The low, persistent hum of the hotel’s climate control was the only sound in the corridor, a white noise that did nothing to settle the storm brewing in Emilia’s chest. The carpet beneath her feet was a plush, patterned sea of navy and gold, swallowing the sound of her heels as she walked. She clutched the strap of her duffel bag, her knuckles white. This was a mistake. A colossal, career-ending, heart-racing mistake.
She was a junior associate at a prestigious law firm, and the man she was about to meet—the man she couldn’t stop thinking about—was the senior partner. Nathaniel Sterling. His name alone was enough to make the other associates straighten their ties and lower their voices. He was brilliant, ruthless in the courtroom, and utterly, devastatingly handsome. He was also her direct superior and, as of a week ago, a widower.
The funeral had been a somber, black-clad affair. Emilia had stood at the back of the church, watching the way his broad shoulders had been bowed under the weight of his grief. He’d looked so different from the sharp, commanding figure who stalked the firm’s halls. He’d looked… human. Breakable. And when his dark, grief-stricken eyes had briefly met hers across the crowded room, a jolt of something raw and electric had passed between them. It was a look she felt all the way down to the tips of her toes, a look that had haunted her for seven nights straight.
Now, she was standing outside his hotel room. He’d called her two hours ago, his voice a low, gravelly rumble over the phone. The Manhattan merger case they were working on had a critical flaw, he’d said. He needed her to bring the revised discovery documents to his hotel. He was staying here, he’d explained, to avoid the suffocating silence of his own apartment. It was a perfectly professional request. So why did it feel like she was walking into the lion’s den?
She took a deep breath, the scent of lemon polish and stale air filling her lungs. She raised her hand and knocked. Three sharp, decisive raps.
The door swung open almost instantly.
Nathaniel stood there, framed by the warm, amber glow of the room’s lamps. He was in his shirtsleeves, the top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of the dark hair that dusted his chest. His tie was gone, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than she remembered, but the sheer force of his presence was undiminished. It hit her like a physical blow.
“Emilia,” he said, his voice a low caress. “Thank you for coming. Please, come in.”
She stepped inside, her senses immediately overwhelmed. The room was a spacious suite, the air thick with the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper, like citrus and rain. It was an intimate, masculine scent that made her feel dizzy. The king-sized bed was rumpled, a testament to sleepless nights. A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat on the nightstand next to a leather-bound book.
“The documents,” she managed, her voice sounding thin and reedy to her own ears. She held out the folder.
He didn’t take it. His eyes were fixed on her, a dark, unreadable intensity in their depths. He took a step closer, and the space between them seemed to shrink, the air growing thick and heavy.
“I lied,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Emilia’s breath hitched. “What?”
“I didn’t ask you here for the documents,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to her lips. “I just… I needed to see you.”
The confession hung in the air between them, a sparkling, dangerous thing. The professional façade she had so carefully constructed began to crumble. She was acutely aware of every inch of her own body—the curve of her hips beneath her pencil skirt, the swell of her breasts under her silk blouse. She was a big woman, full-figured and soft, a fact she’d spent years learning to embrace but which now felt like a glaring vulnerability under his intense scrutiny.
“Mr. Sterling…” she started, but her voice lacked conviction.
“Nathaniel,” he corrected her, his voice a low command. He reached out, his fingers brushing against a stray strand of her dark hair. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shockwave through her. “When I saw you at the funeral… in that black dress… I couldn’t breathe.”
He took another step, closing the remaining distance until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was so close she could see the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes, the shadow of stubble on his strong jaw. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.
“This is wrong,” she whispered, the words a mere formality. “You’re my boss. You’re… you’re grieving.”
“I’m not grieving right now,” he said, his gaze burning into hers. “I’m aching. I’ve been aching for you for months, Emilia. Watching you in the office, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re concentrating, the way you bite your lip when you’re nervous… It’s been a slow, exquisite torture.”
His confession was a wrecking ball to her composure. She had felt it too, of course. The long, lingering glances he’d give her across the conference table, the way his voice would soften when he spoke to her directly. She had dismissed it as her own foolish, wishful thinking. She was a junior associate, a curvy, full-bodied woman in a world of sleek, slender sharks. Men like Nathaniel Sterling didn’t look at women like her.
But he was looking at her now. And the heat in his eyes was undeniable.
“I’m not a small woman, Nathaniel,” she said, her voice trembling, laying her insecurity bare.
A slow, devastating smile spread across his face, a flash of the man he was before the grief had taken hold. “I’m counting on it,” he murmured.
He lowered his head, his lips hovering just a breath away from hers. She could feel the warm, intimate gust of his breath against her mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut, her entire being focused on that single, impending point of contact. When his lips finally met hers, it wasn’t a gentle, tentative thing. It was a claiming.
His mouth was firm and demanding, tasting of whiskey and desperation. A low moan escaped her throat, and her hands, which had been clutching the folder, dropped to her sides. The documents spilled across the plush carpet, forgotten. He groaned against her mouth, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones as he deepened the kiss.
He kissed her like a man drowning, like she was the only source of air in the room. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she parted for him willingly, a shiver of pure, unadulterated lust running down her spine. His hands slid from her face, one tangling in her hair while the other found the curve of her waist, pulling her flush against him.
The contact was electric. She could feel the solid wall of his chest, the surprising strength in his arms. And she could feel the hard, insistent press of his arousal against her soft belly. The evidence of his desire for her, a desire she had thought was only in her imagination, sent a heady rush of power and need through her veins.
He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged pants. His eyes were dark, almost black with passion, and they raked over her with a hunger that made her feel both vulnerable and incredibly desirable. “God, Emilia. The things I want to do to you.”
His hands began to explore, sliding from her waist down to the generous swell of her hips. He squeezed the soft flesh, a guttural sound of appreciation rumbling in his chest. “You feel incredible. So soft, so lush.”
His words were a balm to the secret, insecure places in her soul. She had always been told she was too much—too big, too curvy, too soft. But Nathaniel was looking at her like she was a feast.
Emboldened, she reached for the buttons on his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the small, plastic discs. He watched her, his gaze smoldering, making no move to help. He seemed to enjoy her clumsy, desperate attempts. When the last button was undone, she pushed the fabric apart, revealing his broad, muscular chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. Her fingers traced the hard lines of his pectorals, the ridges of his abdomen. He was beautifully, powerfully built.
He captured her mouth again, a rough, plundering kiss that stole her breath. His hands found the zipper of her skirt. With one sure, smooth pull, it was open, and the garment fell to a puddle at her feet. She stood before him in her blouse, her stockings, and a pair of sensible, high-waisted panties.
He pulled back, his gaze traveling down her body with an almost reverent slowness. He took in the flare of her hips, the rounded curve of her thighs. He knelt before her, and the sight of this powerful, commanding man on his knees at her feet made her knees buckle.
He leaned forward and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of her stomach, just above the waistband of her panties. The feel of his lips on her bare skin was like a brand. She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders to steady herself.
“Nathaniel,” she breathed.
He looked up at her, his face a study in raw, masculine need. “I want to taste you, Emilia. Everywhere.”
He rose then, and with a gentleness that contradicted the storm in his eyes, he guided her toward the bed. She sank into the plush duvet, the cool cotton a stark contrast to her heated skin. He stood at the foot of the bed, his gaze predatory, and slowly, deliberately, began to remove the rest of his clothes.
Her mouth went dry. He was magnificent. All lean, taut muscle and hard, angled lines. His erection sprang free from his boxer briefs, thick and long, rising proudly from a nest of dark hair. The sight of it sent a fresh, sharp wave of arousal through her, a deep, clenching ache in her core.
He was on her in an instant, his body covering hers, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress. His skin was hot, and the sensation of his bare chest against her still-clothed torso was an exquisite form of torture. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin. His hands were everywhere, unhooking her bra with a practiced flick and tossing it aside.
He drew back to look at her, his gaze feasting on the full, heavy weight of her breasts. He cupped them in his hands, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were tight, aching peaks. A soft, helpless moan escaped her lips. He lowered his head, his mouth closing over one turgid peak, and she arched her back, crying out as he suckled her deeply.
He lavished attention on her breasts, licking, sucking, nipping, until she was writhing beneath him, a mindless, pleading mess. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful. She could feel it building in her core, a tightening coil of sensation.
His hand slid down her stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of her panties. She was slick with need, her folds swollen
