"We should counter with this structure instead." He sketches a quick diagram, his hand steady and sure.
For an hour, we debate statistics and funding percentages, our voices the only sound in the empty house. When I reach for my empty water glass, Warren takes it.
"I'll refill it."
When he returns, he hands me the glass and a pen I'd been searching for. His fingers graze mine, lingering, sending a chill across my skin.
"Your argument about preventive care is solid," he admits, settling back beside me, closer than before. "I was too focused on intervention programs."
"We need both." I smile. "That's why we make a good team."
His eyes meet mine. "We always did."
The comment breaks through our professional veneer. We laugh about a board member's ridiculous questions at the last meeting, then about Caleb's hideous bow tie collection.
The laughter fades, leaving silence thick enough to touch. Warren's eyes drop to my lips, and I know work is the last thing on either of our minds.
Warren's eyes lock with mine across the table. I can't breathe, but I can't look away, either. The spreadsheets between us might as well be invisible.
"I haven't stopped thinking about you since the gala." His voice drops low, almost rough at the edges. His fingers flex against the tabletop like he's stopping himself from reaching for me.
The confession shatters something inside me, a wall I've been reinforcing for five years.
"I haven't either." My heart hammers against my ribs. "Hell, I haven't stopped thinking about you since that night, our night. It never left me, Warren."
The air between us snaps taut, charged with electricity. I watch his control break in real time. His pupils dilate and his jaw clenches. Then he's moving, and so am I, like two magnets too close together, unable to stop.
His hands pull me to him, and our mouths crash together. This kiss isn't gentle. It's hunger and need and years of denial crumbling to dust. Papers scatter to the floor as I push against him, my body arching into his.
We stumble backward, our mouths still locked together, hands grasping at clothes, at skin. My hip catches the edge of the table, but the pain barely registers. All I can distinguish is Warren, his hands in my hair, on my waist, everywhere at once.
"Where?" he breathes against my neck.
I pull him down the hall, past Beckett's room, into my bedroom. The door lightly shuts behind us.
His mouth crashes to mine, all hunger and restraint finally breaking. My back hits the wall, cool plaster against overheated skin, and then his hands are everywhere, skimming my bare side, sliding up my ribs, cupping my face like he can’t believe I’m real.
The zipper at my side lowers with a rasp that seems to echo in the room. My skirt slides down my legs, pooling at my ankles. His knuckles graze my thigh as he helps me step free, and the touch makes my knees buckle.
“Janie.” My name breaks out of him, rough and reverent. My body tingles hearing him call me like that, in this moment.
I fist his shirt, yanking it up and over his head. His chest is all hard planes and heat. It's the same body I’ve imagined since that night, but I never let myself picture for too long.
He lifts me effortlessly, and my legs lock around his waist, my back meeting the edge of my dresser as his mouth devours mine.
Five years collapse between us, pulverizing in every frantic kiss, every frantic touch. He grinds against me through too many layers, and I cry out into his mouth, desperate.
"Off," I beg.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot and uneven.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
His eyes darken, a growl vibrating low in his chest as he drops me onto the bed. The mattress bounces beneath me, sheets tangling around my hips as he shoves my thong to the side and circles my clit.
He pauses long enough to shove his pants down and reach for his wallet. The foil packet flashes in his hand.
This time, I don’t stop him. “I want you so bad. Warren. Hurry.” My voice is breathless but certain.