He could turn me into a bundle of jangled, weeping nerves with a look. So I didn’t look. This took some effort. I wanted to, was drawn to the energy, the intensity, the heat rolling off him in waves. Instead I diligently studied the sleek chrome of the elevator doors as they slid silently shut. We were alone, together, in a box. Again. For a hundred floors. “Going up?” His voice was a slithering snake, raspy, undulating and smooth. I nodded. A short, curt dip of my head. From the corner of my eye, I watched as he pressed the button for our floor. His thumb was long and blunt. He did it slowly, caressing the face. As though making a promise. And all the while, he stared at me. Tracking my every reaction. Taking in the rise of my breast, the quick dash of my tongue on suddenly dry lips, the quiver of a lash. This unrelenting attention made my skin prickle, my nipples swell. I riffled in my purse for a stick of gum. There was no gum but I riffled anyway. Honestly. How long could an elevator ride last?
