Sophie responded with a hoarse gasp, and she felt his victorious smile against her breast, but she couldn’t begin to think of something smart to say to put him in his place. Right now she was all his. She had no idea whether a few seconds or an eternity had passed, but when she felt herself reaching the brink, she frantically clutched at his shoulders.

“Gray, no. Not like this. I’m going to—”

But it was too late. Her body was too far gone, and she went over the edge of ecstasy, her body rocking in silent shudders. When it was over, he gently peeled her panties down her legs and tossed them aside before smiling gently down into her flushed face.

She struggled not to blush. Hell, she struggled not to pass out. She would have bet money that she couldn’t take any more of his touch, but then his hand slid over the inside of her thigh and she reconsidered.

This gritty sex maniac was nothing like the restrained businessman she knew so well. Gray pulled her to her feet and swept her into her arms like some sort of damn romantic hero.

“This is nuts,” she muttered against his neck. “Definitely don’t want to know what the employee handbook says about this.”

“We are not going to think about that now,” he said with a groan, shouldering open his bedroom door.

She was thrown rather unceremoniously onto his bed, and before she could catch her breath, he was on top of her, struggling out of his own jeans.

“Sophie,” he muttered, kissing her neck with hot openmouthed kisses.

“Mmm?”

“This is going to be fast. I’m not…it’s just…it’s been a long time.”

It shouldn’t be the type of thing a woman wanted to hear in bed, but she couldn’t help a small smile at the admission.

Good, she thought. She didn’t want to be the most recent in a long line of bed partners. And then she stopped thinking altogether as he roughly pushed her thighs apart and pushed inside her with one firm stroke. She gasped at the wonderful invasion, instinctively lifting her hips, struggling to accept him completely. He began to move in steady, methodical strokes as she met his fierce rhythm.

His hands held her h*ps in a possessive grasp, and she remembered his words at the park. Mine.

Mine.

She sensed he was close, and urged him to go faster, wanting him to experience the same ecstasy she had minutes before. Sophie was so focused on enhancing his pleasure that she was caught by surprise when she felt his fingers at her center again, circling in the perfect rhythm to his strokes.

She arched her back even higher and cried his name. He buried his face in her neck and she felt him gasp against her as they reached the peak together, shuddering and clinging to each other in confused wonder.

When they’d finally caught their breath, he rolled to his side and brushed her hair out of her face. She turned her head to look at him, feeling strangely shy.

“What now?” she asked.

“Are you asking me what happens Monday?” he asked warily.

“Well, it’s a valid question. I mean, I did just shag my boss.”

“Correction. Your boss shagged you.”

Sophie narrowed her eyes at him. “I should have known it would be this way with you.”

“What way?” he asked innocently.

“Argumentative.”

“Honey, arguing is the last thing I want to do with you right now,” he said as his hand slid over her side.

Honey. The word made her feel squishy inside.

“All right, then,” she said with a catlike smile. “No arguing.”

But there were other ways to get on top. She rolled over him until she straddled his h*ps and had his hands pinned above his head. Gray eyes sparkled up at her, and for a moment her playful mood faltered at the warmth she saw there.

Look how far we’ve come, she thought.

He apparently misread her, because he started to tense and pull back.

“God, Sophie, you’re right, we really shouldn’t be doing this.”

Shaking her head, she put her hand over his mouth. They’d have to deal with it eventually, but not yet.

“Just one night,” she said quietly.

Gray nodded slowly, before pulling her face down to his. “One night,” he agreed.

And they made it one hell of a good night. She lost count of the number of ways they loved each other.

It wasn’t until Sophie slowly drifted off to sleep in the early morning that she realized the noise in the back of her mind wasn’t just a postsex hum.

It was a warning bell.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sophie rolled over the next morning in a foreign bed and was dismayed to see the sun streaming in the window. She groaned. So much for leaving in the early morning hours. Sneaking out of a man’s bedroom at five in the morning had never been a particular forte of Sophie’s. She hated early mornings in general. It usually took a bullhorn and an electric prod to get her moving in time for work.

And that was assuming she was in her own house with her own coffeepot, her yellow fuzzy robe, and the Mamma Mia! soundtrack.

She squinted at the empty bedroom, not at all surprised that she didn’t see Gray. No doubt he’d already ran a half marathon, baked a baguette, churned his own butter, and acquired six new companies before she’d even taken her first morning pee.

Sophie pulled herself out of bed, wishing for something to tie back the hair that she knew was in a tangle of curls. She’d found that while men thought they had a thing for bedhead, what actually turned them on was hair that had been styled to look like bedhead.

The real thing? Not so good.

The clothes situation was even trickier since she seemed to remember that hers were last seen scattered around his living room. And there was just no way in hell she was about to go prancing around his house na**d.

Not for any man, and certainly not for her boss.

Oh God, I’ve slept with my boss. This sort of thing really was not supposed to happen outside of tawdry romance novels and old movies.

She should be ashamed. She’d just taken one huge step back for womankind.

But right now she wasn’t thinking of herself as part of the general women’s movement, or as some sort of trashy stereotype. She was thinking like a woman who’d just slept with the man she loved. Sophie plowed her fingers through her hair and tugged at the tangled curls.

I’m in love with Gray.

She wasn’t sure why the realization was such a shock. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was merely the latest in a string of really, really bad choices. But it didn’t have to be a disaster. She just couldn’t let him find out.

Not that he’d be able to pick up on it. At least if she had to fall in love with the wrong guy, she’d picked one with absolutely zero people-reading skills.

Sophie stood abruptly and went to his closet, pulling on the first shirt she saw. It smelled vaguely like him, and she hated herself for sniffing it.

“That’s an interesting look.”

Sophie closed her eyes briefly at the sound of his voice, and finished buttoning his shirt. She’d never understood how in the movies, a man’s shirt fell to midthigh of the heroine after a night of bumping uglies. All of those actresses must be midgets, because a standard men’s shirt on Sophie barely covered her ass.

You can do this, she told herself with a deep breath.

She braced herself for a disapproving and closed-off grump. Instead, she saw that he looked relaxed and maybe even a little bit happy. If she’d fallen for grumpy Gray, she could really lose her heart over this sweeter version.

“Morning,” she muttered, tugging at the hem of his shirt and tucking a crazy curl behind her ear. “I, um…left my clothes downstairs, so…”

He gestured to the dresser, where her clothes lay in a perfect pile. Of course.

Sophie blanched. “You folded my thong?”

“At least I didn’t iron it,” he said, handing her one of the coffee mugs in his hand, which she accepted gratefully.

“Thanks. I’ll be out of your way just as soon as this caffeine kicks in. Mornings aren’t really my thing.”

“I know,” he replied, mouth hitching up in his trademark half smile. “I’ve seen your morning self, remember?”

“Like I could forget. I work for you.”

Gray winced, and she regretted the sharpness of her tone, if not the words. It had to be addressed, for both their sakes. He couldn’t like the stigma of sleeping with his subordinate any more than she enjoyed the skeeviness of ha**g s*x with the person who determined her salary.

It was almost disturbingly ironic—she was far closer to prostitution now than she’d ever been in her slutty Vegas boots.

“Why do you do that?” he asked quietly.

“It can’t just go left unsaid. What happens tomorrow? Do we pretend this didn’t happen? Do I ride you on your desk and dare anyone to question the CEO’s personal choices in mistresses?”

“Stop it.”

She took a sip of coffee and stayed quiet, but inside she was seething. It was easy for him to ignore the issue away. He had a six-figure salary and everyone’s unwavering respect. He could bang a transsexual pole dancer, and people would just quietly murmur that he deserved his privacy.

But not someone like her—if news like this got out, she would be that girl. The one who was sleeping with her boss to get ahead. The cocktail-waitress-turned-secretary who’d seduced the CEO. The slut.

“Sorry,” she said finally. “I think it’s better if I just go.”

He nodded slowly, and she stifled the wave of hurt that he’d agreed so readily. She handed him the coffee mug and grabbed her pile of clothes.

“May I use your bathroom?” The idea of putting on dirty underwear didn’t exactly appeal, but she could hardly go skipping back to her apartment wearing nothing but a man’s business shirt. She also wasn’t sure how she was going to get her car, which she’d left at the park. But she wasn’t about to ask him for a ride. She’d have to spend the upcoming week’s Starbucks money on a cab.

More reason to be mad at Gray. He was depriving her of skinny vanilla lattes and her self-respect.

Ten minutes later, she’d done the best she could with the wrinkled clothes and raccoon eyes and ventured quietly into his kitchen. Her inner five-year-old wanted to make a dash for the front door, but that would only make Monday morning more awkward, so she opted for a quick and painless farewell.

She should be used to the sight of Gray behind the stove by now, but seeing him cook some sort of elaborate-looking egg dish had her shaking her head. Really, how was a rich and handsome chef not married by now?

Sophie cleared her throat in the doorway, feeling more awkward in front of him this morning than she had in that elevator months ago. “I left your shirt on the bed. I figured you’d probably want to dry-clean it or something.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Didn’t you wear it for less than two minutes?

“Well, yeah, but…it probably smells like girl.”

“There are worse things.” His gray eyes crinkled slowly around the corners and it was almost enough to have her falling into his arms and begging him to love her just a little bit.

“Well, I’ll be going, then,” she said with a smile she didn’t feel, jerking her thumb toward the front door, feeling like a fool. Like he didn’t know where the exit was.

His face went flat again. “At least have some eggs. I’ve made enough for two.”

Whatever he was making smelled amazing, but she couldn’t handle sitting next to him, sharing a meal as though they were in a relationship of some kind. This had been a mistake, pure and simple. The sooner they ended it, the better they’d both feel.

“You don’t have to do that, Gray. I appreciate the gentlemanly approach this morning. Most guys would have made up some excuse about having their mother stop by to get me out of the house, but we both know that last night was…”

Wonderful, intense, the best sex of my life.

“A mistake,” she finished.

He ignored her and slid the omelets onto two plates before carrying them to his dining table. They’d always eaten at the island before. The kitchen table seemed far too intimate.

“Come sit,” he said, already digging into his food. “It’s getting cold.”

Sophie chewed her lip and glanced toward the front door. Maybe just a few bites. Just so that she could explain to him that this could never happen again and that he couldn’t tell a soul. She dropped into the chair across from him and watched him. He was eating his mushrooms and eggs very precisely, as though completely unaware that he had company.

“You eat your omelet with a knife?” she asked.

“It’s called Continental style. Europeans do it.”

“Which would totally make sense. If you were European.” Sophie dug into the decadent-looking breakfast, ignoring the knife like a normal American.

“So what do you want to do today?” he asked casually.

Sophie’s fork clattered to her plate. “Don’t do that.”

He finally set his silverware aside and looked at her. “I want you to stay.”

“Why?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I want to spend time with you.”

“Since when?”

“Since—just, I don’t know. Please?”

Somehow his sulky, frowning expression was infinitely more effective than puppy-dog-style begging or standard-issue flattery. She knew instinctively that he didn’t want to want her to say. That he was just as annoyed by this connection between them as she was, but every bit as reluctant to let it end.

“If I stay, are we going to talk about us?” she said around a succulent mushroom.