Chapter 7: The Office Temptation
The echo of the bar’s jukebox faded, replaced by the sterile hum of the office building’s climate control. The kiss hung between them, a live wire neither touched directly.
“You didn’t have to walk me back,” Heather said, her heels clicking a sharp, rhythmic tattoo on the polished marble of the lobby. The security guard gave them a bored nod from behind his desk.
“It’s late. The building’s empty.” James’s voice was flat, giving nothing away. The calculated move in the bar now felt like a depth charge, its shockwaves still traveling through the quiet of him. He’d meant to start a game. The game had started, and he was already a player on the board, not just the mover of pieces.
“My hero.” The words were light, but her posture was tense. She fumbled with her keycard at the interior door leading to the elevator banks. “Damn it. Swipe, you piece of plastic.”
He reached out, his hand covering hers. He took the card, his calloused fingers brushing her knuckles. A simple, practical gesture. Her breath hitched, just a tiny catch. He swiped cleanly. The lock clicked.
“Thanks,” she murmured, not looking at him.
The elevator was a mirrored capsule. They stood side-by-side, watching their reflections not meet each other’s eyes. Heather’s cheeks were flushed. James’s expression was carved from stone. The silence was thick, pressurized.
“So,” she said to her reflection. “The retainer’s been paid. Does that make you my attorney now?”
“It makes me someone who kissed you in a bar. Don’t confuse the two.”
The doors opened on her floor. The hallway was dark, motion-activated fluorescents flickering to life with a lethargic buzz, revealing a landscape of identical oak doors and nameplates. ‘H. Norris – Talent Acquisitions.’
Her office was a testament to organized chaos. A sleek, modern desk was buried under cascading piles of resumes, manila folders, and empty LaCroix cans. A lonely ficus wept brown leaves in the corner. Along one wall, three large cardboard boxes sat, sealed with packing tape.
“The Gary Finch archives,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “Every stupid gift, every cringey email I printed out for my lawyer, which was going to be someone actually licensed. Until tonight.”
James walked to the boxes. He tested the weight of the top one. It was heavy, packed tight. “You need to go through these. We need to find any connection, anything that doesn’t fit with the ‘pathetic marketing guy’ narrative. The note you got wasn’t from him.”
“I know.” She leaned against her desk, watching him. The professional armor was back, but it was cracked. “It’s just… a lot. And it’s late. And my brain is currently divided between statutory tort law and the fact that my best friend’s boyfriend just kissed me.”
James straightened. He met her gaze in the dim office light. “Camilla is the best thing that’s happened to me since I got out. She’s my light. She’s good.”
Heather folded her arms. “And yet.”
“And yet,” he acknowledged, the words rough. “There are things in my head… dark things. They need a different kind of outlet. A distraction. Not her. She shouldn’t have to touch that.”
“So I’m the distraction.” She said it without anger. A statement of fact.
“You presented an opportunity. I took it.” He turned back to the boxes, tearing the tape off the first one with a violent ripping sound. “It was a mistake. We can pretend it didn’t happen.”
Heather was quiet for a long moment. Then she laughed, a single, hollow puff of air. “Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel special, Mallory."
Heather pushed off the desk and joined him at the box. “Fine. Pretend it didn’t happen. Let’s just work.” Her fingers brushed his as she pulled out a stack of papers. A current passed between them, ignored. “The note. ‘Drop the ancillary matters.’ That’s the phrase that stuck.”
“Ancillary to what?” James sorted through the papers, his eyes scanning for patterns. “What are you doing that’s primary? It can’t just be covering Camilla’s shifts.”
“I’m not doing anything!” She sounded genuinely frustrated. “I go to work. I date morons. I pay my taxes. The only ‘primary’ thing in my life is…” She trailed off.
“Is what?”
She looked away. “Trying to be a better friend to Camilla. She’s been so isolated since you came along, so wrapped up in your world. I’ve been trying to be there for her.” She met his gaze, defiant. “Maybe that’s the ‘ancillary matter’ someone wants dropped.”
The air in the room cooled. James sifted through a file of emails, seeing nothing but banal office gossip and Gary Finch’s terrible attempts at poetry. Her suggestion landed with a cold, logical thud. Targeting Heather was a clean, efficient way to isolate Camilla. To isolate him. He felt the walls of the strategy closing in.
“This feels bigger than Gary,” Heather said, pulling out a takeout menu from the bottom of the box. “God, we ordered Thai that one time. He cried when they forgot the extra peanuts.”
James took the menu. It was for ‘Siam Garden,’ a place with a logo he’d seen before. On a receipt in another file, in another life. His pulse gave a hard, single thump. “You like Thai?”
“Love it. Pad Kee Mow, extra spicy. It’s the only way to live.” She eyed him. “You?”
“Twenty years of prison food.” He let the statement hang, stark and simple. “I’d kill for a good curry. Something with flavor that isn’t fear or regret.”
A moment of shared, quiet understanding passed between them. It wasn’t pity. It was a recognition of separate hungers, vast and deep. He saw her look at his hands, at the scars on his knuckles, and then quickly away.
“We should finish this tomorrow,” he said, his voice softer. “You’re tired. I’m seeing things that probably aren’t there.”
“Probably?” she challenged, but her shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
“Definitely.” He placed the menu back in the box. “I’ll come by your office. Mid-morning. We’ll sort through the rest. Develop a real response.”
Heather nodded, rubbing her temples. “Okay. Yeah. That’s… that sounds good.”
He moved to leave, then stopped in front of her. The dim light from her desk lamp cut across the planes of his face. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice low. “It wasn’t just a calculation.”
He leaned in and kissed her again. This time it was softer, an exploration rather than an assault. His hand slid from her waist down to the curve of her ass, grasping it firmly through the thin fabric of her dress. He pulled her closer, feeling the heat of her against him. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he whispered against her lips.
She smiled into the kiss, a small, surprised sound escaping her. Then she broke it, playfully swatting his hand away. “You’re trouble, James Mallory. The worst kind.”
“I know.” He stepped back, the ghost of her warmth lingering on his skin. “Lock the door behind me.”
The drive home was a blur of streetlights and his own dark reflection in the windshield. He replayed the feel of her, the taste of whiskey and mint on her tongue. The way her body had yielded for a fraction of a second. He walked into the apartment, the scent of lavender laundry detergent a familiar blanket.
Camilla was curled on the sofa, a textbook open on her lap. She looked up, her face softening. “Hey. How did it go?”
“Fine. We made a plan.” He hung his jacket, his movements deliberate. “She’s scared, but she’s tougher than she looks.”
“Thank you for helping her,” Camilla said, sincerity warming her words. She stood and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. “It means a lot to me. She’s family.”
He held her, his chin resting on top of her head. He pictured Heather’s confident sway in the bar, the perfect, denim-clad memory of her ass. He felt Camilla’s gentle curves against him now, soft and familiar. A cold, comparative analysis ran unbidden through his mind. Heather’s was a defiant, sculpted statement. Camilla’s was a gentle, welcoming truth.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair.
He was building a house of cards on a fault line, and he could already feel the tremors starting.
Sleep provided no sanctuary, only a replay of sensations: the sticky bar table, the sharp taste of whiskey, the yielding pressure of Heather’s mouth. He woke before Camilla, lying still as dawn filtered grey light through the blinds. Her breathing was a gentle rhythm against his back, a metronome measuring his guilt.
He made coffee, the routine grounding him. The scent filled the small kitchen. Camilla padded in later, her hair sleep-tousled, and kissed his shoulder. “Morning.” Her voice was soft with sleep. “You’re up early. Big day with the Finch files?”
“Yeah,” he said, handing her a mug. “Meeting Heather at her office to dig deeper.”
“Good.” She sipped, leaning against the counter. “Just remember, she’s a drama magnet. Don’t let her spin you in circles.”
“I’m just looking for facts,” he replied, the lie smooth on his tongue.
Her office building felt different in the harsh morning light, a hive of polished efficiency. He took the elevator up, the numbers climbing with a soft ping. Heather’s door was ajar. He pushed it open.
She was on the phone, her back to him, leaning over her desk to point at something on a monitor for a colleague. She wore a simple cream blouse and a black pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her ass looked fantastic. The colleague, a young man with an anxious expression, nodded vigorously.
“Yes, exactly,” Heather was saying, her professional voice crisp. “The metrics need to reflect the pipeline, not just the placements. Call the client back and clarify.” She hung up and waved the colleague out. “We’ll talk after lunch, Matt.”
The door clicked shut, leaving them in the sudden quiet.
“Counselor,” she said, turning to face him. A playful smirk touched her lips, but her eyes were guarded. “You’re punctual. I appreciate that in a legally ambiguous consultant.”
“I’m full of appreciated qualities,” he said, not moving from his spot by the door. The hum of the computer tower was the only sound.
“I’m sure.” She raised an eyebrow, waiting. “Shall we dive into the thrilling world of Gary’s credit card statements?”
He crossed the room in three quiet strides. Before she could react, he cupped her face and pecked her lips, a quick, dry brush of contact. She made a small, startled sound that melted into a low chuckle.
“Retainer’s still good, I see,” she murmured, her eyes sparkling.
He didn’t answer with words. He shoved her, not hard but decisively, back against the edge of her desk. A stapler clattered to the floor. She let out a soft “oof” of surprise, then laughed, a genuine, throaty sound as he moved in, nuzzling the warm skin of her neck. He inhaled her scent—morning coffee, her perfume, something uniquely Heather.
“You know,” he mused, his voice a rough whisper against her pulse, “this is the most fun case I’ve worked on in a while.”
She chuckled in agreement, her head tilting back to give him better access. Her hands came up, fingers threading into his hair. “The discovery process is particularly engaging.”
The intercom on her phone buzzed, a jagged sound tearing through the moment. “Heather? Your eleven-thirty is here.”
She groaned, her body going tense. “One second, Stacey!” she called out, then focused her blue eyes on James, now dark with frustration. “Damn it. I have a candidate.”
He pulled back, straightening his jacket. She stayed perched on the desk, the skirt riding up her thighs. She pouted, a full, exaggerated expression that was both ridiculous and deeply alluring. “You’re leaving?”
“Lunch with Camilla,” he said, the name dropping between them like a stone. He saw the flicker in her eyes, a brief contraction of something—guilt, maybe, or challenge.
“Right. Of course.” She slid off the desk, smoothing her skirt. The professional mask clicked back into place, but it was fragile, a thin veneer. “The good girlfriend.”
He leaned in quickly, catching her lips in one more firm, fleeting kiss. “I’ll be back soon,” he whispered. Then he turned and walked out, leaving her in the silent office, the ghost of his touch still on her skin, the taste of him on her mouth, the scent of him in the air.
He didn’t look back. The elevator doors slid shut, sealing him in a silent, mirrored box with his own reflection—a man who wore guilt like a second skin, stretched tight over shifting intentions.
Lunch with Camilla was at a sun-drenched bistro two blocks from her office. She chose a table outside, her face tilted towards the weak spring light. “I ordered you the steak frites,” she said as he sat down, already knowing his preferences, a catalog of his new life she’d memorized. “You need protein.”
“You’re good to me,” he said, and the words felt like gravel in his mouth. He took her hand across the table, tracing the delicate bones with his thumb. Her skin was warm. Real. He studied the menu again, a bland collection of words. Pad Kee Mow. He didn’t see it.
“How’s Heather holding up?” she asked, sipping her sparkling water. A lemon wedge bobbed against the glass.
“She’s resilient. Frightened, but putting on a brave face.” He pictured Heather against the desk, the sharp intake of breath, the laugh that followed. “The case is flimsy. The threat behind it isn’t.”
Camilla’s brow furrowed. “You really think it’s connected to… your situation?”
“The language matches. It’s a nudge. A warning to back off, transmitted through a useful idiot.” The waiter arrived with their food. James cut into his steak, watching the blood pool. “She’s an access point to you. To me.”
“God.” Camilla pushed her salad around with her fork, her appetite gone. “I brought her into this.”
“You didn’t. They did.” He reached for her hand again, gripping it tightly. “I’ll contain it.”
She searched his face, looking for the man she believed was in there. He let her see only the determined protector, the fierce, focused wall. The part that was true, if not complete. He ate his steak. It tasted like nothing.
Afterward, walking her back to her office, he kissed her on the sidewalk. It was long and deep, a performance of normalcy and possession. She melted into it, a soft sigh escaping her. “Come over tonight?” she murmured against his lips. “We can order in. Avoid the world.”
“I’d like that,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. He watched her walk through the rotating glass doors, a figure swallowed by the building’s sterile glow. Then he pulled out his phone.
Heather answered on the second ring. “I was starting to think my retainer had expired.”
“It’s renewed. We need to talk, but not in your office.” He started walking, directionless, energy crackling under his skin. “Where are you?”
“Home. Wrestling with a particularly rebellious stir-fry.” He could hear the sizzle of oil in the background. “Why? You have a sudden craving for mediocre cooking?”
“I have a craving for not being overheard.” He flagged down a taxi. “Text me your address.”
Her apartment was in a converted warehouse downtown, the kind with exposed brick and oversized windows. The door was unlocked, just as she’d instructed. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The loft was spacious, messy, and full of light. Colourful abstract paintings clashed with a sleek, minimalist sofa. He found her in the open kitchen, her back to him. She was standing at the stove, wearing only a faded grey tank top and a pair of simple black cotton panties. The lines of her body were unhurried and unselfconscious, the curve of her back dipping into the swell of her ass.
The stir-fry popped and hissed. He moved silently across the polished concrete floor, coming up behind her. He didn’t speak. He simply bent his head and nuzzled the warm, fragrant skin where her neck met her shoulder, inhaling the scent of sesame oil and her perfume.
She chuckled, a low, vibrating sound. “You’re like a cat. A very large, potentially feral cat.” She playfully swatted at his hand where it had come to rest on her hip. “Let me finish burning this broccoli.”
“Forget the broccoli,” he murmured into her skin, his lips moving against her. “We have more pressing business.”
She turned the stove off with a click, but didn’t turn around. She leaned back into him instead. “Gary’s friends? Right.” She tilted her head, giving him better access. “I was thinking. He had this one buddy, Leo. Always hanging around. Big guy, quiet. Gary said he did ‘private security.’”
James’s hands slid around her waist, skimming the hem of her tank top. His touch was deliberate, a distraction he was engineering. “Leo. Last name?”
“No idea. He was just… Leo.” She shivered as his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts. “He had a tattoo here.” She touched the side of her own neck. “An eagle or something. Military style.”
“That’s not much to go on.” He spun her gently to face him. Her eyes were bright, her lips slightly parted. The stir-fry was forgotten, steam rising uselessly between them. “You need to remember more.”
“I’m trying,” she breathed, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “He was creepy. Always watching. Never really talked.”
“We could track him.” James leaned in, his voice a low rumble. “Maybe you could think better without these distractions.” His fingers hooked into the straps of her tank top, easing them down her shoulders.
She let him, the fabric pooling at her waist. “Distractions seem to be the main event,” she said, her voice husky.
He kissed her then, cutting off any further discussion of Leo or Gary or threats. It was a deep, consuming kiss, all pent-up frustration and calculated heat. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his arms.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. He was done talking. Bored with the case, bored with the pretence. He wanted the noise in his head to stop. In one swift motion, he bent and hooked an arm under her knees, lifting her clear off the floor.
She let out a sharp yelp of surprise, her arms flying around his neck. “James! What the—”
He carried her through the open loft, past the sofa, towards the rumpled bed framed by the large industrial window. City light filtered through, painting everything in shades of grey and gold. With a grunt, he tossed her onto the mattress. She bounced once, her hair fanning out around her.
Before she could protest, before she could even catch her breath, she reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him down on top of her with surprising strength. Her laugh was a challenge in the dim room. “Come here.”
He went, his body covering hers, the outside world and its dangers finally, blessedly, fading into a distant hum. His mouth found hers again, a harder kiss this time, all need and no patience. Her hands scrambled at the buttons of his shirt, popping them open with a series of sharp, plastic clicks.
He shrugged the shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. Her fingers traced the landscape of old scars and hard muscle, her touch curious and unafraid. “Jesus,” she breathed, not in horror but in something like awe.
He didn’t give her time to dwell. He grabbed the hem of her tank top and pulled it up and over her head in one rough motion. It joined his shirt on the concrete. Then he dipped his head, burying his face between her breasts, his stubble scratching the soft skin.
A low moan escaped her, part pleasure, part something else. She laughed, a breathless, disbelieving sound against the crown of his head. “God, this is so messed up,” she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Camilla’s boyfriend… is literally… in my bra.”
He didn’t answer with words. He kissed a trail down her sternum, the salt of her skin on his tongue. His lips moved over the plane of her stomach, down to the sensitive dip of her midriff. She arched beneath him, a shudder running through her.
Her own hands were busy, unbuckling his belt, pushing his jeans down over his hips. There was a frantic, clumsy energy to it, a race against reason. He kicked free of his clothes, his own need a blunt, demanding fact.
He entered her without ceremony, a single, deep thrust that silenced her next gasp into a sharp, choked cry. Her eyes flew wide, locking onto his. For a second, it was pure shock, then it dissolved into a dark, surrendered hunger. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He set a ruthless pace, each drive a deliberate erasure of thought, of memory, of everything outside this dim room. She matched him, her hips rising to meet his, her nails scoring his back. The only sounds were skin on skin, ragged breathing, the faint creak of the bed.
It was friction and oblivion, a brutal transaction. He felt the coil tighten in his gut, relentless and inevitable. With a final, grinding thrust, he finished inside her, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spilled himself. He collapsed onto her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in the sweat-damp hair at her neck.
They lay like that for a long minute, the only sound their slowing breath mingling in the quiet. Slowly, he rolled off her, onto his back. The city lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling. He turned his head to look at her profile.
He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the small of her back. His hand smoothed over the curve of her hip. “You have a fantastic ass,” he murmured, the words blunt and appreciative in the quiet.
She chuckled, the vibration humming through the mattress. A tired, agreeable sound. “I know,” she said, her voice hoarse. She rolled onto her side to face him, propping her head on her hand. “It’s my best feature, according to most reviews.”
He shifted, nuzzling the side of her neck, inhaling the scent of sex and her perfume. It was a strangely gentle gesture after what had just passed between them. She tilted her head, giving him access.
After a moment, she spoke, her voice quiet but clear. “Camilla can’t know.” It wasn’t a question.
“She won’t,” he said, his lips moving against her skin.
She leaned in then and kissed him, soft and slow, a seal on the pact. When she pulled away, she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Good.” She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. “Now, about that private security guy, Leo. The one with the eagle tattoo.”