The hallway stretched out before her, dim and narrow, the single wall sconce flickering against old stone. The door clicked shut behind her and the sound echoed once, then died. She could still smell him on her clothes—soap and coffee and something else, something that made her throat tight.
She took one step. Two. Her boots were loud in the silence, too loud, and she stopped.
Three heartbeats. She counted them against the pulse in her wrist. Then she turned, her hand finding the cold brass handle before she could think, and pushed the door back open.
His head lifted from the file. The desk lamp caught his face—the hard line of his jaw, the dark eyes that went still when they found hers. Something shifted behind them. Surprise, maybe. Or hunger. She couldn't tell which made her stomach drop harder.
She crossed the room. Her boots struck the floor like a countdown, and she didn't slow until she reached the edge of his desk, close enough to see the slight furrow between his brows.
"You wanted to say something else."
Her voice shook. She heard it, hated it, kept her eyes on his. The silver ring on her thumb was cold where she twisted it behind her back.
He rose slowly. His hands found the desktop the same way they had before—fingers spread, weight forward—but this time he didn't stop at the corner. This time he kept moving. Around the desk. Toward her.
She didn't step back. His chest almost brushed hers, and she could feel the heat of him through his shirt, through her own. He was taller than she'd realized. Broader. She had to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze, and the movement made her throat feel bare.
His breath was warm on her forehead. She watched his hand lift—slow, deliberate—and felt the first touch of his thumb against her jaw. Featherlight. A trace along the bone, from her chin to just below her ear.
She gasped. The sound came out before she could stop it, small and sharp in the quiet room. His thumb stopped, right at the hinge of her jaw, and she felt the tremor in his fingers. Barely there. But she felt it.
His dark eyes held hers, and for the first time, she saw something other than control in them. Something that looked like a man holding a door shut with both hands.
Neither of them spoke. His thumb didn't move. Neither did she.
Her whisper hung in the air between them. She felt his thumb twitch against her jaw—once, a tiny spasm he couldn't control—and then his whole hand stilled.
His dark eyes searched hers. The lamp caught the edge of his glasses, the glint sharp as a blade, and behind it something was crumbling. She watched it happen. The set of his mouth. The muscle jumping at the corner of his jaw. The breath he drew in slow through his nose, like a man counting to ten and losing track at three.
"You don't know what you're asking." His voice came out rough, scraped raw at the edges. Not the measured dean. Not the man who'd read her file in silence. Something underneath.
"Then tell me."
His other hand came up. Slow, like the first. His fingers brushed the hair back from her temple, and the backs of his knuckles grazed her cheek—cool where his thumb was warm, steady where hers were trembling—and she felt her lips part without meaning to. Her breath caught high in her chest.
His thumb traced down from her jaw to the corner of her mouth. One stroke. Featherlight. Her pulse hammered in her throat, in the hollow under her ear, in places she didn't have names for.
"I've been holding that door shut for two years." His eyes dropped to her mouth. "And you've been here for three hours."
She didn't think. She turned her head—just enough—and her lips brushed the pad of his thumb. The taste of salt. Of his skin. His breath stopped. She heard it stop.
Then his hand was at the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, and he pulled her forward the last inch. His mouth found hers. Not gentle. Not measured. The kind of kiss that had been waiting long enough to forget what patience felt like.
She made a sound against his lips—half gasp, half something needier—and her hands came up to his chest. The wool of his suit was rough under her palms. Under that, heat. The solid wall of him. His beard scraped her chin and she didn't care, didn't care, her fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket and holding on.
His other hand found her hip. Gripped. Pulled her flush against him, and she felt the hard length of him through his trousers—the evidence of how long he'd been holding that door—and the knowledge sent a rush of heat straight through her. She pressed closer. Wanting him to feel what he'd done.
He broke the kiss first. His forehead dropped to hers, both of them breathing hard, his fingers still tight in her hair. The lamp buzzed faintly. Somewhere in the building, a radiator clicked.
"Lock the door," he said.