Heat Novels

Dominic's office smells different today.

Still cedar and bergamot, still that underlying warmth that makes my pulse quicken against my will. But there's something else. Something sharper.

Anticipation, maybe. Or dread.

Hard to tell the difference when he looks at me like that.

"I need you to attend an event with me," he says, not looking up from whatever contract he's reviewing. Like he's asking me to grab coffee. Like this is normal.

I stop halfway to his desk, the folder of client presentations suddenly heavy in my hands.

"An event."

"The Innovators Gala. Saturday night." Now he does look up, and those steel-gray eyes pin me in place. "Black tie. The client will be there."

The client. Of course. Because everything with Dominic Ashford comes back to business, doesn't it? Even when his gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before he catches himself.

Even when I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.

"You have an entire company full of executives who'd kill for that invitation," I say, keeping my voice level. Professional. "Take one of them."

"I'm not asking one of them."

"Dominic—"

"Elena." My name in his mouth shouldn't affect me like this. Shouldn't make heat pool low in my stomach, shouldn't make me want to hear him say it again, preferably against my skin. "The client specifically requested you attend."

That stops me.

"Bullshit."

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but close. Dangerous territory.

"Richard Caldwell was impressed by your presentation last week. He wants to discuss the campaign direction further, and he asked if you'd be there Saturday." Dominic leans back in his chair, and I hate how good he looks doing it. How the movement pulls his shirt tight across his chest, how the afternoon light catches the silver at his temples. "So you see, this is actually about work."

"Then it's a work function. Not a date."

"It's both."

The honesty in those two words nearly undoes me.

I should say no. Should walk out of this office and put as much distance between us as possible, because every instinct I've honed over twenty-eight years of survival is screaming that Dominic Ashford is dangerous. Not in the way Jason was dangerous—all fists and rage and apologies that meant nothing.

Dangerous because he makes me want things I've trained myself not to need.

"People will talk," I say instead. Retreating to practicality because vulnerability is a language I've forgotten how to speak. "Your employees seeing you take the new hire to a gala as your date? That sends a message."

"Good."

"Dominic—"

"What message do you think it sends, Elena?" He stands, and suddenly the massive office feels too small. He's not touching me, but I can feel the heat of him from three feet away, can smell cedar and something darker underneath. Want, maybe. Or hunger. "That I'm interested in you? That I find you compelling enough to spend an evening with outside these walls?"

"That you're fucking me."

The words land between us like a slap.

His jaw tightens. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it?" I hate how my voice shakes. Hate that he can see through my armor to the scared girl underneath, the one who learned too young that men like him don't want women like me for anything permanent. "Powerful man, employee he has leverage over—we both know how this story ends."

"No." One word, but it cuts through every defense I'm trying to build. "We don't."

He moves closer. Not crowding, not trapping, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that his scent wraps around me like smoke.

"I'm not him," Dominic says quietly. "Whoever taught you that wanting someone means hurting them. I'm not him."

How does he know? How does he see the scars I've buried so deep even I forget they're there sometimes?

"You don't know anything about me."

"Then come to the gala." His hand lifts, hesitates an inch from my face. Asking permission without words. When I don't pull away—when I'm apparently a masochist who can't help leaning into the almost-touch—his fingers brush my cheek. Feather-light. Devastating. "Let me know you, Elena. Let me—"

"What?" The word comes out broken. "Let you what?"

His thumb traces my jawline, and I forget how to breathe.

"Everything," he says. "If you'll let me."

---

I should have said no.

Should have walked away, handed in my resignation, moved to a different city where men with gray eyes and cedar scent don't make me feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, equal parts terrified and desperate to jump.

Instead, I'm standing in a boutique that probably costs more per square foot than my entire apartment, watching a saleswoman who looks like she stepped out of Vogue flutter around Dominic like he's visiting royalty.

"Mr. Ashford, so wonderful to see you again," she coos, and I wonder how many other women he's brought here. How many times he's sat in that ridiculously expensive-looking chair, watching someone model dresses they'll wear on his arm for one night before being discarded.

The thought makes my stomach turn.

"Simone." Dominic's voice is polite but distant, and I recognize that tone. The one he uses with people who don't matter, who are means to an end. "This is Elena Moretti. She needs something for the Innovators Gala."

Simone's assessing gaze sweeps over me—my worn jeans, my vintage blazer, my complete lack of designer anything—and I see the exact moment she categorizes me.

Not good enough for him.

Welcome to the club, lady. I figured that out weeks ago.

"Of course," she says, smile never wavering even as her eyes go calculating. "I have several pieces that might work. If you'll follow me, Ms. Moretti?"

The dressing room is bigger than my bedroom.

Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, soft lighting that somehow makes even my exhausted reflection look almost pretty, a velvet bench that probably costs more than my car. Simone hangs six dresses—six—on the hooks and retreats with promises to bring more options.

I touch the first dress. Silk, midnight blue, elegant in a way I've never been.

"You going to try them on, or just stare at them all day?"

Dominic's voice from outside the curtain makes me jump.

"Pretty sure there are privacy laws about lurking outside dressing rooms."

"Pretty sure you're stalling."

He's not wrong.

I strip out of my jeans and blazer, trying not to think about the fact that Dominic is ten feet away, separated only by a curtain. Trying not to imagine his hands replacing mine as I slide the first dress over my hips, zip it up my back.

Trying. Failing.

The dress fits like it was made for me, and I hate that. Hate how it makes me look like I could belong in Dominic's world, how the deep blue brings out the amber in my eyes, how the neckline is just low enough to be interesting without being obvious.

Hate how much I want him to see me in it.

"Elena." His voice has dropped an octave. "Let me see."

I should say no. Should put my jeans back on and walk out of this boutique and this whole ridiculous situation.

I pull back the curtain instead.

The look on Dominic's face makes every self-preservation instinct I have scream in warning.

He's staring at me like I'm something holy. Something precious. Like he's forgotten how to breathe and doesn't particularly care about remembering.

"Fuck," he says quietly.

Not eloquent. Not poetic. But the way he says it—reverent and wrecked—makes heat flood through me.

"It's too much," I say, because someone needs to break this moment before I do something stupid like close the distance between us. "Too—"

"Perfect." He stands, and suddenly he's right there, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in his throat. Close enough that his scent wraps around me. "It's perfect."

"Dominic—"

"Turn around."

It's not a request. Not quite a command. Something in between that makes my body obey before my brain can object.

His fingers find the zipper at my back, and I stop breathing entirely.

"This is too high," he murmurs, and I feel the words against my neck as much as hear them. "Makes it too easy."

"Too easy for what?"

"To imagine taking it off you."

Oh God.

His knuckles brush my spine as he slides the zipper down an inch. Just an inch, but it might as well be a mile for how it affects me. My skin feels too tight, too hot, every nerve ending focused on the almost-touch of his hands.

"Dominic." His name comes out breathless. Wanting. "We're in public."

"I know." But he doesn't move away. Doesn't stop the slow torture of his fingers tracing the line of the zipper. "Believe me, I know. Because if we weren't, I'd have this dress on the floor already. Would have you against that mirror, learning exactly what sounds you make when I—"

"Mr. Ashford?" Simone's voice, bright and professional, shatters the moment. "How are we doing?"

Dominic steps back so quickly I nearly stumble. When I turn, his expression is carefully controlled, but his eyes are molten.

"We'll take it," he says, not looking away from me.

"You haven't seen the other dresses."

"Don't need to."

"Dominic, this is—" I glance at the price tag and my stomach drops. "This is eight thousand dollars."

"I'm aware."

"I'm not letting you spend eight thousand dollars on a dress I'll wear once."

"Then wear it more than once." He moves closer again, and I should back up, should maintain distance, but I'm apparently incapable of self-preservation where he's concerned. "Wear it to dinner with me. Wear it while I take you to the symphony, the theater, anywhere you want to go. Just—" His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Let me buy you the dress, Elena. Let me give you this."

"Why?"

"Because I want to." Simple. Direct. Devastating. "Because watching you in that dress, knowing I'm the only one who gets to see you take it off at the end of the night—that's worth any price."

Assuming I let you take it off, I should say. Assuming this goes anywhere beyond Saturday night.

But the words won't come. Because I'm tired of fighting this, tired of pretending I don't feel the pull between us, don't dream about his hands on my skin and his mouth on mine and all the ways he could ruin me for anyone else.

"Fine," I say instead. Surrendering. "But I'm trying on the other dresses too."

His smile is pure sin. "I was hoping you'd say that."

---

By the fourth dress, I'm pretty sure Dominic is trying to kill me.

Or maybe I'm trying to kill him. Hard to tell when every time I step out of the dressing room, his control fractures a little more. When his gaze tracks over me like a physical touch, when his hands grip the arms of his chair like he's restraining himself from reaching for me.

The fifth dress is red. Deep crimson, backless, with a slit up the thigh that borders on obscene.

"No," Dominic says before I'm even fully out of the dressing room.

I raise an eyebrow. "No?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?" I turn, letting him see the full effect—the way the fabric clings to every curve, the way the back dips low enough to show the dimples at the base of my spine. "Don't you like it?"

"That's the problem." His voice is rough. Strained. "Every man at that gala would like it."

Oh. Oh.

"Dominic Ashford," I say slowly, testing the words. "Are you jealous?"

"Yes."

No hesitation. No attempt to hide it.

"That's—"

"Honest?" He stands, and there's something predatory in the movement. Something that makes my pulse spike and my thighs clench. "I'm done pretending, Elena. Done acting like I don't want you so badly I can barely think straight. Done watching other men look at you and imagining all the ways I could make sure they know you're—"

He stops. Catches himself.

"I'm what?" I challenge, even though my heart is hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Yours?"

"You're not mine." The words sound like they cost him. "Not yet. Maybe not ever, if you decide I'm not worth the risk. But God, I want you to be."

The honesty in his voice undoes something in my chest. Some lock I've kept fastened for years, some protection I've built against exactly this kind of wanting.

"I'm scared," I admit. Quietly. Truthfully. "Of this. Of you."

"I know." He closes the distance between us, and this time when his hands find my waist, I don't pull away. "I'm scared too."

"Of what? You're Dominic fucking Ashford. You're not scared of anything."

"I'm terrified of you." His forehead drops to mine, and I can feel his breath against my lips. "Of how much I want this. Of how badly I'll fuck it up. Of the fact that if you walk away right now, I'm not sure I'd recover."

I should walk away. Should protect us both from the inevitable disaster this will become.

Instead, I kiss him.

It's not gentle. Not sweet. It's desperate and hungry and everything I've been trying not to feel for weeks, and when Dominic's hands tighten on my waist, when he makes a sound low in his throat that's pure need, I forget every reason this is a bad idea.

Forget everything except the taste of him, the feel of his mouth on mine, the way his body fits against me like we were designed to do this.

He walks me backward until I hit the mirror, and the cool glass against my bare back makes me gasp. Dominic takes advantage, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding up to cup my neck while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise.

I want the bruises. Want the evidence that this is real, that I'm not imagining the way he touches me like I'm something precious and profane all at once.

"Elena." My name is a prayer and a curse. "We need to stop."

"Why?"

"Because we're in public." His laugh is ragged. "Because if we don't stop now, I'm going to fuck you against this mirror, and while that's a fantasy I've had more than once, you deserve better than a dressing room for our first time."

Our first time.

Not if. When.

The certainty in those words should terrify me. Instead, it makes me feel powerful. Desired. Like maybe I'm not the only one standing on the edge of this cliff, ready to jump.

"We'll take the blue one," I say, even though my voice shakes. "The first one."

"Good choice." He steps back, and I immediately miss his warmth. "Though for the record, I plan to buy you the red one too."

"Dominic—"

"For private occasions." His smile is wicked. "Very private."

---

Simone rings up both dresses without comment, though her expression suggests she's seen this particular dance before. Dominic hands over his black card like the combined price—twelve thousand dollars, Jesus Christ—means nothing.

Like I mean more than money.

That thought follows me out of the boutique, into the late afternoon sunlight, Dominic's hand at the small of my back a brand through my blazer.

"Thank you," I say when we reach my car. "For the dresses. For—"

"Don't." His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Don't thank me for wanting to give you things. For wanting you."

"This is crazy," I whisper. "You know that, right? We work together. You're my boss. This is every HR nightmare rolled into one."

"I know."

"And you don't care?"

"I care." His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I swear I feel it everywhere. "I care that you're brilliant and guarded and so goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes. I care that someone hurt you badly enough that you think wanting someone means giving them power to destroy you. I care that you're scared, because so am I." He leans closer, until his mouth is a breath from mine. "What I don't care about is what anyone else thinks. Not the office. Not the board. Not anyone except you."

"Dominic—"

"Saturday night," he says. "Come to the gala with me. Dance with me. Let me show you that this—" He gestures between us, at the electric tension that's been building since the day we met. "—is worth the risk."

I should say no.

Should protect my heart, my job, my carefully constructed walls.

"Okay," I say instead.

His smile is sunlight breaking through clouds. Devastating and warm and full of promise.

"I'll pick you up at seven."

He kisses me once more—brief, searing, a preview of everything we're hurtling toward—and then he's gone, leaving me standing beside my car with swollen lips and shaking hands and the terrifying certainty that Dominic Ashford is going to ruin me.

And I'm going to let him.

---

I'm halfway home when my phone buzzes.

*Dominic: The red dress is for after the gala. When I take you home and spend the rest of the night learning every sound you make.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Me: Awfully confident, aren't you?

Dominic: Not confident. Hopeful. There's a difference.

Me: And if I say no?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Dominic: Then I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what I did wrong. And trying to fix it.

I stare at the message until the screen goes dark.

Then I type a response I'll probably regret.