You’re both senior partners. Equal in title. Equal in arrogance. Equal in your ability to destroy a courtroom — and charm the hell out of a boardroom.

And for the last two weeks, you’ve been playing a secret game.

It started with a dare. A lingering glance across a glass-walled conference room. A subtle toe-tap beneath the table. A dropped pen, a brush of fingertips. The kind of touches that make your skin burn and your voice catch just enough to almost, almost, be noticeable.

It became war.

Today, you’re in a budget review with the managing partners. And Harvey’s late — which isn’t like him.

You’re trying to keep your focus on the spreadsheets, flipping pages and nodding politely when the door swings open behind you.

Harvey walks in.

Tailored charcoal suit. Hair slicked back. That cocky, slow smirk that says he knows he’s already winning.

You don’t even look at him as he sits beside you. You don’t have to.

Because a moment later, his hand is on your thigh — perfectly hidden under the table.

Your throat tightens. You don’t flinch.

“I hope we can proceed,” he says coolly, addressing the table, while his thumb draws lazy circles against the inside of your knee. “Would hate to waste anyone’s time.”

You grit your teeth, nod like nothing’s happening, and flip the next page in the report.

Game on.

---

After the meeting, you storm into his office and shut the door behind you.

“You’re a menace,” you hiss, glaring at him.

He leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head like the smug bastard he is. “Did I make you flustered, sweetheart?”

You raise a brow. “Please. That the best you’ve got?”

“I haven’t even started,” he murmurs.

Your heart skips. You hate that he has this effect on you. Hate it — and crave it.

You step closer. He watches you like a hawk.

And then you bend forward, both hands braced on his desk, voice low:

“Next meeting’s in thirty minutes. Good luck staying focused.”

You turn to leave — and just before you shut the door, you hear him mutter:

“I’m already losing.”