“Y-yeah,” I reply, suddenly even more light-headed. “You?”

Why did I say that last thing? I must be a lot more drunk than I thought. But Noah answers with a serious tone and only a slight smile, as if my question made perfect sense.

“I’m feeling pretty good right now.” He pauses, then adds, “But I could be better.”

Somehow, without noticing, I’ve leaned closer. Or was I always this close, and just never noticed the tickle of his breath on my lips? I inhale his familiar spicy scent and feel my knees weaken again.

“H-how do you mean?” I ask.

“That depends on you,” he replies. Then he hesitates again. He traces his thumb over my lower lip. “It’s nice to see you smiling. I . . . missed you.”

Closer again. The atmosphere in the conference room, once happy and uncomplicated, holds its breath as we gaze at each other. Noah’s dark eyes are solemn. But if I look deep into them, I can see something smoldering. For me.

I can’t tell who moves first, me or him. Closing the distance feels as natural and inevitable as falling. All I know is that his lips feel warm and soft and so good, so right against mine. I open up and hear him sigh as our tongues tangle together.

“Missed you,” I hear him murmur again against my mouth. “So much, Snowflake.”

Our kiss soon deepens, urgent and wild. The heat of his hands all over me—my breasts, my ass, my thighs, seemingly everywhere at once—burns right through the fabric of my clothes. I’m softening like taffy, melting and melding into him. I suddenly realize that the longer I avoided this, the more explosive it was bound to be when we rekindled.

The back of my legs hit the conference table. I lose my balance and sit down with an ungraceful thump. Without breaking our kiss, Noah slides between my parted knees, pushing my cotton skirt up to press his whole body against me hungrily, as if he can’t get enough contact. We fit together perfectly, chest to chest, the hard length of his cock insistent on my belly. When he lifts my legs to haul me even closer, my calves wrap around his angular hips automatically, even before my squeak of surprise escapes my lips.

His mouth descends again, coaxing my lips to part as he strokes his tongue so skillfully against mine. His warm palms massage my breasts and I reach down between us, flicking open the button on his jeans. And then he’s in my hands, and I take pleasure in each stroke, every labored breath, every moan I draw from this big, sexy man—evidence that he’s mine and mine alone. Nobody else can make him react like this. His cock is warm, steely, and I massage every inch of it, delicately rubbing the hot drop of fluid that’s leaked out over the tip.

“Snowflake, I . . .” Noah’s voice is tight with need. But he doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to say anything else. I need this too.

I wriggle back, just far enough away to snag my purse with one hand and drag it over the table to me. I take out the foil packet hidden in my wallet. His eyes widen at the sight. But neither of us speaks; the silence is deafening as I tear open the condom.

He pushes his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down his hips. I roll the condom over his cock. We barely dare to look at each other. This moment floats as light and as fragile as a soap bubble; the touch of reality would burst it instantly. One careless comment, one reminder of our unpleasant situation, and we’ll come crashing back down to earth.

But it’s obvious that we’re both thinking about the condom. Such a small thing, so heavy with significance now. A minefield of uncomfortable, unresolved questions still stretches between us, my own emotions reflected in Noah’s hesitant expression. What does this mean in the long run? Are we okay again? Am I okay? Or will tonight be the last time we ever touch?

I can’t bear to answer those questions yet. I just want Noah. I don’t want to think about why I want him, or whether I trust him, or what the future holds. In this moment, I know he’s my everything.

I pull aside the dampened crotch of my silk panties. Unprompted, he guides himself into me, pausing when I hiss through my teeth, and slowly pushes forward when I roll my hips in impatience. Inch by hot, thick inch, he fills me, taking away the empty space between us. And then his mouth descends on mine, our kiss hungrier and fierier than ever before.

Words are too heavy and too light, too sharp and too blunt, all at the same time. The low, breathy sounds of pleasure are all the communication we need, anyway. So I push all other unpleasant thoughts away and enjoy this, enjoy him. The sensation of skin on skin dissolves the past and future, leaving only the present. My whole world shrinks down to the sensation of his thick length parting me, of hot breath and hotter friction.

“Noah.” I gasp when he reaches between us to rub my exposed clit in gentle circles.

“I know.” He grunts, still buried to the hilt. “So perfect. Me and you.”

And he’s right. It is.

I flex my inner muscles around him and he groans.

Our gasps and moans wordlessly guide us toward bliss as we writhe together. Soon Noah is slamming into me, giving me every hard inch of himself, the soft sounds of wet flesh slapping so erotic and forbidden in the dim, silent office.

My toes curl and I clench around his girth with every thrust. I abandon everything and let myself fall into him—Noah Tate, my husband, my rival, my betrayer, my partner. This walking contradiction, the one man I can’t seem to stay away from, who makes my emotions simultaneously so confusing and so clear.

Tomorrow morning, I should come back to this hot, tender memory and try to figure out what it means. Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll tell myself it was all a dream.