I can’t take it.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I mutter, placing the last few books on the table and moving towards the door.
He’s off the desk in the blink of an eye, jogging towards me. My hand is claimed, and he leads me over to his desk, his phone still at his ear. I’m guided to the chair and pushed into the seat, then he resumes position on his arse, on the edge of his desk, a whisper away from me.
Hazel eyes hold me in my seated position, and one of his feet slips between mine. ‘Yes,’ he says into the phone, tapping both of my ankles with his foot and raising an eyebrow.
My mouth gapes when I catch on, and my legs turn to steel in an effort to stop him. Becker’s eyes laugh in the face of steel. He cocks his head, keeping his phone to his ear by his shoulder, and leans forward, placing a palm on each of my knees. My body temperature hits the ceiling and my teeth clench. No amount of stiffness or strength could stop him. Not mental, not physical, though I try. What is he doing?
The ‘1965 Ferrari 275 GTB,’ he says, spreading my legs so I’m wide open and exposed to his appreciative eyes. My hands find the arms of the chair, my fingers clawing into the leather. ‘The Long-Nose Alloy Berlinetta.’ I’m still and silent as his long fingers walk their way up the inside of my thigh. Those damn fingers a