He Was Supposed to Be Impossible, So Why Is He Helping Me? novel · Chapter 2 of 5

Chapter 2: Her Door, Barely Closed

Leonard follows Audrey to her apartment under the pretense of returning her research, and the professional excuse collapses when he admits he memorized the parts of her work no one else noticed; he takes control of a clothed, hands-only encounter, brings her to the edge of surrender twice, stops both times, and makes her ask him to continue, ending with her half-undressed against her desk and his hand at the place that makes her lose the argument, as she catches his wrist and tells him not to stop.

The door clicked shut behind us, and the sound was louder than it should have been in my quiet apartment.

Leonard stood in the entryway, the manila folder still in his hand, looking at me like he had walked into a room he had no intention of leaving quickly.

The air between us was thick with the unsaid thing that had been building since the conference room.

'You live here,' he said. It was not a question.

'You followed me home to tell me that?'

He set the folder on the small table by the door without looking at it. 'I came to return your research.'

'It's on the shared drive.'

'I know.'

He took a step closer, and then another, and the space between us became less a distance and more a negotiation.

'You memorized it,' I said, the realization arriving like a small, sharp stone in my chest. 'The footnote on the third stress test. The adjustment you made in the model that no one asked for.'

His eyes did not leave mine. 'I noticed.'

That was the moment the professional excuse became impossible to believe.

I had spent six months building that model, and he had spent three weeks reading it, and now he was standing in my apartment with the folder abandoned on the table, looking at me like the work had been the way in, not the destination.

'Why are you really here?'

He did not answer. He reached out and touched my jaw instead, two fingers under my chin, tipping my face up, and the gesture was so deliberate, so certain, that my breath caught.

'I want to see if you feel this too,' he said.

My mouth went dry.

'I don't know what you're, '

'Yes, you do.'

His thumb traced the line of my jaw, slow, unhurried, and every nerve in my body was suddenly paying attention to that one small point of contact.

I should have stepped back. I should have said something about the folder, about the research, about the fact that he was the CFO and I was a junior analyst and this was every kind of mistake.

I did not step back.

His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, and I felt the warmth of his palm against my skin, the slight pressure pulling me toward him.

'Tell me to stop,' he said, 'and I will.'

I looked at his mouth, at the full line of it, and I knew that if I said the word, he would step back and pick up the folder and leave, and we would both pretend this had never happened.

I did not say the word.

His mouth met mine, and the kiss was not tentative. It was a claim, a statement of intent, and I felt it in my knees first, the soft give of them as I pressed into him.

His hands found my waist, then the small of my back, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel the heat of him through the wool of his coat.

I fisted my hands in his lapels and kissed him back, and he made a sound low in his throat that I felt more than heard.

He walked me backward, and I let him, my back hitting the edge of the desk in the corner of the living room.

He lifted me onto it, and the papers scattered, and I did not care.

He stood between my legs, and the position was intimate in a way that made my stomach clench.

His hands moved down my sides, over the silk of my blouse, and I arched into him, wanting more, wanting everything.

He found the hem of my blouse and slid his hands underneath, and the first touch of his palms on my bare skin was a shock that went straight through me.

His hands were warm and sure, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, and I gasped against his mouth.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, and his eyes were dark, focused, the glasses slightly askew.

'You have no idea,' he said, his voice low, 'how long I have wanted to do that.'

I could not breathe.

His hands moved up my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through the lace of my bra, and I bit my lip to keep from making a sound.

He watched me, cataloging every reaction, and the attention was almost too much.

'Tell me what you want,' he said.

The words were a command dressed as a question.

'I want...' I started, and stopped, the admission sticking in my throat.

He waited.

His thumbs circled, slow, patient, and I felt the heat pooling low in my belly, the ache building with every pass.

'More,' I said finally, the word barely a whisper.

He smiled then, a small, sharp thing that transformed his face, and it was the most dangerous expression I had ever seen on him.

'More,' he repeated, as if tasting the word. 'That's a start.'

His hands left my skin, and I made a sound of protest that I could not stop.

He ignored it. He reached for the buttons of my blouse and undid them one by one, slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine.

The air hit my skin as the silk fell open, and I shivered.

He pushed the blouse off my shoulders, and it pooled at my elbows, trapping my arms.

He looked at me then, at the lace of my bra, at the rise and fall of my chest, and something in his expression shifted.

'You're beautiful,' he said, and the words were so plain, so matter-of-fact, that I believed him.

His hands came back to me, cupping my breasts through the lace, and his thumbs found my nipples, already hard, and he circled them until I was arching into his palms.

'Please,' I heard myself say.

'Please what?'

I shook my head, unable to form the words.

He dropped his hands to my thighs, pushing my skirt up, and the cool air on my skin was a shock.

His fingers found the edge of my underwear, and he traced the line of them, slow, teasing, not quite touching where I needed him.

I was going to lose my mind.

'Leonard.'

He looked at me, and there was something almost cruel in the patience of his gaze.

'You're going to have to ask,' he said.

I stared at him.

He moved his hand, just the barest brush of his knuckles against the damp fabric, and I gasped.

'Ask,' he said again.

'Please,' I said, the word breaking. 'Please touch me.'

He smiled again, and it was not kind.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and pulled them down my thighs, and I lifted my hips to help him, desperate now.

He dropped them on the floor and stood back, looking at me, half undressed on my own desk, and I had never felt so exposed, so seen.

His hand came back, and this time there was nothing between us.

His fingers found me, and I cried out, my hips bucking against his hand.

He was slow, deliberate, learning me, and I was already close, the tension coiling tight and hot in my belly.

He circled me with his thumb, and I felt the edge approaching, the wave building.

And then he stopped.

I made a sound, a broken, desperate thing, and he looked at me with satisfaction.

'Not yet,' he said.

I wanted to kill him.

I wanted to beg.

He waited until my breathing steadied, until the ache subsided into a dull, insistent throb, and then he started again.

His fingers moved inside me, his thumb circling, and I was climbing again, faster this time, the pleasure sharper, more urgent.

I was so close. I could feel it, the crest just ahead.

He stopped again.

I was shaking now, my hands gripping the edge of the desk, my hips chasing his hand as he pulled it away.

'Leonard.'

He raised an eyebrow.

'Please,' I said, and my voice was raw. 'Please, I need...'

'You need what?'

I could not say it. The words were too much, too honest.

He leaned in, his mouth at my ear, and his voice was a low, rough whisper.

'Say it. Tell me what you need.'

I closed my eyes.

'I need you to make me come.'

The words hung in the air between us, and I felt the shift in him, the tension in his body.

His hand came back to me, and this time there was no teasing, no stopping.

He was relentless, driving me up and up, and I was gasping, my head thrown back, the world narrowing to the point where his fingers worked me.

I caught his wrist, my fingers wrapping around it, and I looked at him.

'Don't stop,' I said.

He looked at me, his eyes dark and hungry, and he nodded once.

He did not stop.

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