The Playboy's Undoing

Alexander

Sophia Carter had no idea what she was doing to me.

Every woman I'd known before her wore her beauty like a weapon, short skirts, plunging necklines, sultry eyes that begged to be noticed. And I noticed, every damn time. It was easy. Predictable.

Sophia was nothing like that.

She didn't flaunt. She didn't try. And somehow, that made her impossible to ignore.

The way her blouse skimmed her waist but never clung. The way her pencil skirts hugged just enough to hint at curves I couldn't stop imagining. The delicate arch of her neck when she tilted her head to read a document.

Hell, even the way her glasses slid down her nose when she was tired made me want to lean over and push them back into place.

I was losing my mind.

The first time it hit me hard was during a boardroom presentation.

She was standing at the front, pointer in hand, talking about logistics for the upcoming retreat. Her voice was calm, confident, that cool professional tone she always carried.

But all I could see was the curve of her hips when she shifted her weight. The subtle line of her calf as her heel lifted. The way her blouse pulled when she reached for the screen.

My board members were watching the slides. I was watching her.

When her eyes flicked to mine, I had the sudden, absurd thought that she knew. That she was aware of the effect she had on me, and she was letting me burn.

Later that afternoon, I found myself in her office under the guise of "clarifying retreat details." Truth was, I just wanted to be near her.

She was bent over her desk, hair slipping loose around her face, scribbling notes. The neckline of her blouse dipped just enough to reveal the slope of her collarbone, and for a moment, I forgot why I'd come.

"Mr. Knight," she said without looking up. "Shouldn't you be in your office?"

"I like it better here."

She glanced up then, one brow arched, lips twitching as though she was trying not to smile. "You're impossible."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

I leaned against the edge of her desk, close enough to smell her perfume, something soft, floral, maddeningly subtle. My hand brushed the stack of papers beside hers, and for a second, our fingers were dangerously close.

She pulled back, but not before I saw the flicker in her eyes.

She felt it too.

The more time I spent with her, the worse it got.

At family dinners, I caught myself comparing every laugh, every smile to hers. At work, I skipped calls and delayed meetings just to stay in the same room.

And then came the day that nearly broke me.

We were leaving the office late. It had been raining, and she was juggling her umbrella, her bag, and a stack of files.

"Here," I said, taking the files from her.

"I can manage."

"I know," I said softly. "But I want to help."

Her eyes met mine, and something unspoken passed between us.

By the time we reached her car, I was soaked, but I didn't care.

"Goodnight, Mr. Knight," she murmured.

I wanted to say her name. I wanted to close the space between us and find out if her lips tasted as soft as they looked.

Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets and stepped back.

"Goodnight, Sophia."

But as I watched her drive away, I realized something terrifying.

This wasn't a game anymore.

I didn't just want Sophia Carter to notice me.

I wanted her. All of her.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn't sure if wanting would be enough.