After the steamiest make-out session in my life, Silver flipped me around to face the mirror again.

She spread my legs slightly, and crept her finger right into my moisture, with no dramatic delays.

With a delighted sigh, I crumbled into her, my eyes tipped to the ceiling. "Fuck, yes."

Silver tutted, and with her other hand, she tugged my chin back in place. "No," she said, biting her lower lip as she located my clit and circled it deliriously. "Watch me, Eden. Watch as I finger your pussy until you come all over me."

I shuddered at the naughtiness, the raw desire pouring out of us both. As much as I craved to touch her, I wouldn't disobey her wishes. She pressed me against her, her heat pooling around me, captivating me into obeisance.

So I obeyed. I watched as her fingers stimulated me, their pace too quick to keep up with. I watched my body responding to her; my nipples so erect and tight they hurt, my thighs quaking as they remained apart to grant her access.

I bent to her will, all my notions of not conceding to my lust evaporated.

The sensation of her hardened boobs against my back only intensified my approach to a climax, but I was desperate to pleasure her, too. Though she seemed happy to be touching me this way, with me admiring her every move.

"Hmm," she said, her voice sizzling into my ear, sending more chills down my spine. "Come for me, Eden. I know you're close; I feel you pulsating for me."

"I—ah, shit." Speaking was too difficult with her lathering all this attention on my center. My legs were numb, my mind fogging over as I lost control of myself.

I felt it too; the climbing, soaring vibrations, nearing that exhilarating high, that finish that'd have me screaming for her. It was there, within reach, it was—

Something buzzed behind me, breaking my trance.

Something like a phone.

"Fuck," said Silver, removing her fingers from my moisture way too quickly. In the reflection, I saw her withdraw and extract her phone from her leggings' pocket. She glared at the screen, limbs taut and one hand bunched in a fist.

I hadn't even felt the device, so focused on her breasts pressing to my back, on the way she'd been busy bringing me to the brink of pleasure.

My clit throbbed with unsatisfied need. I had to finish this off or I'd be tempted all night to grab her hand and shove it into my pants. "Silver?"

She grumbled something as she pocketed her cell phone. "I'm sorry." She winced at me, wiping her fingers on her yoga pants. "This was...inappropriate."

As much as I agreed, I hadn't quite come down from the journey she'd taken me on. I still sensed the ghost of her finger triggering my every urge and sending me off to pleasure-town. I couldn't move, couldn't respond.

"It was unprofessional, and I went overboard, and I'm sorry." She looked down at her feet as she shook her head. "It won't happen again."

What was in that message she'd received? Had it been the interruption she'd needed to remind her what sort of dangerous adventure she'd embarked on? Or actual words of caution, sent by someone who'd been spying on us?

No. I shook myself internally. No one was spying; no way.

I stood there naked, unfinished, confused. And yet at the same time, I understood completely why she'd stopped.

"I'm sorry too," I said, grimacing as I covered my breasts and lowered to pick up my clothes.

She shot me a dark look, keeping her focus on my face. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I urged this." I opened my mouth to retort—because I should have put a stop to her behavior, and we both knew that—but she raised her palm. "No, truly. Don't argue."

"Silver, I..." I threw my shirt over me and hurried to pull up my underwear.

"Pack the dress up, and whatever else fits you. There should be garment bags in one of the hallway closets." She started towards the door but hesitated to grab the knob.

"So I'm still modeling tonight?" A part of me hoped that phone interruption was someone else offering to model for her. The idea of displaying myself in front of strangers...it still didn't sit well with me.

"That's the plan," she replied, half-turning towards me as she opened the door. Her shirt was all ruffled, her nipples still poking at the fabric.

"But I'm..." I swallowed. "Silver, I'm not a model. I won't do any of these outfits justice."

"Tonight," she adopted a deep, strict tone, "you are a model. Trust me when I tell you this is simple compared to everything else I ask you to do." She spun to me once she passed the threshold, crossing her arms, one finger tapping; coincidentally the finger she'd been fucking me with. "Put on the clothes, walk, pose. Rinse, repeat."

I scrunched my nose as I picked up my pants. "And be scrutinized."

"Eden." Her timbre pinched, its intonation flaring up under my skin. "I need you to do this. Pack it up, put some casually glam makeup on, and let's go."

She didn't wait for me to protest further and marched out of my bedroom.

I released all my tension, slumping forward. I thought I'd need to lie down and finish myself off, but all the passion and pulsation had dissipated because of my ever-growing anxiety.

Me, modeling?

I hadn't signed up for this. And yet, Silver had warned me this might happen. I'd agreed to help her, and this was helping her. I worked for her. I was her employee, not her sex toy, not her lover.

Things had gone too far. If anything, to make up for nearly succumbing to her, I had to do right by her and model her clothes as requested. Put on a smile, act like I knew what I was doing—that wasn't new to me. I could do it.

So I put on some lounge-wear—since I'd be changing at the event anyway—applied makeup, packed up the garments that were my size, and proceeded downstairs to eat something before we left.

Silver met me in the garage, instead of taking the elevator down with me. Smart move, I thought; but it was weird getting into the machine without her. Weird not standing by her, fighting the desire, ignoring my thoughts. I'd grown accustomed to the awkwardness, and hated to think I might miss it.

She automatically sat across from me, thank goodness, wearing a navy, sparkly pantsuit, her hair in a tight bun, her makeup elegant and understated. I wanted to compliment her, but she'd brush it off, or sneer at me, or the opposite—she'd pounce on me, and all our efforts of restraint would be wasted.

She kept her gaze cold, a visage of stern professionalism about her. I praised myself for keeping my mouth shut.

The car took off, neither of us speaking. We knew what we'd done, what we'd started, and that we could never do it again. Discussing it was pointless. We were lucky no one saw us.

I was embarrassed that I'd let things get to this level. We were both putting our careers in jeopardy, and if she was unable to resist touching me, I had to be the bigger person.

But hadn't I already made that promise to myself? Crazy how quickly I'd broken my own vows.

Even across from me, her warmth wafted over in waves, charging up inside the vehicle. We avoided looking at one another, did our best to not allow our feet to touch. The air was tinged with a dangerous lust that we both had to pretend didn't exist—or else.

We arrived at the warehouse for the showcase; a back-lot of some filming studio in Manhattan, protected by electric gates, decked on all edges with security guards. A handful of individuals loitered near the entrance, showing invitations to be let in, but we went through the dark rear doors.

Inside, Silver showed me to a small dressing room and helped me hang all the outfits. She told me which order to model them in, then hastened to the door.

Before she left, she caught my frown, my shoulders rolling forward.

"You'll do fine," she said, looking ready to give me a hug, but deciding—smartly—against it.

"How many people are out there?" I knew the answer—I'd sent out the final RSVPs only a few days ago. But I needed to hear her confirm it for me. Needed to see if she'd reassure me, if she cared.

"Five socialites who love the brand, two fashion magazine editors, two fashion critics, two investors. A few raffle winners who are fans." She held on to the door, half in, half out of the room. "It's my stuff they're critiquing, not you and your body. All you need to do is—"

"Put on the clothes, walk, pose. Rinse, repeat." I sucked in a deep breath. "Got it."

With that, she departed, and I changed into the first outfit—the emerald gown that reeked of sex.

The area where I was supposed to demonstrate the outfits was lit with spotlights along a makeshift, carpeted catwalk. Benches rested on either side, where guests sat and waited, took notes, spoke in hushed tones.

Despite my nerves, I did all right. I didn't stumble, didn't show apprehension.

Like Silver said, these people were here for her brand, not for me. They paid more attention to the fabrics covering my body, than my body itself.

Silver, however, didn't miss an opportunity to pay attention to me. As she spoke of each piece, while I posed, she caressed the material, describing it. She tugged and twisted to show resilience. She seized my arm to make me twirl in slow-motion, for a full view of each outfit.

And every time she touched me, I bit the insides of my cheeks, chewed on my tongue, begged my face to remain neutral. Every time she was near, blood boiled beneath my skin, and I demanded that it not show, that I not turn red.

Every time she nodded at me, indicating that I was good to put on something else, I remembered that same nod in the closet. When she'd nodded as she watched me come undone for her. When she approved of how wet I was, how much she enjoyed me collapsing into her arms with arousal.

You're the model, you're the model. Not the PA sleeping with her boss.

We weren't sleeping together, not actively. And yet after our steamy session earlier, it felt like we had to, to clear the air, to pick up where we'd left off. Things were unresolved between us. Neither of us had climaxed, and the weight of that disappointment was heavy on my shoulders. Still haunting me.

Surely it was haunting her, too?

I didn't want to hope. Hope led to thoughts that led to desire...and desiring her was my downfall.

After the modeling part was over, Silver allowed me to don one of the simpler outfits—the airy sundress—to come out and mingle with the guests. A small spread of meats, cheeses, and crackers was set up, along with a bar serving red and white wine, and canned cocktails.

I nursed a glass of red while shadowing Silver as she chatted with attendees about her line. They were polite, offered praise and advice, and the fans squealed in excitement at the opportunity.

"They loved it," she told me when we ventured to the bar for another drink—her drink, not mine. I was still working on my beverage and was in no rush to finish it. Alcohol would intensify my cravings, and that would be my demise.

"And that's good, right?" I kept my voice low, unsure what the protocol was here. I knew nothing about these behind-the-scenes situations of the fashion world.

"It wouldn't have stopped me if they hated the line," she said, leaning against the bar as the bartender poured her glass of white. A few strands from her bun had slithered out, and it took all my might not to fix them behind her ear. "But yes, it's good. It kind of guarantees stellar reviews in the future."

When she got her drink, I lifted mine, clinking our glasses. "Then in that case, congrats."

Her gaze, mostly stern and unfeeling during the entire event, now softened. "Thank you." She squeezed my arm. "And thank you for doing this."

Not that I'd had a choice, but I didn't say that to her. She didn't need more pressure tonight.

An hour later, the showcase concluded. Silver shook hands, I nodded farewells, and I gathered all the outfits before we crept back into the car.

Again, we were silent, though there was less tension, this time. I dared to sit on her side, leaving the middle seat between us. There was no fidgeting, no dodging glances, nothing to indicate our unfinished business.

Maybe all she'd needed was a stressful event to get her over what had happened. Something else to focus on, to take her away from how she'd been seconds from making me explode all over her fingers.

What I needed was to get far from her. Far from the appeal, from the memory of her fingertips on my skin, the taste of her tongue in my mouth. Yes, the tension was gone, but it'd revive at any moment. Especially if I lingered in her presence for too long.

Silver was too tempting, and tonight, we'd exceeded anything we'd sworn to.

When we reached the penthouse, at the top of the stairs, I prepared to say goodnight with a wave. But to my surprise, Silver snatched my hand and squeezed it.

The contact was almost too much, but she kept her distance, her breath only barely caressing my cheeks. Her fingers slid between mine, and my lungs constricted. My breaths got stuck in my throat.

"I know I'm out of line here," she whispered. "But to see them all looking at you the way they did..."

I pursed my lips. "They were looking at your clothes, not me."

"You wore those clothes. You owned them," her grip tightened, "and it showed. They were looking at you."

I was frozen in place. I should have pulled my hand away; yet I thrived on any contact with her. Forbidden as it was, it always felt good. Strangely right, though it was all kinds of wrong.

"What I'm trying to say is...to see them ogling you, and to know that you're mine—" Her eyes widened, and she cleared her throat. "I mean, you're my assistant, modeling my brand...it made me so proud."

You're mine. The words were honey in my mouth, lullabies in my ears. My stomach clenched and my heart raced.

Oh, how badly I wished I could be hers, all hers, for real.

I was putty in her hands, and she didn't even know it. One step closer to me, and I'd melt. I'd cave. I'd be hers, like she'd accidentally implied.

But she held her ground, holding my hand, but giving me space. An exit, should I need one.

"That wasn't out of line," I muttered, shifting my weight, sensing my entire being growing hot, faltering under her attention.

Her eyes narrowed as she let go of me. "This is." She inhaled, exhaled. "The fact that I think you were the perfect model for those outfits. I'm glad Bridget bailed. Because it's like I had you in mind when I made those dresses. Like they were made for you. Like you were," she flinched, "meant to be here."

Before allowing me time to process her words, she twirled around and dashed to her room.