I couldn’t breathe. Could barely remain upright.

When a seat opened up on the train and he urged me to sit down, he stepped close enough that his belt buckle was only inches from my face. In front of me was the long expanse of his torso, slim shirt tucked neatly into his pants. And, lower, the clear downward line of his cock against his thigh, already half hard.

Sweet Lord.

I reached up, hooking a finger through his belt loop as he gazed down at me, wordless and rapt.

When we rose from the station, he came up behind me as I stopped to get my bearings. His large hands curled around my hips and he pressed into me.

I felt him.

I mean, I felt him.

I lost my breath when his mouth came against my ear and he said simply, “We’re headed to the left.”

By the time we got back to the temporary offices I was ready to explode. I felt tight and swollen between my legs, the skin of my thighs slick and wet. My senses seemed to be dialed up to a ten, and even the most basic things—the lace of my bra brushing across my breasts—felt wanton.

But what I thought had to be leading up to something . . . didn’t. Instead of closing the door to our empty office and touching me—I didn’t care for one second that we were at work—he moved to his small desk and sorted through a few files while I stood there, hot and confused and speechless.

It was torture to feel this way. To be infatuated, to feel his interest grow but see him continually close back up after each tiny step of progress. I wanted to simply ask him, but worried that would close him up for good.

Beyond that, I ached. It was an entire afternoon of quiet, gentle foreplay and my body felt like a pitchfork struck against an iron beam. I was practically vibrating.

Our bathroom was private, thank God, and going into it I flipped the lock, taking what had to be my first real breath all day. I could still smell the faint scent of his cologne, as if it had somehow been burned into my senses. As I crossed the room to the small leather bench that sat just under the window, I let myself imagine how he would smell up close, with my nose pressed directly against his skin.

With that image in mind, I took a seat and slipped my panties down my legs as I imagined the warmth of that skin under my touch. My fingertips became his, and they skirted up my thigh and between my legs. If I listened closely, I could hear his voice as he spoke to someone on the phone. I pretended he was speaking only for me.

I was so sensitive, so wet, that the slightest touch, the graze of a fingertip over my clit had my hips rocking forward, wanting more. With my eyes closed, I listened to him talk, his accent curving the words into something that sent a current of awareness from my nipples to my pussy. I imagined him pushing those words into my neck; the rise and fall of his voice became the rhythm of him moving in and out of me. I imagined him just on the other side of the door, knowing that I was touching myself, and begging that he be the one to do it next time.

The very idea was enough to send me over the edge, and I came against my own hand, my body arching into the touch.

Only then did I notice how quiet the outside office had grown, and that I might possibly have been too loud. I could hear the even tick of the watch on my wrist, the faint hum of traffic on the street below, but no more voices, no footsteps pacing through the office.

Once my legs were steady, I stood and righted my clothes, moving to the sink to freshen up.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I crept into the hall, nearly crashing into him on the way out.

“Sorry!” I gasped, attempting to catch a stack of files as they scattered across the floor. “Let me get those!” I exclaimed, definitely emphasizing my growing undercurrent of embarrassment.

Niall ignored me, and bent to gather the papers himself.

I tried to avoid meeting his gaze, certain what I’d just done had to be written in flashing, neon ink across my forehead.

I smoothed my skirt and tucked my bangs to the side before I looked up at him. He was studying me, head tilted.

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re flushed. Are you quite sure you’re not feeling poorly? I can certainly manage by myself today if—”

“I’m fine,” I said, shrugging out of his reach, feeling a small flash of irritation.

He followed me to my desk, watchful gaze nearly burning a hole through the back of my head.

“You haven’t been . . . running up stairs?” he asked haltingly, as if he knew it wasn’t quite right.

“No, I . . .” I considered lying, but knew he’d never buy that. “Jesus, you’re like a dog with a bone. Can we change the subject, please?”