Getting to know each other
900 Words
👔 Miran’s POV
She shouldn’t have gotten his attention.
She wasn’t his type, at least, not the usual parade of socialite models and glittering influencers who knew exactly how to pose for cameras and peel off dresses.
But this woman?
She looked like she didn’t know she was beautiful. Like she didn’t try.
And that was dangerous.
He’d noticed the cleavage in the lobby — round, firm, straining beneath that blouse — and felt a twitch of something low and primal.
Now?
Her voice was soft, melodic. She paused as she spoke, not out of insecurity but as if each word was carefully chosen.
And when she crossed her legs, that smooth sweep of skin flashing just above the knee...
He adjusted in his chair, discreetly. His slacks were getting tight.
And that pen. That goddamn pen. She kept touching it to her lips, parting them slightly. Those lips — full, plush, kissable.
Something stirred deep in his gut. He hadn’t felt like this in months. Not even with women who wanted him.
And this one didn’t even realize what she was doing to him.
“She’s smart,” a voice in his head said. “She’s also your employee.”
Still, he leaned forward slightly. “You think emotion is what sells?”
Leyla blinked. “People don’t remember the product. They remember how it made them feel. Especially when it comes to luxury.”
He smirked. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”
She blinked again, flustered. “I... I didn’t mean to be—”
“I like it.” His voice dropped half an octave.
Her cheeks flushed, and for a second, she couldn’t look at him.
Cute, he thought. Very cute.
Something about her made him want to test her. Tease her. Push her.
He just didn’t expect to feel the urge to protect her at the same time.
The meeting wrapped in a blur. Leyla wasn’t sure what she’d said in the last few minutes but all she could think about was how his eyes had followed her every move.
She stood quickly, gathering her things. “Thank you, Mr. Arslan. I’ll type up a draft proposal and—”
Her pen slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
They both moved.
In one fluid moment, she crouched down just as he did. Their heads nearly bumped, breath mingling, and then his hand brushed hers.
No — it held hers.
His thumb pressed gently against her skin, lingering. Warm. Firm.
Leyla froze.
Their eyes met. Inches apart. Her breath caught in her throat. Hazel into onyx, the air crackled, full of unspoken things.
He didn’t move. Neither did she.
And then she did.
Leyla pulled her hand back quickly, standing so fast her knee bumped the table. “I—I should go.”
He stood too, slower, watching her the way a predator watches something soft and trembling.
“Of course,” he said quietly.
She turned and walked away, clutching the pen like it might burn her fingers. Behind her, she felt his gaze trail down her back, molten and unreadable.
Miran’s was in the shower, steam filled the room, water cascading over his shoulders, down his chest, across the tattooed lines that coiled over his skin like a secret story.
He closed his eyes.
But all he saw was her.
Leyla.
The way she had looked at him, uncertain, curious, like she was trying not to want what she wanted.
The curve of her breasts beneath that innocent blouse.
Her thighs when she crossed her legs.
Her lips, full and parted, that damned pen resting right between them.
His hand slid over his abs, lower, as his mind filled with the image of her on her knees, not looking for a pen, but looking up at him, mouth open, breathless, begging.
His c**k hardened under the water, thick and aching.
He hissed out a breath, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t the type to fantasize about anyone.
But her?
He imagined her gasping under him. Biting her lip. Writhing when he’d finally taste her. Take her.
And then she’d say his name.
“Miran…”
His jaw clenched.
This wasn’t good.
He wanted her.
Too much.
Alone in Her Room, Leyla lay on her back in bed, eyes wide, covers tangled around her legs. Her cheeks were flushed. Her skin was too warm. Her thoughts… definitely not appropriate.
She turned on her side, curling into the pillow. It didn’t help.
Why was she thinking about him?
His voice. The way it slid over her skin like velvet and smoke. His lips, curved into a dangerous smirk. The touch of his thumb against her hand.
And those eyes…
She squeezed her thighs together, feeling the rush of heat between them.
No. No. Absolutely not.
He was her boss.
He was cold, dangerous, out of her league.
Why did her body ache in places it shouldn’t? Why did she imagine his hands on her, pulling her blouse open slowly, kissing a path down her stomach, between her legs?
She covered her face with both hands and groaned.
You’re losing your mind, she thought. This is a crush. It’ll pass. Deep down, she knew it wouldn’t.
Because when she’d looked into his eyes, she didn’t just feel attraction.
She felt danger.
And God help her — she wanted it.
- Writer
