Page 70 of Illicit Education
His lips twitched. “I’d like to know if you can keep your personal life separate from your professional life, Rylan.”
Oh God.Anytime he said my name, I was done for. He’d slip it in every so often, dropping the formalities, and every damn time I nearly swooned.
This time was no exception.
And he knew damn well what he did to me.
The attraction between us was an actual, palpable force of nature.
It filled whatever space we occupied, electrified the air.
He’d already been quite clear about what he wanted, and it was no doubtquiteobvious that I wanted the same thing.
We hadn’t acted on that desire, but it had arguably been a very long week of dancing around the obvious.
Reed tilted his head and I remembered the question. Could I keep my personal life and professional life separate? “Yes.”
Fine. It was a fucking lie. Don’t judge. The lines between personal and professional had been obliterated the moment I saw him in the underground kink club. He knew it and I knew it.
But I wanted to know him outside of Reed Tower. Wasdesperatefor it.
So I lied.
But I think the question was more for formalities than anything else.
“I am teaching a class this Sunday and my assistant is unavailable tonight. I need to practice, and cannot do so alone.”
“What kind of class?”
“Shibari. It’s a form of art.” His eyes danced. “Using rope.”
He was an artist? With rope? Like macramé? I shrugged. “Okay.” Macrame was cool. I didn’t picture him making boho wall hangings, but I wouldn’t judge his hobbies.
Reed’s lips twitched back into that smirk and he inclined his head. “What time is your shift over at the store tonight?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Then I will see you then to escort you downstairs as my guest.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, you mean… you meant…”
“Is there a problem, Ms. Blake?”
Butterflies did obnoxious little somersaults in my stomach. “No, sir. No problem.”
“Good.” He glanced at the manuscript in my lap. “Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off. Let me know what you think of that one on Monday.” With that, he rose swiftly and turned away from me, then strode to the elevators.
My shoulders fell and I breathed deeply, the first solid breath I’d taken since he approached me with my lavender latte surprise. Breathing around him was impossible. Functioning around him was nearlyunmanageable.
Maybe the lack of oxygen had affected my brain.Did I just agree to go to the Rabbit Hole with him?
I pressed my fingertips to my lips as a smile spread across my face, then pulled out my phone to text Greer. Pausing with my finger hovering over her name, I closed out my texts and opened my search app instead, then enteredshabarryinto the search bar.
The results were varied, with a bunch of suggestions about what I might havetriedto spell, but none of them had to do with rope or art.
I tried again.Shabarry rope art.
The search engine corrected the spelling to shibari, and I clicked on the first listing. It was a link to something on Etsy, which made sense for macramé. There were listings for rope in various colors and–