You’d barely finished cross-examining a hostile witness when your assistant buzzed your office.

“Mr. Russo is here for you.”

You froze mid-sip of your espresso. “I don’t have Dante on the calendar.”

“He said not to bother checking. Said he’d wait.”

But he didn’t wait. Not really.

Because exactly forty-three seconds later, your glass door opened—and there he was.

Dante Russo. Billion-dollar CEO. Tailored navy slacks. Black shirt. No tie. Top button undone. Dark hair a little tousled like he ran his fingers through it on the drive over.

You arched a brow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His eyes flicked down, unapologetically. “You wore that skirt on purpose.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s a pencil skirt. I wear these every week.”

“Not that one,” he murmured. “That one’s my favorite. The slit, the heels, the way it hugs you when you’re mad in meetings…”

You crossed your arms, trying to fight the smirk pulling at your lips. “You came to my office to talk about my skirt?”

He shut the glass door behind him. Didn’t lock it—but you both knew everyone out there could see in.

And he still came closer.

“You’ve been working till 10 p.m. every night,” he said, dropping his voice. “You barely answer my texts. I figured if I wanted your attention, I had to come to your natural habitat.”

“I’m working,” you replied, a little breathless as he came to a stop in front of you.

“You’re wearing lipstick,” he said, brushing his thumb just beneath your bottom lip. “That berry-red one. You only wear that when you need to win.”

You tilted your head. “So you are here to distract me.”

“No,” he murmured, dipping his head until his lips brushed just under your ear. “I’m here to remind you you’re mine—even in your war room.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

Because there he was. Big, commanding, and smelling like Bergamot and trouble. His hands were on your waist now, tugging you closer, right up against the edge of your desk.

“But there’s glass,” you whispered.

He smirked. “Then don’t make a sound.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I get caught—”

“I’ll handle it,” he promised, then leaned in and whispered, “but just so you know, your paralegal already turned the corner when I walked in. She knew.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re irresistible.”

You gave him a look. “Ten minutes. Then I’m back to depositions.”

“You’ll be lucky if I let you walk straight to them.”

You swallowed a laugh, then let your body melt into his. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the tension leave your spine and the rush of adrenaline get replaced by heat.

He always knew how to find you right when you needed him most.