The script package is sitting in my mail cubby. A sigh gusts out of me. I tear into the manila envelope before I get out of the hallway.
A hard object rams into me like a linebacker, before I can even glimpse the title.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” a rough male voice declares. My heart hammers in my chest. I try to jerk away but the two big hands wrapped around my upper arms prevent me from moving an inch. Slabs of muscle beneath my palms. His masculine voice cuts through the fog of my obsession with the script.
“Neither are you,” I snap before I look up.
Blue eyes bore into mine. His hands are manacles on my upper arms. Transfixed, I shove the paper back into its envelope. Slowly, he releases his grip. I take a step back. My middle finger touches the bridge of my glasses to nudge them up my nose.
His brows knit together as though he thinks I’m giving him the finger, which maybe I am, a little.
Then, he gives me a slow smile. I am dazed by the rush of desire that courses through me.
Forget the bodyguard. The man who ran into me is sex on stilts.
My knees go weak. I almost collapse. If I were to fall, there’s a high chance I’d unzip his trousers—and I don’t even know his name.
He smirks, and I feel it in my solar plexus. Heat scorches my innards and renders me hollow. As I said, I don’t give random men blowjobs, but I’d make an exception for this one.
“I’m Kelsey James. KJ to my friends. I work for Harden Real Estate Group,” I say formally. My shoulder bag fell on the floor when we crashed into one another. My personal effects are scattered across the floor. They include a collection of Harden-branded pens, the glossy printed floor plans from today’s showing fanned out next to my lipstick, spare nail polish, and a makeup bag.
“Nice to run into you, KJ.” says the stranger in a deliberate drawl. The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I feel his voice like velvet stroked over my shoulders. It’s weird. I’ve never felt this before.
“KJ to my friends,” I shoot back. I don’t know why I’m being so scratchy. This man threw me off-kilter within seconds, and I’m unsure why. I don’t normally antagonize hot men on purpose.
“I’m not your friend,” he says flatly.
“No. So you can call me Kelsey until further notice,” I say.
“Ms. James,” he begins, and recognition crashes through me.
This is the CEO.
I’m so shocked that I lose my grip on the manila envelope. It slips out of my hands. I glance down and find my precious script on the floor. I crouch to retrieve it. He meets me at eye level, three feet from the industrial carpet.
Warily, I avoid his gaze while I check my script’s integrity. It’s safe. But I am starting to think I’m not. “Yes?”
He gives me a peculiar grin, as though he knows I’m figuring it out. “I’m Sam Harden. This is my company. You work for me. The city has been ordered into lockdown. I don’t like the idea of sheltering alone in my penthouse. It’s too big. I’d be...lonely.”
His gaze flicks to my cleavage. Unlike when Phil did the same thing, a current of excitement races over my skin.
I think of my crappy little studio apartment and how much I don’t want to spend weeks there by myself. My family is in Arkansas—too far to go without giving up on the life I’ve built here. Besides, I wouldn’t want to bring this damn virus with me.
“What exactly are you proposing?” I ask, my pulse thready. I brush my long, dark hair back and nearly fall over. He grasps my arm again to steady me.
“Quarantine with me,” he half-asks, half-orders. Transfixed by his blue eyes, I freeze.
“And do what?” I demand. But I don’t try to pull away. I let him hang onto me because I like the firmness of his hold. The smirk etches deeper lines into his face. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying yes, but the prospect of being alone for an indefinite amount of time makes me weak. I’d rather have company, too. Especially if it’s the kind I think he’s offering. The only obstacle is that I have the audition of my life to prepare for. I can’t afford a sexy distraction like Harden.
“Anything you want, Ms. James,” he says in that voice like smoked sin. “Anything at all, and nothing you don’t want to do.”
I shift on my aching feet. My gaze falls away from his, drifting down the expensively cut shirt buttoned to his throat. The insane need to grasp his tie and pull his face close to mine almost overwhelms me. I resist. Barely.
Should’ve kept that mask on.
At the front of his trousers is a ridge the length of my forearm, I swear. It’s pointed toward his left hip bone. My eyes widen.
Here’s the thing. I love sex more than anything except acting. It’s been a problem in my few relationships. In my senior year of high school and the first two years of college, I had a boyfriend whose sex drive matched mine. He dumped me when he decided he was going to flunk out if he didn’t find a less-physical girlfriend.
I know. What an idiot, right? Well, it didn’t feel that way at the time. I was utterly devastated.
Things got worse as I tried dating after graduation. Men said I moved too fast or wanted too much from my partners. I’m actually a very relationship-oriented person but after a couple of breakups it was easier to take care of my needs with porn and an ever-growing collection of toys. Maybe I didn’t get a lot of satisfaction,
