My Brother's Best Friend's One-Night Rule

Logan

The Monday morning glare off the polished floors was especially harsh. I stood by the window of my office, a fresh coffee growing cold in my hand, my attention not on the skyline but on the glass-walled anteroom outside.

Avery was at her new desk, a study in professional composure. The cream suit was gone. Today, it was a simple silk blouse in a pale lavender. Simple was a generous term. The cut was demure from the front, but the fabric was whisper-thin. And the neckline… it plunged in a deep V at the back, held together by a single, fragile clasp. From my angle, I saw the elegant line of her spine, the hint of delicate lace from her bra strap.

It was a distraction I’d meticulously engineered, and now it was going to be the death of me.

She was leaning over her desk, reviewing a file with Ben from Analytics. Ben was talking, pointing at something on the page. His eyes, however, kept flicking downward. Not to the document. To the front of that blouse, where the thin silk gaped slightly with her posture, revealing a shadow of cleavage.

A hot, corrosive wave of possession slammed into me. My grip tightened on the mug. He was looking at her.

Not as a colleague. Not professionally. I knew that look. It was the look of a man appreciating a view. My view.

Every rule I’d set—every cold, clinical boundary I’d erected in this office—turned to ash in that moment. The green-eyed monster I’d fed in the alley woke up, ravenous.

I set the mug down with a sharp click. I didn’t bother with the intercom. I walked to my office door, yanked it open. The conversation in the anteroom cut off.

“Avery. My office. Now.”

My voice was low, a controlled blade. Her head snapped up. She met my eyes, and for a second, I saw a flash of defiance before she smoothed it into a neutral mask. “Of course, Mr. Thorne.”

Ben took a step back, suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating. I held the door open, my gaze never leaving her as she walked past me. I caught the subtle scent of her perfume—something soft and floral, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me. I shut the door. The lock engaged with a soft, final thud.

She turned to face me, standing stiffly in the center of the room. “You needed something?”

The casual question was a spark to tinder. I closed the distance between us in three long strides, stopping just inches from her. My eyes dropped to the offending neckline. Up close, the view was even more devastating.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

“It’s… a blouse.” Her chin lifted a fraction.

“It’s a fucking invitation,” I corrected, the profanity slipping out, raw and unfiltered. “Did you come to my company to hand out free previews to the entire floor? To give Ben from Analytics a fucking peep show over his quarterly reports?”

Her cheeks flushed a brilliant, furious red. “That’s none of your business. My attire is professional and within the dress code. You don’t get to dictate what I wear.”

“The hell I don’t.” The words were out before I could cage them. I reached out, my fingers not touching her, but gesturing sharply at the blouse. “From now on, you don’t wear anything that reveals anything without my express permission. Is that clear?”

Her laugh was a short, brittle sound. “You have no right. That clause in the addendum was about conduct, not clothing. You don’t own me.”

Say it. Just fucking say it. The thought was a drumbeat in my skull, drowning out reason, duty, every promise I’d ever made.

“Fine,” I growled. I closed the last inch of space, my body crowding hers. My hand came up, my fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above that lace edge. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. “You’re right. I don’t own you.” My voice dropped to a husk, for her ears only. “But you could wear it just for me.”

Her eyes widened, confusion and anger warring with something else—something that looked like the same desperate hunger I was drowning in. “What are you doing? Yesterday you gave me a contract telling me not to have ‘unnecessary sexual fantasies’ about you. So what is this? What are you doing right now?”

This is me breaking. Again.

I didn’t answer with words. I answered by capturing her mouth with mine.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a conquest. A reclamation. My lips moved over hers with a possessive fury, my tongue demanding entry. For a heartbeat, she was rigid, unyielding. Then, with a soft, broken sound from the back of her throat, she surrendered. Her lips parted. Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, flew up to grip the front of my shirt, holding on as if I were the only solid thing in a tilting world.

I kissed her like I was starved for the taste of her. I backed her up until her hips met the edge of my desk. A stack of portfolios clattered to the floor. I didn’t care. My hands slid from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders. My thumbs traced the line of that deep V at the back of her blouse, feeling the delicate clasp. One flick, and it would all come undone.

She tore her mouth from mine, breathless. “Logan… the rules… your office…”

“Fuck the rules,” I breathed against her lips, kissing her again, deeper, swallowing her protests. My hands left her back and went to the front, my fingers deftly working open the first two buttons of her blouse. The silk parted. The lace of her bra came into view, a pale pink contrast against her flushed skin.

A low groan escaped me. I bent my head, my mouth following the path my hands had opened. I kissed the swell of her breast above the lace, my tongue tracing the scalloped edge. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers twisting in my hair.

This is wrong. This is professional suicide. This is betraying Ethan all over again.

The thoughts were distant echoes, drowned out by the roaring in my blood. My hands slid to her waist, gripping her through the fine material of her skirt, lifting her slightly to sit her on the desk. She went willingly, her legs parting to allow me to step between them. The position was intimate, devastating. I could feel the heat of her through our clothes.

I kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth again, my hands everywhere—in her hair, on her skin, mapping the territory I’d tried so hard to declare off-limits. She was kissing me back with equal fervor, her hands roaming my back, pulling my shirt from my waistband, her touch branding me through the cotton.

“Tell me to stop,” I murmured against her skin, my lips at her earlobe. It was a plea, a last-ditch attempt at being the man I was supposed to be.

Her answer was to arch into me, a silent, physical plea of her own. Her hips rocked against mine, and I nearly lost my mind. My hand slid up her thigh, pushing her skirt higher. The air between us was thick, charged, cracking with the sound of our ragged breaths and the soft rustle of clothing.

Just as my fingers brushed the lace edge of her underwear, a sound sliced through the feverish haze.

Not from the intercom. Not from the hall.

It came from the direction of the anteroom, clear, familiar, and utterly, world-endingly out of place.

“Hey, Where is your boss”

Oh shit. Ethan...