Chapter 6: After Hours

I kissed him first.

I fisted his shirt in both hands and pulled his mouth down to mine in the stairwell, under a green exit sign.

Eleven of his staff were on the other side of the steel door.

He made a sound low in his chest and kissed me back.

His beard scraped my chin.

His hand went flat against the small of my back and hauled me up against him.

Somebody pushed the door at the far end of the floor and we both froze, panting, until the footsteps went the other way.

"Not here," I whispered.

"Where?"

"After they've gone home."

He looked at me for one long second with his glasses crooked and his mouth wet.

"Seven o'clock," Raylan said. "My office. Lock the door."

By seven the floor was dark except for one glass room at the corner.

The blinds were drawn, and the city glittered orange through the slats.

I locked the door behind me.

He stood at the window with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled.

When he turned, he took off his glasses and set them on the desk.

"I'm ten years older than you," he said.

"I'm twenty-three," I said. "I know my own mind, Mr. Whitfield."

"And what's it telling you?"

I crossed the room and put my hand on his belt.

"That you wrote a very bad report," I said. "And you're going to spend tonight making it up to me."

His breath went out of him.

"Waverly."

"Take off your shirt."

He did, one button at a time, with his eyes on my face.

A wide chest, a thin gold chain, and a scar along his left ribs.

I pushed him back against the desk and pulled my hoodie over my head.

I wore nothing under it but a black bra, and he looked at me.

"Come here," he said roughly.

"I'm in charge."

"For about another minute."

He caught my hips and lifted me onto the desk, and the papers slid off the edge in a slow white avalanche.

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