Chapter One
Dahlia's world turned upside down with a single moment of ecstasy. Well, not exactly. The truth is, it all started much earlier than that mind-blowing orgasm Anthony Mitchell gave her. But she had become quite adept at ignoring the signs leading up to that moment. There's something about earth-shattering pleasure that makes it impossible to ignore the person responsible for it. And Dahlia couldn't ignore Anthony Mitchell. Not only did he give her the best orgasm of her life, but he was also her boss. Oops. Let's rewind a bit. Dahlia worked at Mitchell Security for nine years. She started as the receptionist and coffee maker, but she had worked her way up to practically running the front office. Under her management, Mitchell Security had become the top security agency in the country. Dahlia had worked alongside Anthony Mitchell for years, and nothing ever happened between them. Absolutely nothing. There were no inappropriate remarks or lingering touches. Anthony was a bossy man, but he was a gentleman. And for most of that time, Dahlia was married. Her husband, well, he's a whole other story. But despite their marital problems, Dahlia never cheated. She went to work, worked hard to keep the Mitchell team in line, and never crossed any boundaries. Sure, she appreciated the attractive men around her, but she never entertained any thoughts beyond professionalism. Then, one fateful day, a house exploded, and everything changed. The Mitchell team had been in tight spots before. It was practically their specialty. But this time, it wasn't them in danger—it was Dahlia. She was strictly behind the desk, never planning to use the basic training Anthony insisted all employees have. That day was supposed to be a break from the office routine. Dahlia volunteered to babysit Travis, Charles Mitchell's girlfriend's son. He was a cute five-year-old, and she figured they would have a simple afternoon of PB&J sandwiches and playing with Legos until Charles and Lily returned home. It was meant to be nothing more than that. And it was. Until Dahlia walked down the hall and saw a pile of papers on the floor, each one bearing a chilling message. "HOUSE SURROUNDED. GET TO SAFE ROOM." We often wonder how we'll react in a crisis. Will we rise to the occasion or crumble under the pressure? If anything positive came out of that day, it was the realization that deep within Dahlia, Anthony's training had taken root. That training saved her life. Dahlia saw the warning printed in bold letters, and her mind clicked into a gear she didn't know existed. She didn't stop to question why they hadn't received a phone call or who was surrounding the house and why. She swiftly made her way to the kitchen, told Travis they were having a picnic in Charles's secret room, grabbed some snacks and a puzzle, led Travis to the basement safe room, and locked him inside. She hurried back up the stairs, grabbing a weapon from the gun safe, intending to secure the door to the safe room and wait it out. But as she pondered how to hide the firearm from Travis, she heard heavy footsteps thundering down the steps. It wasn't Anthony or anyone from their team—it was one of the men surrounding the house. Dahlia didn't have time to think. There was no time to unlock the door to the safe room or find safety for herself. In moments of crisis, our primal instincts take over. Survival becomes the only goal. Our conscience and notions of right and wrong fade away. And in that moment, the animal inside Dahlia raised her arm, aimed, and fired just before the intruder on the stairs could do the same. Before the echo of the gunshot subsided, the house shook with a deafening boom. The intruder stumbled down the stairs, hurtling towards Dahlia. Her ears rang, and she coughed from the dust in the air as she dove away from him. Something above her shifted and crashed down, striking the back of her head with a sickening thud. Darkness enveloped her. Dahlia couldn't have been unconscious for too long. When she opened her eyes, she saw Anthony pacing by her bedside, his phone pressed to his ear. She wiggled her fingers and toes, taking deep breaths to ensure she was still intact. Other than an excruciating headache that made her occasional migraines feel like a mere paper cut, she felt okay. Her movement must have caught Anthony's attention. He spun around, saw that she was awake, and ended his call. He briefly stepped out of the room before returning, his voice demanding, "How's your head?" Anthony had an intensity about him that seemed unrelenting. Dahlia wasn't sure if he knew how to relax. It was unsettling to have all that intensity focused solely on her. His ice-blue eyes bore into her, his cheekbones sharp, and his lips pressed together. Only his slightly disheveled dark hair softened his appearance, falling into his eyes and prompting an annoyed flick of his head. "Dahlia," he said, his narrowed eyes piercing through her. "Yeah?" she replied. "How does your head feel?" "It's fine," she half-lied. "What happened? Is everyone okay?" "Everyone's fine," he assured her. "Except for you. They're taking you for an MRI in a few minutes." "An MRI? Why?" Dahlia didn't want an MRI. All she wanted was to go home and sleep off the pounding headache. "Because you have a bump on your head, and you were unconscious," he answered with strained patience. His weight shifted, ready to catch her if she made a sudden escape attempt. Dahlia knew better. If Anthony said she needed an MRI, then she needed an MRI. "I wasn't unconscious," she protested, unsure if that statement held any truth. "No? Then why didn't you open your eyes? Why didn't you say something?" Dahlia stared at him, momentarily speechless. Anthony wasn't angry, although his tone might suggest otherwise to a stranger. She knew him well enough to recognize the signs. Anthony didn't get angry easily. He was either cool and collected or explosively furious. Anything in between was just a precursor. Half measures were not in Anthony's nature. No, he wasn't angry. He was scared. Dahlia had seen him scared only once before, and it shook her to see him like this. He had said everyone was fine, so why was he so frightened? "It's just a bump on the head. It hurts, but it'll go away," Dahlia finally replied."Are you sure everyone is alright, Travis?" I asked, concern etched on my face. "Travis is over at Drew's place, swimming with Charles and Lily. He has no idea what happened," Anthony replied with a slight bite in his tone. "What about Charles?" "He's fine," I assured him. "But shouldn't we also ask how you're doing?" Anthony's eyes flashed, a mix of anger and something else I couldn't quite decipher. Maybe he had every reason to be angry. After all, I had just shot someone. I should have been asking about the aftermath, what would happen next. But my head was pounding, and I couldn't bear to think about it. I didn't want to think about anything. "I shot him," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. Anthony closed his eyes for a moment, as if processing the weight of my words. Then, he shoved his hands into his pockets and said, "Drew is explaining everything to Paul Russell. He'll want to talk to you." "Okay," I replied, not knowing what else to say. Augustus Paul Russell, the FBI agent from Atlanta, was familiar to me. We had crossed paths before, and he seemed to have a soft spot for me. Hopefully, it would be enough to prevent me from landing in jail for murder. "Dahlia," Anthony spoke softly, his face filled with tenderness. "You did the right thing. Travis is safe, blissfully unaware of everything. The man you shot was one of Johnson's men. I don't even want to think about what he would have done to you. You did good." I let his words sink in. Johnson had been the primary suspect, but I knew better than to jump to conclusions. Mitchell Security had many enemies, not just Anthony Johnson. Although Anthony Johnson was the only one who held a personal grudge against them. I knew who he was, considering all the chaos that had been unfolding recently. It was impossible not to know about Anthony Johnson. He was the nephew of the former head of the Johnson crime family, with operations in Las Vegas, Atlanta, and Chicago. Neck-deep in all sorts of illegal activities like gunrunning, drug trafficking, and human trafficking. He was also the former business partner of Ezra Mitchell, Anthony's father. Five years ago, Ezra's car had plunged off a bridge with him inside. The body was identified using dental records, and the case was closed. His sons grieved, and his widow moved away to Florida. But it turned out that their father wasn't as dead as they had thought. For the past few months, Anthony and his brothers had been untangling the mess left behind by their supposedly deceased father. If the man in the basement was indeed one of Johnson's men, then I stood with Anthony. I didn't want to imagine what he would have done to me either. There were so many questions swirling in my mind. Who had blown up Charles's house? Why? Why did they send the warning through the printer? What happened with Johnson? But before I could voice any of these questions, a nurse entered the room with a wheelchair, ready to take me for an MRI. An hour later, I found out that I was concussion-free. The discharge process dragged on, with Anthony faithfully by my side. I expected him to leave, to assign someone else to take me home. Paul Russell would undoubtedly want to talk to him. But every time I mentioned it, Anthony would shoot me a look and remain silent. I didn't argue. My head throbbed relentlessly, my body ached from hitting the floor, and all I wanted was to sleep. Eventually, Anthony drove me back to Mitchell Security, which I considered my home. I was the only employee who lived in the building, except for Anthony himself, whose penthouse occupied the entire top floor. The building had two small apartments, originally intended for clients in need of secure lodgings. When our lease expired six years ago, and my husband forgot to sign the paperwork for our new place, Anthony offered us the smaller apartment temporarily. And I was still there. As we rode the elevator, Anthony pressed the button for the fourth floor instead of the third. I reached out to correct his mistake, but he firmly grasped my wrist, leading my hand away from the panel. "You need to rest," he said firmly. "I'm taking you to my place so I can keep an eye on you. If I let you go home, you'll find something to occupy yourself, and you won't rest." I stared at him, momentarily speechless. I had never been inside Anthony's apartment before. I knew it had to be spacious, occupying the entire fourth floor, and I knew it would be luxurious, given Anthony's extravagant tastes. But I had never been invited upstairs. Never had a reason to knock on his door. That wasn't the only thing that left me speechless. Anthony knew me too well. My head throbbed incessantly, and all I wanted was to crawl into bed and drift into oblivion. But what if sleep eluded me? He was right. I would end up restless, searching for something to do. Sitting still was never my strong suit. While some people found solace in a day on the couch with a movie or a book, I always had multiple projects in progress. I didn't need a babysitter, especially not Anthony Mitchell. However, it seemed like he wasn't giving me a choice. And perhaps, just maybe, he had a point. Too exhausted to argue, I let him guide me into his apartment, barely registering the expansive space, the gleaming stainless steel and black marble of the kitchen, or the ridiculously large flat-screen TV mounted across the room. We walked down a hallway, turned a corner, and found ourselves in his bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of downtown Atlanta, and the bed itself was colossal, as if it could fit the entire state of Georgia, or maybe Texas. The navy-blue upholstered headboard reached up to the ceiling, perfectly made with matching sheets and a pristine white duvet. My fatigued mind wandered, wondering if Anthony had made his bed himself, meticulously tucking in the sheets to create the perfect creases. Then, he pulled back the covers and gently guided me onto the mattress. "I'll be back with something to drink," he said softly. "You need to take your medication." I despised pain medication. In fact, I detested all pills. But I didn't have the energy to argue with Anthony. My head throbbed like a rotten tooth, pulsating so intensely that my vision seemed to expand and contract with each stabbing ache. All I wanted was to lie down and close my eyes. Being caught in an explosion was excruciating. Suddenly, Anthony was there, placing two chalky pills between my lips and handing me a glass of cold, sweet juice. I forced the pills down, sipped the juice, and allowed Anthony to lower me onto the pillow. My eyelids grew heavy, and I succumbed to sleep.
Chapter Two
: Dahlia I awoke in the dead of night, my eyes adjusting to the darkness as I realized I was not in my own bed. Turning to my side, I found Anthony peacefully slumbering on top of the covers, just an arm's length away. It hit me like a ton of bricks - I was in Anthony's bed. In his apartment. But what struck me even more was the fact that Anthony was here too. Not under the same covers, but still. What the hell was going on? The thought of sneaking out and returning to my own place crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. I was warm and comfortable, despite the throbbing in my head and the pain in my shoulder and hip. The pain pills were making my stomach churn. Although I wasn't completely nauseous, the idea of getting up and leaving was out of the question. So, I let sleep whisk me away once more. The morning sun pierced through my eyelids, and I felt the mattress sink beside me as I rolled into the solid form of Anthony. Squinting against the light, I realized my hand was resting on his thigh, while my shoulder was propped against his hip. I was quite literally groping him. Damn. I yanked my hand back and attempted to sit up, only to find myself trapped by the sheet Anthony was sitting on. "Can you eat breakfast?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. I paused, considering his question. My head was still pounding, enough so that I contemplated taking another dose of pain medication. But if I did, I needed to have something in my stomach to prevent them from coming back up. As if reading my mind, Anthony nodded before I even uttered a word. "You need breakfast so you can take your pain pills. It's good you're not going to be difficult about it. I had one of the guys pick up some takeout from Taylor's. Breakfast sandwich, coffee, and a cookie if you behave." I thought about teasing him for the "behave" comment, but the mention of food from Taylor's made me keep my mouth shut. Taylor, a friend of ours who owned a café, was a culinary genius. Everyone at Mitchell Security frequented her place, despite there being closer options. Her coffee was an art form, and anything that came out of her kitchen was divine. Awkwardly, I sat up and swung my feet to the side of the bed, taking a sharp breath as the emptiness in my stomach made itself known. Still queasy from the pills I had taken the night before and the persistent throb in my head, I allowed Anthony to guide me across the room. He nudged me into the bathroom and left, jokingly warning, "If you're not out of there in five minutes, I'm coming in after you." And he absolutely would. But that was fine by me. I didn't need five minutes to use the bathroom, wash my hands, and splash water on my face. I avoided looking too closely in the mirror - I knew I must look terrible, and there wasn't much I could do about it. My once neatly styled bob was now a messy tangle, with black strands sticking out in every direction, bangs in complete disarray. Any trace of makeup from the previous day had long vanished. I looked exactly how one would expect someone who had been caught in an explosion to look. At least none of my body parts were out of place. At least I was still alive. A vivid image flashed through my mind - the man descending the stairs, raising his gun, and pulling the trigger as the house erupted in chaos. They say people with head injuries often can't remember what happened when they got hurt. Unfortunately, I wasn't one of those people. I remembered pulling the trigger with crystal-clear clarity. But I had to push those thoughts aside. I had to focus on the little boy in the safe room - Travis. Innocent and alive because I had shielded him from the danger. That was what mattered. Glancing down at myself, I winced at the sight. I was wearing an oversized Mitchell Security T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that had been cut off at the knee. Neither of them belonged to me. I knew exactly who they belonged to. I had seen Anthony wearing both items many times when he stopped by the front desk after his morning workout. But why was I wearing his clothes? He could have easily made his way into my place. In fact, he proved that when I entered the main room of the apartment and discovered a stack of my belongings on the kitchen island. A lightweight zip-up hoodie and a matching tank top. A pair of lace bikini panties and soft lounging pants adorned with ruffles just below the knee. I decided to ignore the fact that Anthony had been rummaging through my underwear drawer. I hoped it was him. "Please tell me you didn't send one of the guys to snoop around in my underwear drawer." A mischievous grin spread across Anthony's face, causing my heart to skip a beat. "I got you some things I thought you'd need. Eat your breakfast before you change, or it'll get cold."A wave of relief washed over me as I realized that none of the junior employees had gone through my underwear drawer. But then, a flush of embarrassment heated my cheeks as I pictured Anthony standing at my dresser, eyeing the delicate lace next to my granny panties, laundry-day underwear, and period panties. Just great. Shaking off the thought, I picked up my still-warm breakfast sandwich, hoping that the buttery croissant and smoky bacon would somehow alleviate the pounding in my head. Anthony slid a to-go cup of coffee from Taylor's Café in front of me. I knew it would be a skinny vanilla latte. It was my go-to drink, and after nine years, Anthony knew my coffee order better than anyone. Taking a sip after swallowing a mouthful of sandwich, I confirmed that it was indeed a skinny vanilla latte. Two white pain pills sat beside the cup, which I obediently took, washing them down with another sip of latte and a bite of sandwich. Maybe with food in my stomach, the queasiness wouldn't be as intense. Anthony had thought of everything. Just as I was starting to feel grateful and content, Anthony had to ruin it with his words. "I have to go to work. You stay here. Rest. Watch TV or something. Just stay put." "I can work," I protested, although for once, I didn't really want to. If anything urgent came up, I could handle it, but right now, I wasn't sure I had the energy. Not with this pounding headache. Anthony didn't bother replying. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and turned to leave. "I'll check in on you later and bring you lunch. When Paul Russell arrives, I'll bring him up." Setting down my sandwich, I hopped off the stool and followed him towards the door. "You don't have to bring me lunch, Anthony. I have food downstairs. Once I finish eating, I can go—" "You're staying here," he reiterated. "Why?" I couldn't help but ask. "Because I don't trust you to be alone in your place. You need rest, and I want you where I can keep an eye on you." I trailed behind him as he made his way to the door, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my head with each step. As the door closed behind him and the deadbolt snicked into place, I suddenly realized something. Why did he lock the door from the outside? I reached out to flip the lock open, but it refused to budge. It might as well have been welded shut. Did that jerk just lock me in? Arms crossed tightly over my chest, I stared at the door in disbelief. He did. Anthony Mitchell had locked me in. I stood there, contemplating my options. I could throw a fit, call the office, and demand that he let me out. But if I went to war with Anthony, I wasn't sure I would come out on top. The guys would already have their hands full dealing with the aftermath of the explosion and the man I had shot. Just this once, I decided to stay put. Just this once. I didn't want Anthony to think he could boss me around whenever he pleased. Finishing my breakfast, leaving the cookie for later, I carried my coffee over to the massive L-shaped couch facing the oversized TV. The couch was more than big enough for Anthony's tall frame. It engulfed me completely. Fluffing up the soft pillows and pulling a blanket over myself, I grabbed the remote and began channel surfing. But that didn't last long. It wasn't that I had anything against TV—I enjoyed binge-watching here and there—but lying on the couch doing nothing wasn't my style. I would usually turn on the TV for company while cooking or working on my projects, but just sitting around? Even with the pain pills kicking in, I wasn't bored enough for that. It's a matter of personal preference, some might call it a vice or a virtue, but that's just who I am. If I'm not sleeping, I'm moving. I simply can't sit still in front of the TV. I changed the channel to one playing music and sat up, feeling only slightly woozy from the headache and pain medication. Once my brain settled back into place, I got up and looked around for something to do. Anthony's place had a vintage bachelor vibe to it. Not many trinkets, just a few pictures—mostly of him with his brothers and friends. The main room was flooded with natural light, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows that also adorned his bedroom. This part of Anthony's place had an open plan layout, with each space flowing seamlessly into the next. The kitchen boasted sleek stainless steel appliances and black granite countertops, complete with a breakfast counter and island. Adjacent to it was a dining area with a long, dark, shiny table that gleamed under the morning sun. Opposite the kitchen and dining area was the lounge, with its comfortable couch and enormous TV. From where I stood, I could see a spacious living area, but I knew there was more to Anthony's place than just the bedroom and this open plan space.Without a single ounce of hesitation, I embarked on my exploration. If Anthony didn't want me snooping around, he shouldn't have locked me in his apartment. He would now face the consequences of his actions. So, he had gone through my underwear drawer? Well, then I had all day to go through his. I quickly dismissed any fluttering feelings in my chest at the thought of Anthony's underwear. I had no business concerning myself with that. I ventured down the hallway and stumbled upon Anthony's bedroom. To my surprise, there was a laundry room attached, equipped with a massive washer and dryer. The entire wall was neatly organized with a bench, hooks adorned with jackets, and cubbies filled with boots and running shoes. From there, I entered another room, barren except for a padded floor. A tall wooden staff leaned against the wall, accompanied by a few sets of free weights. Why did Anthony have a home gym when he had access to the company gym downstairs? It suddenly dawned on me that he used this room to practice martial arts. While there was a sparring room downstairs, I could understand why he might desire privacy or just some peace and quiet. I never spent much time in the company gym myself, despite the attractive eye candy. It felt strange being one of the few women surrounded by all those men. Besides, I preferred taking classes. I couldn't imagine any of the team members doing Zumba. Continuing down the hall, I passed Anthony's bedroom once more and decided to save it for last. There were three additional bedrooms, one filled with boxes and an old desk. The other two were decorated as generic guest rooms. As the hallway turned, I was faced with two doors. One appeared to be an interior door, its purpose unknown as it was locked. The other door, painted to blend with the interior, turned out to be made of metal. Could it be an exit to the outside? Perhaps it was the stairwell door. Unfortunately, it too was locked. Feeling a bit lightheaded, I turned and made my way back to Anthony's bedroom, swaying with each step. I couldn't recall the last time I had taken prescription pain medication. Its effects were hitting me hard. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that I wasn't at work. I would probably end up ordering five hundred reams of paper instead of five or messing up the entire schedule. Nevertheless, Anthony had no right to lock me in here. Grumbling under my breath about controlling individuals, I headed straight for his closet. After all, what was good for the goose was good for the gander. As expected, Anthony's closet was impeccably organized and tidy. Everything hung perfectly, arranged by color and type. His sock drawer was no different. With my hand on the drawer above, I caught a glimpse of neatly folded boxers before I heard a voice from behind me say, "Snooping?" Startled, I jumped and spun around, losing my balance and causing a sharp pain to shoot through my head. Hands reached out and gently steadied me. I looked up to find Anthony staring down at me, a smirk adorning his face. "Don't let me interrupt. Are you interested in my underwear, Dahlia?" he teased. Glaring up at him, I couldn't help but wonder why he had to be so tall. My head was swimming, and I blurted out, "What are you doing up here?" "I told you to stay put. You're supposed to be resting, not wandering around everywhere," he replied. His words slowly pieced together in my mind, forming a picture that sent my anger skyrocketing. He had said he wanted to keep an eye on me, and he knew I had been exploring. "You have cameras in here," I accused, my voice filled with frustration. Anthony's icy blue eyes met mine, revealing nothing. But there was no need for words. Anthony ran Mitchell Security, and surveillance was their specialty. I knew this all too well, having helped order the equipment and even acted as a guinea pig during testing. The entire building was wired, except for the second-floor apartments and Anthony's place. "When did you install the cameras?" I inquired. Still smirking, Anthony replied, "This morning. What do I have to do to get you to lay down and rest?" Defiantly, I stated, "Give me my laptop." "No," he firmly responded. "Fine then." I turned around and began to open his underwear drawer once more. "You seem to have a fondness for navy-blue, don't you? I suppose I never noticed because everyone wears blue suits, and I've never seen your bedroom or your underwear—" Before I could finish my sentence, Anthony reached around me and shut the drawer. "Fine, I'll fetch your laptop," he conceded. "And a phone," I added. "No way. No phones. Just the laptop. If you get tired, take a nap. Do we have a deal?" he proposed. "Fine," I grumbled, making my way back to the living room. Well, I attempted to make my way back, but between the pain medication and my pounding headache, it was more like a feeble shuffle. Anthony strode towards the door. "I'll return with your laptop. Paul Russell will be here in an hour or two, so you might want to change. Or not. You look good in my T-shirt."
Chapter Three
: Dahlia I stood there, dumbfounded, as the door swung shut behind Anthony. Since when did he actually take notice of what I looked like? The answer was never. Anthony was always the epitome of professionalism at work, giving compliments on a job well done but never mentioning my appearance. He was the only one who didn't. I had my own style, a unique blend of rockabilly with a touch of rock and roll whimsy. It was fifties-inspired, with vintage dresses that had fitted bodices, nipped-in waists, and full, knee-length skirts. These dresses, both modest and intensely feminine, gave me a sense of presence despite my small stature. Over the years, I had made this style my own, but I knew it could be a little unexpected. Not unprofessional, mind you, just unexpected. Most of my dresses were fairly tame, but on occasions when we didn't have a client meeting, I would pull out something more fun. And yet, Anthony had never said a word about the dress covered in lollipops or the one adorned with miniature pieces of sushi. But he noticed me wearing his old T-shirt? Maybe it was him who got hit on the head. Or maybe the pain pills were affecting me more than I realized. As I looked at the pile of clothes on the kitchen island, I realized Anthony could return any second. I hastily grabbed the clothes and made my way to his bathroom to change. He might have cameras in his place, but surely even Anthony wouldn't put them in the bathroom. He was controlling and overprotective, but not a pervert. Once changed into the lounge pants and hoodie Anthony had picked out, I rummaged through his drawers in search of a comb or brush. My vanity wanted to demand that Anthony bring down my makeup so I wouldn't look like a sickly ghost when Paul Russell came to take my statement. But then I imagined confessing to murder with perfectly done hair and red lipstick. Definitely not the best idea. Looking wan and pathetic might be a better strategy. Besides, I wasn't up to wearing makeup or trying to style my hair. This might be the one time in my life when leaving behind my armor and looking like crap was the best plan. Just as I was settling back on Anthony's comfortable couch, he returned with my laptop. He handed it to me, giving a stern warning to behave myself. I wouldn't put it past him to have some sort of keystroke tracking software or a second laptop on his desk to monitor my every move, just to ensure I followed his orders. But he didn't have to worry. The general email box had piled up since the previous afternoon, and after two hours of dealing with that, I didn't have the energy to get into any trouble. I closed the laptop, placing it on the coffee table, and sank into the plush cushions of the couch. My eyes grew heavy as the throbbing pain in my head gradually eased. The sound of the door closing jolted me awake. I sat up, still a little disoriented but feeling more like myself. The pain medication from earlier had finally kicked in, and the throbbing in my head had subsided. Anthony hadn't come back alone. Standing beside him was Paul Russell, a tall and lanky man with kind eyes. He looked down at me with genuine concern. Anthony handed me another cup of coffee, this time from the machine downstairs in the office. I started to rise, but Paul Russell gestured for me to stay seated. "Don't get up, Dahlia. It's good to see you again. I just need you to walk me through what happened yesterday." I did as he asked, surprised when Paul Russell put away his notebook after only a few follow-up questions. "That's it?" I asked, unable to hide my disbelief. "That's it," he confirmed, exchanging a knowing glance with Anthony. "Aren't you going to tell me not to leave town or something?" I couldn't help but ask. Paul Russell gave me a rare smile. "Don't leave town, Dahlia. I can't officially exonerate you just yet. This is still an ongoing investigation. But based on everything you've told me and what I saw at the scene, it's clear that you were acting in self-defense, not just for yourself but for Travis Spencer as well. There was a bullet lodged in the wall opposite the stairs. You might have missed it amidst the chaos of the gunshot and explosion, but Johnson's man had fired at you. Travis Spencer is lucky to have had you there." A mixture of useless fear and relief washed over me as I thought about the bullet that could have ended my life.Paul Russell's belief in me was a lifeline. It meant that I wasn't going to end up behind bars. Relief washed over me as I nodded and firmly shook his outstretched hand. As I did, Anthony chimed in, "Hold on a second, I'll walk you out," before redirecting his attention towards me. "What do you feel like having for dinner? Do you need another over-the-counter pill?" "Maybe something over-the-counter would be good. No more of those doctor-prescribed ones. My headache isn't that bad, I promise," I quickly added when Anthony seemed hesitant. He glanced at his watch, gauging the time since I had taken my last dose, and reached for a small red and white bottle on the top shelf of the pantry. I swallowed two tablets with a sip of coffee. "Now, dinner?" he prodded. "I should probably go home, not take up any more of your time—" "Already had enough of me?" Anthony interjected, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. "No, it's not that. I just thought it would be best if I went home," I replied, my words sounding feeble. Earlier, I had questioned if my headache and the pain pills were affecting my judgment or if Anthony was acting strange. Now, with the headache subsiding and the medication wearing off, I knew for certain. It wasn't me. Anthony was the one acting strangely. "How about Italian? Lasagna. I could really use some lasagna," I blurted out without a second thought. Lasagna was like a comforting balm, capable of soothing life's rough edges. The combination of melted cheese and pasta was pure bliss. "Garlic knots too?" he inquired. "Obviously," I replied. Another half-wicked, half-smirking grin spread across Anthony's face. What was going on with him? I wasn't surprised that he knew my dinner order. Like the coffee, I usually handled the takeout, but Anthony had seen it on my desk. The Italian place we frequented had the most amazing garlic knots. I could easily make a meal out of just those. "Italian it is then. Lasagna with garlic knots. I'll be back in an hour or two. Try not to get into any trouble until then," he said as he locked the door behind him. I couldn't help but think, I can't stay out of trouble when you keep locking me in. By the time Anthony returned, I was going stir crazy. He entered with his hands full of takeout bags, the aroma of tomatoes and garlic wafting through the room. My mouth watered, and I realized just how hungry I was. He made his way over to the couch where I had been sprawled out, flipping through TV channels. Placing the bags on the coffee table, he planted a kiss on the top of my head before disappearing again, saying, "Can you unpack those? I'll be right back." Wait, had Anthony just kissed me on the head? I was the one who had been knocked out, yet Anthony was behaving as if he had undergone a complete personality transformation. Maybe none of this was real. Perhaps I was still unconscious in the hospital, trapped within a coma-induced delusion. I unpacked the containers, arranging them neatly on the coffee table. Two servings of lasagna, garlic knots, and tiramisu. I grabbed a garlic knot and took a bite of the yeasty, buttery bread. It had to be a delusion. That was the only explanation that made sense. Otherwise, I couldn't fathom why I would be sitting in Anthony's apartment, about to share a meal with him. We had worked together for nine years, yet I had never set foot in his apartment, let alone eaten dinner here. And to top it all off, Anthony had kissed me on the head. Definitely a delusion. Anthony returned, now dressed in a T-shirt and cutoff sweats. He plopped down on the couch beside me, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV. "Is this okay?" he asked. I glanced up to see that he had rented a movie we had both been eager to watch but missed when it was in theaters. "Sure," I replied, diving into my dinner. The pain pills had completely worn off, and my appetite had come roaring back. Normally, one serving of lasagna from this place would be enough for two meals, but I devoured every bite and fought Anthony for forkfuls of tiramisu. When I accidentally stabbed his hand with my fork, he shot me an accusing look. I shrugged. "You should have ordered two. You know how much I love tiramisu." With my stomach now full and my headache reduced to a dull throb, I leaned back into the couch, finding solace in Anthony's arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer to his side. My hunger sated, I could feel my eyelids growing heavy. Before I knew it, I had drifted off, nestled against Anthony's chest.The scent of the ocean clung to Anthony, a mixture of clean air and salt that enveloped me as I inhaled deeply. His heartbeat echoed beneath my ear, strong and steady, and I couldn't help but be drawn into the comforting rhythm. But then, a sudden surge of panic jolted through me, my heart pounding rapidly as I realized where I had drifted off to sleep. I was nestled against Anthony, his arm wrapped around me, my head resting on his chest. How did I end up here? I quickly reminded myself that this was just a delusion from my coma. None of it was real. Soon enough, I would wake up in the hospital with a pounding headache, and Anthony would return to his usual self – all business, bossy, and annoying. No more tender kisses on my forehead. No more bringing me dinner. Just Anthony. That thought should have been reassuring. But strangely, I found myself cherishing this delusion. I enjoyed the feeling of his strong arm around me, the intoxicating scent of the ocean filling my lungs. If I were alone at home, I wouldn't find peace like this. Instead, I would be restless, haunted by memories of what happened in Charles's basement – the pull of the trigger, the deafening explosion, and everything fading into darkness. But not here. Not when I was curled up against Anthony, his heartbeat lulling me into a sense of safety. Anthony would never let anything harm me. Never. With that thought, I surrendered to sleep. I awoke to the flickering light of the television screen and the weightless sensation of being carried through the air. Anthony stood before me, his arms cradling me close to his chest, carrying me effortlessly. Carrying me? My sleepy mind flashed back to the chaotic escape from Charles's house, where I had slipped in and out of consciousness, aware only of Anthony's unwavering grip on me. Reality slowly seeped in. There was no smoke here. Anthony wasn't running. He was simply moving through his apartment, his stride as calm and collected as ever. I blinked my eyes open, realizing that I was in Anthony's apartment. I shouldn't be here. Delusion or not, it was time to go home. Restlessly, I squirmed in his arms. "Anthony, please put me down. Where are you taking me?" "I'm taking you to bed," he replied matter-of-factly. There was no reason for those words to send a surge of heat coursing through my body. Anthony didn't mean it in a romantic way. Of course not. I pushed against his arm, my voice pleading, "Anthony, put me down. I appreciate you taking care of me and bringing me dinner, but my headache is gone. I don't need any pain pills. I have to go home." "Why?" he asked, his tone perplexing me. What did he mean, why? I stammered, struggling to find an answer. "Because... because I live there." Anthony paid no attention to my feeble protests, continuing to carry me across the room. "Anthony, seriously, put me down!" In that moment, I became acutely aware of our size difference. Anthony towered over me, his tall frame effortlessly holding me in place. It would have been enjoyable if it weren't so infuriating. Ignoring my pleas, he questioned, "Your head doesn't hurt?" Seizing on this opportunity, I insisted, "No, I promise. It's much better now. Barely hurts at all. I'm perfectly fine. Just let me go home. If I need anything, I'll call you. I promise." Anthony stood in the dimly lit kitchen, his gaze fixed on my face. Once again, he asked, "Your head doesn't hurt? You feel okay?" "I'm fine," I repeated, feeling uneasy about his odd behavior. By now, he should be eager to get rid of me. Shouldn't he? Without a word, Anthony turned and instead of setting me down, he placed me on the kitchen island. His arms still encircled me, my knees on either side of his hips. I looked up at him, confusion etched across my face. What was going through his mind? I couldn't keep up. Cupping my chin with his fingers, Anthony tilted my head upward. A peculiar intensity burned in his pale eyes as he murmured, "I've waited for so long. Too long. I almost missed my chance. But I won't make that mistake again." I opened my mouth to tell him to stop acting strange. For a brief moment, as I gazed up at him in the dimness, I realized that the man holding my face wasn't the Anthony I knew. This man before me wasn't all business and driven ambition. No, this man possessed a fiery passion, his hands both strong and gentle, his sole focus on me. He awakened something deep within me, a longing that could only be sated by him. "Anthony," I whispered, unsure of what I intended to say next. It hardly mattered. The words wouldn't have escaped my lips anyway. His name lingered on my tongue, his eyes ablaze, and then Anthony lowered his head and kissed me. Yes, this had to be a coma-induced delusion.
Chapter Four
: Dahlia I had experienced kisses before. I mean, I'm thirty-three years old, and I'd been married. So, of course, I knew what it was like to be kissed. But nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the way Anthony kissed me. I work in Human Resources at Mitchell Security. My job mainly involves dealing with health benefits and handling harassment issues. If an employee ever came to me and said her boss had kissed her, I would have advised her to remove herself from the situation, firmly tell him that his behavior is inappropriate, and file a written report immediately. But that's not what happened when Anthony kissed me. Not at all. The moment his lips touched mine, any doubts about this being a coma delusion vanished. No delusion could feel this real, this warm and alive. This kiss was hungry, needy, and passionate. His breath hitched as our lips met, igniting a fire inside me that had smoldered for years. It felt like everything around me came to a standstill as our mouths connected, my heart skipping a beat, and the universe shifting on its axis. I took a deep breath, and suddenly, the world snapped back into motion, going from stillness to high-speed in an instant. I reached for Anthony, my fingers entwining in his hair as I pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. I wanted to taste him, to feel his skin against mine. Anthony. Damn it, Anthony. Who would've thought he would taste so good? Feel so right? Sure, he was my boss, distant and intimidatingly big. But none of that mattered. In that moment, he was exactly what I needed. He pulled me against him, our bodies pressed together, and I couldn't help but moan. His kiss was demanding and possessive, and I gave just as much as I received. My hands found their way to his T-shirt, eager to feel his bare skin, to experience his warmth and strength. I barely registered the removal of my own clothes, the cool air brushing against my heated skin. Anthony's shirt joined mine on the kitchen island, and every touch of his chest hair against my nipples sent sparks of pleasure through me. There was so much of him, and I wanted to be as close as possible. I pressed myself against his chest until it felt like our skin would merge together, desperate to absorb every part of him. His taste. The scent of the ocean that clung to him. Anthony's arm wrapped around my back, and he gently lowered me onto the cool granite counter, making sure my head was cushioned by our discarded clothes. Even in his haze of lust, he protected me from the unforgiving countertop. Anthony. I was only vaguely aware of this, my attention focused on his hands as they tugged at the fabric covering my hips, stripping me down until I was completely exposed before him. His eyes locked on my naked body, he groaned my name. "Dahlia. Fuck, Dahlia. You're so incredibly beautiful." I couldn't form words in my mind, let alone speak them. Anthony stood there, completely naked, his muscular frame and tanned skin a sight to behold. His ice-blue eyes burned with desire, and they were fixed on me. Anthony. And then he was on me, his mouth on my breast, his lips drawing on my nipple while his fingers expertly massaged my other breast. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, feeling the hardness of his erection against my core. I was already slick with desire, desperate for him. Rolling my hips into his, I could feel the shudders of pleasure running through him. He lifted his head from my breast, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. "Dahlia, I need to hear you say it. Do you want this? Do you want me?" "Anthony." That was all I could manage to say, his name a plea. Did he really have to ask? Couldn't he feel how much I wanted him, how my body ached for him? But I loved that he asked anyway. And before he even spoke, he rocked his hips into mine. "Dahlia, I want to make love to you. I want to be inside you, to claim you as mine. I need you to know that. I need you to tell me you want it too." I responded with the truth of my body, even if my brain couldn't form coherent thoughts. "Yes. Yes, Anthony. Please." That was all he needed to hear. His mouth crashed against mine in a possessive kiss, filled with triumph, heat, and need. His knuckles brushed against the inside of my thigh as he positioned himself, and then he thrust his hips forward. As he entered me, stretching me, I let out a long, deep moan, arching my back. "Oh, God. Anthony. Anthony." He froze, his lips barely grazing my neck. "Is it too much?" "No. It's perfect, Anthony. So perfect. Please. Please, Anthony. More. Oh, God, Anthony." I couldn't stop the words from pouring out of me, my brain and body overwhelmed by the sheer bliss of him filling me up. I had been empty for far too long.My entire existence had been devoid of meaning, until Anthony came into my life. In his embrace, with his body intertwined with mine, he filled the void within me. He overflowed my senses, leaving me breathless and wanting more. As I took all of him inside me, he moved his hips in a tantalizing rhythm, igniting pleasure that sliced through my body like shards of ecstasy. My lips released a long, low groan, as his mouth found my ear and murmured words that were both everything and nothing. "Dahlia, Dahlia, Dahlia. You feel so good, Dahlia. I can't hold back anymore. I need you to find release." His mouth claimed mine, while his hand slipped beneath me, tilting my hips and grinding against me, as his tongue danced with mine. It was an overwhelming sensation, too intense to bear. It consumed me entirely. I erupted into a scream, my voice muffled by his kiss, as my mind blanked out and my body convulsed in pleasure. His hips jerked against mine, and together we experienced a release that had been a long time coming. When I regained awareness, it was accompanied by the familiar sensation of weightlessness, of being carried by Anthony. But this time, there was a difference. This time, my legs were wrapped around his waist, and I had no desire to walk on my own. I draped myself over him, my arms loosely encircling his neck, my damp cheek pressed against his shoulder. His half-hard member remained inside me, each step sending bolts of pleasure coursing through my veins. Anthony carried me into his spacious, glass-enclosed shower, where he turned on the water, allowing it to wash away the sweat and remnants of our passionate encounter. I tried to gather my thoughts, to say something, anything. But one thought pierced through the haze of lust and satisfaction in my mind. No condom. I had an IUD, and I had been tested for everything after leaving my husband. I hadn't slept with anyone since then. I knew that the guys all had regular check-ups. I was the one who scheduled and paid for them. And I knew Anthony. He had made sure to protect my head from the hard counter, even as he tore off my clothes. He would never have skipped using a condom if it put me at risk. He probably had my medical records, that sneaky bastard. He probably knew that I was protected from pregnancy and safe to have unprotected sex with. It didn't matter to me, except that now that I had felt him skin against skin, nothing else would suffice. A small part of me tried to voice its concerns. But what about...? But there was no room for "what about" now. Sensible Dahlia needed to shut up. This felt too incredible for sensible Dahlia to interfere. Anthony's hands roamed over my body, his lips at my neck, warm water cascading over us. He finally lifted me off his member, his hand moving between my legs, allowing the water to cleanse us, before settling on the deep bench in the corner, still cradling me in his arms. Water continued to stream over us as he kissed me with endless, intoxicating kisses. His strong hands caressed my body, until he lifted me up and lowered me onto his rigid member. My head spun as he dipped me back over his arm, feasting on my breasts, our hips rocking in perfect harmony. Orgasm crashed through my body not once, but twice. Barely aware of him setting me on my feet, cleaning me off, and turning off the water, we slipped beneath the sheets of his bed, and I succumbed to sleep, my damp body draped over Anthony's, my lips pressed against the pulse in his throat, his heartbeat lulling me into a peaceful slumber. Sometime later, I woke up in the darkness, with only the faint glow of the moon seeping through the curtains. Reality hit me like a freight train. This was no dream during my coma. The soreness between my legs, the dull ache in my head, and Anthony's long body sprawled beside mine were all too real. What was I supposed to do now? Should I stay? Was this going to be a regular thing? Were Anthony and I going to have sex? My body trembled involuntarily as those words formed in my mind. Sex with Anthony. It sounded so clinical and detached. But what choice did I have? Roll over and go back to sleep? Sneak out and pretend it never happened? Lying there, staring at the ceiling, the latter option seemed like the most sensible one. Alright then. Sneak out and pretend it never happened. I rolled onto my side, inching closer to the edge of the bed, when a firm arm pulled me back. Back to Anthony. He rolled me over, pressing his weight on top of me, interlocking his fingers with mine and pinning them above my head. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked casually, a spark of heat igniting in his icy blue eyes. With no reasonable response to that question, I wisely kept my mouth shut. Lowering his lips to graze my chin, he whispered, "I didn't think so." Carefully positioning my upturned palms beneath my head to avoid pressing the still tender spot on the pillows, he growled, "Don't move your hands."Breathless, all I could manage was a whispered, “Okay.” He moved down my body, his mouth wet and hot against my fevered skin, nipping my breast, licking the line of my ribs, dipping into my belly button before planting a palm on each thigh and pushing my legs apart, baring me to his mouth. I sucked in a gasp. Anthony worked his mouth over me, tasting every inch of my core, plunging his tongue inside and filling me with his fingers while he sucked on my sensitive bud. My hips bucked beneath him, my voice a chorus of pleas, calling out his name in a desperate symphony. I reached climax twice before he rose over me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, lifting for him as he entered me with that glorious manhood, thrusting into me until I screamed his name. Afterward, my legs no better than jelly, I collapsed on top of him, our bodies sticky with the remnants of passion. Neither of us cared. I'd think about tomorrow. Tonight, I wasn't going anywhere. My eyes fluttered open to sunshine and the inviting aroma of bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice. I rolled over, letting out a startled squeak at the sight of Anthony standing beside the bed wearing nothing but his cut-off sweatpants, his perfect physique on full display. Struggling to sit up, I held the sheet over my breasts, thoughts tumbling in my head. The smirk that curved the corner of Anthony's mouth was self-satisfied. A little smug. "Hungry?" I nodded. I was hungry. And eating would buy me some time while I figured out what to do next. My tender, exhausted body perked awake at the sight of so much half-naked Anthony and slyly suggested, Why do you have to do anything at all? Let's just have more sex with Anthony. Anthony slid into bed next to me and helped himself to a piece of toast from the tray he'd set over my lap. Content to eat in silence for the time being, I tried to gather my thoughts. Sensible Dahlia was telling me to run for the door, lock myself in my apartment, and not come out unless someone else was with me so I wouldn't be tempted to strip Anthony naked and jump him again. Sensible Dahlia was a buzzkill. Sensible Dahlia had stayed married to her awful ex-husband for far too long. The Dahlia who'd just experienced multiple orgasms in twelve hours wasn't interested in being sensible. Knock on the head aside, I wasn't deluded enough to think this was anything more than sex. Anthony wasn't just my boss—which made him untouchable enough—he was Anthony Mitchell, the eldest of the Mitchell brothers. Anthony was old Atlanta. Anthony dated socialites. Models. He'd dated a movie star and the bass player in a famous all-female rock band. Anthony did not date quirky office managers. Especially not his quirky office manager. I didn't know what madness had led to us naked on his kitchen island, but Anthony was too composed, too controlled to confuse sex with anything deeper. I was convenient. When I thought of it that way, it was kind of a miracle he'd never tried to have sex with me before. I lived right downstairs, after all. I was convenient. Before that ugly thought could worm its way into my nice post-orgasm bubble, I stole a glance at his chiseled chest, his broad shoulders, those strong hands currently peeling an orange that had lifted me so effortlessly and brought me down onto a long, thick cock... And it occurred to me that Anthony was convenient. Anthony was so composed, so controlled, I'd wager he could sleep with me for fun and it would never affect our working relationship. Why should it? We were both adults. We were both professionals. We took our job seriously. I wouldn't be foolish enough to let sex complicate anything at work, and neither would Anthony. This was just sex. Mind-blowing, incredible, once-in-a-lifetime sex. I wasn't going to walk away because I was worried we couldn't handle it. I stole another glance at the glory of half-naked Anthony and decided to stop being such a coward. "So, we're doing this now?" I asked, my voice laced with anticipation. Anthony handed me a slice of orange, his eyes impossible to decipher. "Right now, we're having breakfast." "Smartass," I muttered, taking the orange. "After breakfast. And later. Is this a thing now? Are we having sex?" Cool blue eyes met mine. "Do you want to stop?" His voice was neutral, leaving me uncertain of his true intentions. "Not a chance," I said, instinct guiding my words before I could shape them into something more eloquent. Anthony said nothing, just leaned over, lifted the tray from my lap, and placed it on the bedside table before pinning me to the mattress and kissing me deeply. He tasted of oranges and coffee, and it felt right. I wasn't walking away from this. No way. Sensible Dahlia could take a hike. I was going to seize every moment with Anthony Mitchell before he lost interest and I lost my chance.
Chapter Five
Anthony I kept Dahlia in my bed until the clock ticked down to the very last second before she had to leave to get ready for work. Every fiber of my being wished I could cancel everything and keep her exactly where she was – under me, where she belonged. Almost a decade of waiting had led up to this moment, and it felt like a lifetime. One weekend wasn't enough. She slipped away from my bed, mumbling and blushing, hastily putting on her clothes and rushing out the door, leaving me hollow. But I reminded myself that she would be back. There was no way I was putting this genie back in the bottle. Now that I had experienced how she tasted, heard the sound of her moan, and witnessed the sexy, adorable way she babbled as I drove her to orgasm, there was no way I was letting that go. Ever. Dahlia was mine. Unfortunately, this wasn't the best time to turn our lives upside down. In fact, it was probably the worst time. My father was still missing, and the Russian mob was hell-bent on finding him. We had managed to strike a deal with Anthony Johnson, ensuring that he would only go after my father and spare the rest of the family, but I knew that his word meant nothing. He was still out there, still a threat. But even scarier than the mob was my mother. My brother, Emmett, and his wife, Joanna, were bringing her to Atlanta. They had moved her from Las Vegas, where she had sought refuge when Anthony Johnson had threatened to use her against my father. Now, Las Vegas was becoming too dangerous, with Johnson's empire crumbling and all the chaos that came with it. Emmett, who ran the western division of Mitchell Security, had an excellent team, but he was stretched thin. It was safer for them to be in Atlanta for now. Having Emmett and Joanna close was something I looked forward to. Emmett, like me, had little patience for my father's bullshit, and he had always wanted to run the show. As Mitchell Security grew, it made sense for him to branch out and start his own division. I was proud of him, but I missed having him around. My mother, on the other hand, was a different story. After my father's car went off that bridge, she quickly put our house on the market and moved to Florida. My brothers and I breathed a sigh of relief. I loved my mother, and I wanted her to be safe and alive, but I didn't want her just one flight of stairs away from me. Not now, not when I wanted to spend every spare second buried in Dahlia. There were too many uncertainties, too many balls to juggle to do what I really wanted – to tell Dahlia that things had changed. That she was mine. That we couldn't go back, and I wouldn't give her up. If I had any doubts about whether she wanted me as much as I wanted her, the last forty-eight hours had obliterated them. Dahlia didn't do casual sex. She had stuck with her loser ex-husband until they finally divorced. Even when she could have gone out with girlfriends and let loose, she didn't. If she had, I would have found a way to stop her. I had waited, refusing to break up a marriage, even a shitty one. Once Dahlia was free, I bided my time, giving her space to heal from her divorce before making any moves. Over the years, I had spent more time with her than her husband ever did. She knew me inside and out, and I knew her just as well. So, no, I didn't have any doubts about Dahlia. Now, all I had to do was make sure she didn't have any doubts about me. When I arrived at work, she wasn't there. That would have been a miracle. I quickly showered and put on a suit in fifteen minutes – the same amount of time it took Dahlia to pick out a dress. I headed to my office and sent one of the assistants to Taylor's to fetch breakfast and coffee. By the time he returned, Dahlia was already at her desk, her phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was crisp and professional, but a blush flooded her cheeks when she caught sight of me. She ended the call, jotted something down on a notepad, and then stood up. Her head tilted slightly to the side as she noticed the to-go cup of coffee in my hand. Her eyes widened with pleasure as I handed it to her, and her lipstick left a red imprint on the white lid.She wore a red dress with white nautical trim, the top a halter that tied around the back of her neck, a tiny white shrug sweater her defense against the chill of the air conditioning. When she turned to move her chair, I spotted the flounce of white crinoline beneath the red skirt. If she had any idea how crazy those crinolines made me… The crinoline wasn’t big—sock-hop, not Scarlet O’Hara. It only added an extra few layers to the already-full skirt. But every time I caught sight of that froth of nothing fabric beneath her skirts, I was instantly obsessed with the way they lifted the skirt away from her legs, leaving no barrier between my hands and her body. As styles go, fifties rockabilly is fairly demure. Barely any cleavage, and not a single skirt above the knee. I’d seen business suits that showed more skin. Didn’t matter. On Dahlia, those dresses made me fucking crazy. If I had a penny for every time I’d thought of bending her over her desk and sliding my hands under those fluffs of crinoline to get my hands on her legs I’d be able to retire to a private island and spend the rest of my life doing just that. As it was, between the crinoline and the bow of the halter neck begging me to pull it free, it was all I could do not to drag her into the supply closet and lock the door. Instead, I sipped my coffee and handed her the bag of baked goods. “Whatever you don’t pick is mine,” I said. Dahlia rummaged through the bag, pulling out a flaky cinnamon roll and placing it neatly on a napkin on her desk. Her teeth sank into her full red bottom lip and she looked away from me, cheeks still pink. Under her breath, she hissed, “Don’t look at me like that.” “Like what? I’m not looking at you like anything.” Yanking Dahlia’s chain is my favorite hobby. I have to work at it. She knows me too well to make it easy. Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she said, “Go away, Anthony. I don’t have time to deal with you. Your mother, Emmett, and Joanna will be here in a few hours. I need to leave the desk to give the apartment upstairs a final check before they get here.” “I’ll send one of the grunts to cover the desk in half an hour. Give you time to drink your coffee. That work?” I asked, proving I could do business if she wanted to do business. As long as she didn’t forget the pleasure part. Voice crisp, eyes cautious, Dahlia agreed. “That would be fine. Thanks for the coffee and the cinnamon roll.” A clear dismissal. Giving her a long, heated look that brought a flush back to her cheeks, I inclined my head and walked away. My brothers aside, Dahlia was one of the few people in the office who busted my balls on a regular basis. From anyone else I would have shut that shit down, but Dahlia could bust my balls all day if she wanted to. So many years I’d been wondering if that red lipstick was kiss-proof. Today, I planned to find out. The phone rang when I got back to my office. A client with a problem. New day, same catastrophes. By the time I’d handled it, I judged Dahlia would be upstairs getting the safe house ready for my mother. Dahlia, a bed, and a door with a lock. Perfect. Pushing back from the desk, I strode down the hall to the back of the office and ducked into the emergency stairwell. I didn’t need the grunt at the front desk seeing me leave while Dahlia was gone. If it were up to me I’d shout to the world that Dahlia was mine, but I knew she was going to need more time. Finesse. I could do finesse. I found Dahlia in the bigger of the two bedrooms in the apartment, bending over as she smoothed the coverlet across the bed, that froth of white crinoline lifting in the back, exposing the barest hint of thigh. Innocent, really. Innocent and so alluring I couldn't resist. Stepping up behind her, I leaned over and slid my fingers up the back of her legs, feeling the light, crisp crinoline pool around my hands, the heavier fabric of her dress sliding up, up, up. Dahlia stilled for a moment before she went back to smoothing the coverlet. “That better be Anthony, or somebody’s going to get his balls sliced off.” I don’t know why her threats made me so hot. “You armed, Dahlia?” “I have a letter opener at my desk.” Sliding my hand up to squeeze the curve of her ass, I said, “Anybody else touches you like this, I’ll slice his balls off for you.” Dahlia laughed. I wasn’t kidding. She stood and turned, her eyes hot and wary. “What are you doing here, Anthony?” “What do you think?” Dahlia circled around me and backed up, giving the room one last glance before she edged through the doorway into the living room. Pretending I hadn’t just had my hands on her ass, she said, “I had groceries delivered, stocked the fridge with everything your mother likes, coffee, her favorite wine, cheesecake.” I ignored her."Where are you off to, Dahlia?" I inquired, pursuing her as she cautiously backed away into the living room. With one more step, she bumped into the couch. Realizing her predicament, she halted and propped her hands on her hips. "Anthony Mitchell, it's the middle of the workday. This is your mother's apartment. What do you think you're—" I paid no mind to her words. Instead, I wrapped my arm around her waist, leaned down, and captured her lips with mine. The taste of cherries lingered on her lips, while her mouth exuded a blend of cinnamon and coffee, uniquely Dahlia. She responded to the kiss, pulling me closer by tugging on my shoulders, moaning softly in my embrace. Just when I thought I couldn't bear another moment without exploring further, I reluctantly released her lips. "The safe house is my apartment, not my mother's," I explained, my voice laced with desire. Her eye-roll lacked its usual sarcasm. Her lips, still swollen from our passionate exchange, remained slightly parted as she struggled to catch her breath. Dahlia placed her hands flat against my chest, and I couldn't discern if she was pushing me away or surreptitiously feeling me up. When her fingertips dug into my chest, I wondered if she even knew herself. "Anthony. We can't indulge in this at work. We— I don't want—" "But we're not at work," I countered, interrupting her stumbling protest. I anticipated a hard slap against my chest. I deserved it. She had a point. Yet, I stayed rooted in place, captivated as she ran her fingers through her hair, corrected the smudges on her lipstick with a fingernail beneath her lip, and smoothed down her skirts. In an instant, she appeared completely unruffled, except for the slight swelling of her lower lip. It was as if I hadn't just had my hands all over her, which paradoxically made me crave her even more. "Anthony, I've been pondering," she began, pulling her shoulders back as if bracing herself. I crossed my arms, preparing myself for the typical "We can't do this, it was a mistake" speech. Dahlia surprised me. "I value my job, Anthony. I don't want to jeopardize it." "You won't lose your job, Dahlia," I assured her. "Allow me to finish," she insisted, squaring her shoulders. I nodded and kept my mouth shut, readying a rebuttal in my mind. "I don't engage in office flings. You know that," she affirmed, her conviction palpable. I was tempted to remind her of the one time she had indeed engaged in such behavior, but we had never discussed it. I had spent nine years trying to erase it from my memory. It had nothing to do with us. Apart from that isolated incident, Dahlia was correct. She had never flirted or fooled around at work. She had always maintained professionalism. "I believe it's crucial to keep business separate from my personal life," she continued. "I understand it's different for you, given that you work with family—" She trailed off, and I wondered if doubt was creeping in. "But?" I prodded. She sucked in a quick breath, her words tumbling out in a rush. "But I've never experienced sex like that before in my life." Her cheeks flushed crimson. She glanced away briefly to collect herself before adding, "I want to do it again." A wave of relief washed over me, nearly overwhelming me. "Good. So do I." As the words escaped my lips, I moved towards her instinctively. Dahlia threw up a hand, halting my advance. Damn it, she wasn't finished. I should have known. "I don't want anyone to find out, okay? No fooling around at work. Once this is over, it's over. No hard feelings. Besides my family, you and the team have been the only constants in my life for the past nine years. The only positive constants," she corrected herself. "I won't jeopardize that because of sex. Even incredible sex." "I agree to your terms with one amendment," I proposed. "What?" she asked, her suspicion rightfully evident. "The office isn't off-limits as long as I can guarantee we won't get caught." I refused to agree to a complete ban on any physical contact in the workplace. We worked tirelessly, sometimes around the clock. I wasn't going to box myself into a corner if I didn't have to. I awaited a snappy comeback or a counteroffer. To my surprise, she responded differently. "Anthony, if we're caught fooling around, everyone will view me differently. I don't want that. Do you understand?" "I promise, Dahlia. I won't do anything to compromise you at work." A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she caught my choice of words. "As long as you more than make up for it at home." "Exactly." I moved closer, angling for another kiss, but she deftly evaded me, slipping to the side and heading towards the door. "I need to head downstairs. There's too much to be done before your mother arrives." I let her go. Progress had been made. She had agreed to an affair. I could work with that. I had found my way in. Sex. Now, my sole objective was to make her so addicted to me that she couldn't walk away. I was capable of achieving that. I had to. Now that I had tasted her, all I desired was more.
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