s not.”
That caught me off guard.
His voice was smooth, measured. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”
Something in me bristled. “Wow. That makes two of us.”
He smirked. “Good. Then you won’t have a problem with this.”
He stepped closer, his presence swallowing up all the space between us. My back hit the wall, and his hands caged me on either side.
He leaned down, his lips a breath away from mine. “I’ll pay you.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Every time we sleep together.”
For a moment, I just stared at him. “Are you serious?”
He nodded.
The idea should have disgusted me. Should have sent me storming out of his office.
But...
Rent. Bills. Food.
And, let’s be honest, it wasn’t like I didn’t want him.
I tilted my head, studying him. “And what do you get out of it?”
His blue eyes darkened. “You.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
For a moment, we just stood there, the air thick with something electric, something neither of us could ignore.
Finally, I exhaled, pushing against his chest just enough to make space between us.
“Fine.”
A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face, and just like that, the deal was made.
At first, it was just s*x, or at least, that’s what we told ourselves, but the tension between us never faded. It only grew. We resisted, only to end up in compromising positions, so many near-misses that left us breathless and on edge.
Eventually, we stopped pretending.
We met in secret. Stolen moments. Hidden encounters, and every time, I told myself it didn’t mean anything.
Every time, I told myself this was just survival, but somewhere, deep down, I knew that I was playing with fire.
- Writer
