Page 100 of Hate to Love You

Like how I imagined home would.

He bites his lip, his eyes darkening as he walks back to his desk, placing the coffee down in the center of the paper piles, my eyes lock onto it.

He’s going to drink that. And then he’s going to die.

He turns, walking around me, circling me like a lion would appraise his prey. He stops behind me, his breath warming my cheek as he whispers.

“The lace doesn’t cover a single thing, Abigail.”

His voice is dark and gravelly.

“It…it…” I clear my throat, “It was too cold to wear nothing at all.”

How does this man, this infuriating man, manage to fluster me? Every. Single. Time.

“Honestly Roman, you shouldn’t even be looking. It isn’t professional.”

“Fuck professional, Foxy, you haven’t been professional this entire time.”

“Foxy?” I ask, scrunching up my nose. “Why are you calling me Foxy?”

“Because you, Abigail, remind me of a fox. Elusive, cautious, even jumpy at times. And yet there’s something in the way you move,” he says walking toward me slowly, his eyes holding me in place. “Something darker on the fringes, that’s cunning and dangerous. Like a predator that innocently disarms their prey before delivering that deadly blow.”

His voice is low and lethal as he stops so close to me, I can smell his cologne. He leans in to whisper, his lips practically touching my ear lobe.

“Your actions are deliberate and calculated, little fox. So, it begs the question as to why you walk into the lion’s den every day, dressed like that. Do you have no self-preservation? Or are you trying to be devoured?”

My eyes fall closed, trying to get a handle on my sporadic breathing, my heartbeat running wild in my chest.

Can he hear it?

My eyes flutter open as I feel the heat of him against my back, he walks in front of me, my neck straining to look up at him. Reaching forward, he plays with a strand of my hair, rubbing it gently in his fingers before tucking slowly behind my ear. I shudder as a shiver runs down my spine.

I have no idea what to even say in response to that.

He smirks, walking away from me as he heads back to his desk. I watch as his suit jacket strains over his muscles as he leans across the desk to pick up his coffee.

His coffee.

This is it.

My heart pounds as I see him lift the cup to his lips…

“Fuck you, Roman.” I spit, unable to keep myself quiet.

“What?” he says.

“You heard me, you act like you’re so high and mighty all the fucking time, constantly coming at me for what I’m wearing. I do everything you ask, yet all you constantly bitch about is my skirt. My skin. It’s my skin, that you seem to despise.”

“That’s not true—” he starts to say, his eyes flashing.

“I can wear whatever the fuck I want to wear, whenever I want to wear it. If I want to come to work fucking naked, I will!”

“Fuck no you won’t,” he spits, stepping toward me.

What am I doing? Why am I saying any of this?

“My body. My choice.” I throw back at him.