Chelsey
The door to his office clicks open, and my breath catches in my throat like a trapped bird.
I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, pretending to type something—anything—to look busy.
But my mind is a whirlwind, replaying every fantasy, every stolen glance.
Julian Callahan steps out, a manila folder in one hand, his presence filling the empty office like smoke from a fire I can’t extinguish.
He’s shed his tie sometime in the last hour. The top two buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone, revealing a tantalizing V of golden skin dusted with dark hair.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing corded forearms that flex as he adjusts his grip on the folder.
God, those arms—I’ve imagined them pinning me down, holding me open while he f***s my p***y rele
