The edge of the desk digs into my lower back. The wood is cool against the heat of my skin, the sharp lip of it pressing a line into my spine, and I think—briefly, distantly—that I'll have a bruise there tomorrow.

Above me, he's breathing hard. His tie has come loose, hanging crooked against his collar, and there's a flush climbing up his throat that I haven't seen before. His eyes are dark—not black, not brown, but something in between, like the bottom of a well. He's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room worth seeing.