Chapter 12
856words
"Of course," I agreed, hiding my smile at his nervousness.
"No one can know."
"I won't send company-wide emails about our sex life, I promise."
He shot me a look that was half-exasperation, half-amusement. "I'm serious, Noah."
"So am I." I lowered my voice as the elevator slowed. "I can be discreet, Morris. Trust me."
The doors opened, and just like that, he transformed—shoulders squaring, expression cooling, becoming the untouchable CEO everyone feared. I followed a respectful distance behind, nodding professionally when we parted ways.
The morning crawled by. I found myself checking the clock every fifteen minutes, wondering what Morris was doing, if he was thinking about me too. At precisely noon, my office door opened without a knock.
Morris stood there, looking every inch the intimidating boss. "Kingsley. The Henderson file?"
I played along, handing him the folder from my desk. "Just finished the revisions, sir."
He nodded curtly, then closed the door behind him. Only then did I notice he'd left something on the edge of my desk—a small paper bag from the café across the street. Inside was my favorite sandwich and a cookie.
No note. None needed.
That afternoon, I stopped by his office with "urgent questions" about the Miller account. His assistant waved me in, used to our frequent consultations.
Morris was on the phone, gesturing for me to wait. I closed the door and sat across from his desk, watching him work—the focused intensity, the precise economy of movement, the way he commanded the conversation without raising his voice.
When he hung up, his professional mask slipped just slightly. "Everything okay?"
"Fine." I smiled. "Just wanted to see you."
A faint blush colored his cheeks. "Noah, we're at work."
"I know." I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. "Thank you for lunch."
His expression softened momentarily. "You mentioned liking their cookies once."
The fact that he'd remembered such a small detail made something warm unfurl in my chest.
"I did," I confirmed. "Though I'm surprised the great Morris Lawson personally fetched lunch."
"I had a meeting nearby," he said, but the slight quirk of his lips betrayed him.
"Of course." I stood, professional distance restored. "About the Miller account..."
We spent the next fifteen minutes actually discussing work, though the undercurrent between us charged every interaction with new meaning. As I was leaving, he called my name.
"Noah?"
I turned at the door. "Yes?"
"Tonight?" A single word, laden with meaning.
I nodded. "I'll bring dinner."
That became our pattern. At work, we maintained professional boundaries with only the smallest gestures betraying the shift in our relationship—a coffee appearing on my desk when I was swamped with deadlines, a text from me when he was in a particularly grueling board meeting: *Remember to breathe*.
Evenings belonged to us. I'd arrive at his penthouse with takeout or groceries, and we'd shed our work personas along with our suit jackets. Morris was different in the privacy of his home—quieter but more open, his dry humor emerging as he relaxed.
Two weeks into our new arrangement, I opened his refrigerator to find it stocked with my favorite beer and snacks.
"You went shopping," I observed, surprised.
Morris looked up from his laptop, where he was finishing some work emails. "I had the service add a few things."
"A few things that happen to be all my preferences?"
He shrugged, but I caught the pleased look in his eyes when I smiled. "Seemed practical since you're here most nights."
I crossed to where he sat at the counter, gently closing his laptop. "Enough work."
He started to protest, then sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Five more minutes."
"Nope." I pulled him to his feet. "CEO hours are over. Morris hours begin now."
"Morris hours?" He raised an eyebrow, but allowed me to lead him to the couch.
"Mm-hmm. The time when you remember you're a person, not just a corporate entity."
I sat, tugging him down beside me. He came willingly, his body gradually relaxing against mine as I wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
"This is nice," he admitted after a while, head resting against my chest.
I pressed a kiss to his hair. "Better than quarterly reports?"
"Marginally." But he was smiling, I could hear it in his voice.
Later, after dinner, I caught him watching me wash dishes with an odd expression.
"What?" I asked.
"No one's ever..." He gestured vaguely at the domestic scene. "This. In my space."
I understood what he couldn't quite articulate—that no one had ever been allowed past his carefully constructed walls, into the private sanctuary of his home, his routine, his life.
"Is it okay?" I asked. "Me being here like this?"
He nodded slowly. "It's... good. Different, but good."
That night, when we made love, it was slower, more deliberate than our first desperate encounter. Afterward, as he drifted toward sleep in my arms, he murmured, "Stay."
It wasn't just about that night, and we both knew it.
