Zayden had just put down his glass when Irish stood up, her hips swaying slightly as she stepped toward a small door beside a shelf stacked with business journals and sleek interior design portfolios.
"Wanna see my private space?" she asked, her voice low and teasing, like velvet brushed against skin. "Not everyone gets the privilege, you know."
"I'm honored," Zayden replied, rising from his seat, fingers instinctively adjusting his tie—though suddenly, the air in the room felt too warm for such formalities. "Does this mean I passed your interview?"
Irish turned her head just enough to smirk over her shoulder. "You've barely scratched the surface, Mr. Analyst."
She opened the door, revealing a small but artful space bathed in soft amber light. The walls, exposed brick adorned with pinned sketches and black-and-white prints, gave the room an intimate feel. A large desk in the corner was littered with hand-drawn business charts, swatches of fabric, photos, and notes—chaos only the creator would understand.
"This," she murmured, stepping inside, "is where all my wildest ideas come to life… where I stop pretending."
Zayden lingered by the door, but something pulled him in. Her voice, her presence, the way she glided her fingertips across the desk like caressing a lover's skin.
"You always seem so composed in front of everyone," he said, stepping closer, his voice low and husky. "But here... this feels like the real you."
Irish turned around slowly, her chest subtly rising and falling. Their eyes met, and the air shifted.
"And you…" she whispered, "you don't seem like the cold, ruthless man the headlines paint you to be."
"Oh? You've been reading about me?" Zayden asked with a half-smile, taking a step closer.
She shrugged one bare shoulder. "I like to do my research. They say you only trust numbers. But now I'm thinking... maybe you trust instinct just as much."
Zayden's smile deepened. "Instinct can be dangerous."
Irish's lips curled. "Are you analyzing me right now?"
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe I'm just... drawn."
Irish bit her bottom lip slowly, her gaze dipping to his collar before climbing back up to meet his eyes. The air thickened. Unspoken tension hung between them.
"So... are you willing to take that risk, Mr. Analyst?" she murmured.
Zayden leaned in, eyes never leaving hers. "If the return is you… I'm willing to invest everything."
Irish laughed, soft and breathy, but her cheeks flushed. Her hand drifted to the desk beside her, steadying herself—though she wasn't sure if it was the wine or him making her lightheaded.
Zayden reached her, his body so close now she could feel the heat of him. Her perfume floated between them, subtle and warm like jasmine in late spring. His eyes flicked to her lips.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she whispered, her breath brushing his skin.
He didn't answer. Instead, his fingertips grazed her cheek, down to the curve of her jaw. And then—he kissed her.
It began softly. Tentative. But her body melted against his, and he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding to the small of her back, pressing her against him.
Irish moaned into his mouth, hands sliding up his chest, gripping the lapel of his blazer, then tugging him closer, harder. Her body arched into his, fitting like a secret they weren't supposed to tell.
He spun her gently, lifting her onto the edge of the desk, standing between her legs as the kiss turned hot and devouring. His hands splayed across her thighs, feeling the smooth fabric of her dress riding up, inch by inch.
"Zayden..." she breathed, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. "You're playing with fire."
"So are you," he murmured, tracing the line of her neck with his mouth, pressing open kisses from her collarbone to her shoulder.
Irish's fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as his mouth returned to hers. Their kisses were fevered now, reckless. For a moment, time evaporated. There were no meetings, no spouses, no pasts. Just heat and want and friction.
But just when their bodies were about to forget everything else, he stopped.
Breathing hard, Zayden froze. His lips hovered just above hers, trembling. His forehead touched hers, and in that fragile stillness, guilt came crashing in.
"Shit," he whispered. His hands slowly slid away from her thighs. His breath trembled.
"I... I can't." His voice cracked. "I shouldn't be doing this."
He stepped back, his chest rising and falling as if he had just escaped drowning.
Irish, still perched on the desk, looked at him with half-parted lips, her hair tousled, her eyes wild with emotion—and something close to devastation.
Zayden turned and walked out of the room, the door clicking behind him.
He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched.
"Goddamn it," he muttered under his breath.
Not because he didn't want it. But because he wanted it too much.