The Billionaire Asset

3: Ava

The digital clock on my temporary desk glowed a cool, mocking blue: 11:48 PM. The rest of the city was a blur of yellow taxis and distant sirens fifty-four floors below, but up here, the silence was absolute. It was a heavy, expensive kind of silence that made every rustle of my paperwork sound like a gunshot.

I leaned back in my ergonomic leather chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. My eyes were burning from hours of staring at spreadsheets, trying to find the missing link in Lucas’s offshore acquisition strategy. He was brilliant, but he was also a master of obfuscation. Every time I thought I had a lead, the trail vanished into a maze of shell companies.

I reached for my coffee, only to find the cup cold and empty. I sighed, the sound echoing in the empty office. I felt a strange prickle on the back of my neck, the sensation of being watched that I couldn't shake.

"The numbers won't change just because you stare at them until midnight, Ava."

The voice came from the shadows of the doorway. I jumped, my heart giving a violent thud against my ribs. Lucas was leaning against the frame, his silhouette cutting a jagged, imposing shape against the dim light of the hallway.

He had ditched his suit jacket and tie long ago. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the top three buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of the dark hair on his chest and the sharp line of his collarbone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that were corded with muscle and etched with veins. He looked undone, raw, and devastatingly handsome.

"I’m not staring. I’m analyzing," I said, my voice coming out slightly breathier than I intended. I tried to sound professional, but it’s hard to maintain authority when your body is suddenly humming with a low-voltage current.

He didn't say anything at first. He just watched me. His gaze was slow, deliberate, and heavy with a weight I could feel in my lower belly. He walked into the room, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He didn't stop until he was standing directly behind me.

I couldn't see him, but I could feel him. The heat radiating from his body was like a physical wall, pressing against my back. The scent of him—leather, expensive scotch, and something dark and spicy—filled my lungs, making my head swim.

"You missed a carry-forward on page twelve," he murmured.

He didn't wait for me to move. He leaned over my shoulder, reaching for the mouse. To do so, he had to brace one hand on the desk and the other on the back of my chair. I was effectively trapped between the hard mahogany of the desk and the solid, warm mass of his chest.

The proximity was suffocating. I could hear the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing right next to my ear. I could feel the slight movement of his shirt against my shoulder. Every nerve ending I possessed was screaming, focused entirely on the few inches of air that separated us.

"Here," he said. His voice had dropped to a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through the back of my chair and straight into my spine.

He clicked through a few cells on the spreadsheet. His arm was so close to mine that I could see the fine, dark hairs on his skin. I could see the way his pulse was jumping in his wrist—a fast, frantic beat that didn't match his calm tone.

I looked up at him, intending to tell him I could handle it myself, but the words died in my throat. He was already looking at me.

Our faces were inches apart. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark blue eyes, the slight ruggedness of his skin, and the way his lips were parted just a fraction. The air in the office felt like it had been sucked out, replaced by a thick, cloying tension that made it hard to think.

My gaze dropped to his mouth. I couldn't help it. He had a cruel, beautiful mouth that looked like it knew exactly how to ruin a woman. My heart was hammering so hard I was certain he could feel the vibration through the floor.

"Lucas," I whispered. It wasn't a question; it was a plea. For what, I wasn't even sure.

"You're working too hard, Ava," he said, his voice barely a breath. He reached out, his thumb hovering just a fraction of an inch from my jawline. He didn't touch me, but the heat from his skin was so intense it felt like a brand. "You're a perfectionist. It’s a dangerous trait."

"And what's your dangerous trait?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I don't know when to stop," he replied.

He leaned in a fraction more. The tip of his nose brushed against mine. It was a tiny, insignificant contact, but it sent a jolt of pure fire through me. My eyes drifted shut, my head tilting back instinctively. I wanted him to bridge the gap. I wanted to know if he tasted as dark and dangerous as he looked.

The silence in the room was deafening, filled only by the sound of our ragged breathing. I could feel the heavy, demanding throb of desire pooling in my core, making me feel heavy and desperate. I reached out, my hand trembling as I gripped the edge of the desk, trying to anchor myself.

Lucas let out a low, pained sound deep in his throat. His hand moved from the back of my chair, his fingers grazing the silk of my blouse near my shoulder. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it made me gasp.

For a second, the world narrowed down to just this—the heat of him, the scent of the night, and the unbearable pressure of what was about to happen.

Then, the heavy "clack-clack" of the night security guard's boots echoed in the hallway outside.

Lucas stiffened. He pulled back slowly, his eyes never leaving mine as he straightened his posture. The predatory hunger was still there, burning in the depths of his pupils, but the mask of the billionaire CEO was being dragged back into place.

He took a step back, giving me the air I so desperately needed. I felt cold the moment the warmth of his body left mine.

"Go home, Ava," he said, his voice sounding rough, like he’d been swallowing glass. "The numbers will still be here in the morning. And so will I."

He turned and walked out of the office before I could say a word. I sat there for a long time, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen, my skin still tingling and my heart refusing to slow down.