Heat beneath the surface
782 Words
☕ Leyla's POV
Back in her office, Leyla shut the door and collapsed into the chair. Her hands trembled slightly, the adrenaline still racing through her veins.
He was right.
She’d acted too fast. The budget shift, though small on paper, could have snowballed into something huge. Dangerous. Costly. And he would have taken the hit.
You should’ve consulted him.
You’re not in your university project groups anymore, Leyla. This is the real world.
Her lips pressed together. Still — she didn’t regret the decision. The influencer was a smart move. The numbers would prove it.
But what gnawed at her wasn’t the professional misstep.
It was him.
His voice. His presence. His eyes that looked through her like glass.
And the way her body reacted around him — like she had no say in the matter.
She hadn’t meant to look sexy today. She’d wanted to look competent. Sharp. Prepared. The dress was structured. Elegant.
Not vulgar. Not provocative.
Yet the way his eyes had dropped to her cleavage, then her thighs — it hadn’t made her feel dirty.
It had made her feel… alive.
Across the hall, the kitchen buzzed with voices.
“She probably thinks she’s the next Mrs. Arslan.”
“He didn’t even look at her like that yesterday. Today she puts on some lipstick and—bam.”
Leyla’s fingers curled around her pen. She heard the words. She refused to let them matter.
But they did.
👀 Miran’s POV
He heard the chatter.
He always did.
The whispers. The assumptions. The fantasies people liked to project onto him.
Miran Arslan — the ice prince, the billionaire bad boy, the untouchable boss.
He didn’t care. Not usually.
But this time… it hit a nerve.
They were talking about her.
He shut his laptop with a snap and stood. His c**k was still hard — a dull, persistent throb since the moment she walked in.
He stormed into the executive washroom, slammed the door, and locked it.
Water on. Cold.
Didn’t help.
His palm braced against the marble wall, the other sliding down. Her image filled his head — her mouth, her thighs, the way she looked up at him with those dangerous, defiant hazel eyes.
He wanted to bend her over the desk.
Slide his hand between her legs.
Kiss her until she begged.
But he didn’t.
Because he couldn’t.
Because this was his company. His rules. And she was off-limits.
Still, the ache wouldn't go away.
🕔 End of Day – Leyla's POV
She could’ve just gone home.
But something tugged at her.
So she stopped by the café down the street, bought two lattes — his usual, no sugar — and returned upstairs. The office was mostly empty now. Quiet. The city lights flickered outside the windows.
She knocked gently on his door.
A pause. Then: “Come in.”
Miran looked up, clearly not expecting anyone.
Her heels clicked softly as she stepped inside. “I brought you this.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“No one brings me coffee,” he said.
She smiled faintly. “That’s sad.”
He took it, brushing her fingers for just a second longer than needed. “Thank you.”
She nodded, then paused. “Also… I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
He leaned back in his chair, watching her with that unreadable expression. “For?”
“For not checking with you earlier. I still think I made the right call, but… I should’ve asked first. I don’t know how you like things done. Yet.”
He smiled — that damn, lazy, dangerous smirk.
“You want to know how I like things done, Leyla?”
Her stomach flipped.
He stood slowly and walked around the desk. Not in a rush. Like he had all the time in the world.
He leaned against the front edge, just inches from her. Their legs brushed. His knee gently pressed against hers under the desk.
She didn’t move.
His voice dropped, dark and velvet-smooth.
“Do you want to know me, Leyla?”
She couldn’t speak. Her heart was hammering.
“I think,” he continued, “you do want to.”
Their eyes locked.
And for a moment, she forgot why she was there, forgot the job, forgot the rules.
She just knew the way her body lit up at his nearness.
But she found her voice, somehow.
“I want to be good at my job,” she whispered.
“You already are,” he said, voice low. “That’s not what I asked.”
He straightened, moving past her with one final look — the kind that scorched.
“Good night, Miss Demir.”
- Writer
