Chapter four

Alexander’s POV

There were a thousand things I hated about Quarterly Reviews.

The formal wear.

The awkward silences.

The endless spreadsheets that made my eyes bleed.

But mostly? I hated sitting across from Brandon Cole in a room with no exits and too much tension.

Conference Room B was already cold when I got there. Not temperature-wise—though Brandon always kept the thermostat set to what I could only assume was “arctic death.” No, it was the kind of cold that settled under your skin. The kind that made you sit straighter. Speak softer. Think twice.

He was already there, of course. Seated at the head of the table, flipping through printed documents like they personally offended him.

“Right on time,” he said without looking up.

“I aim to please,” I muttered, sliding into the chair to his right.

The Legal team filed in a minute later—three suits, one Omega who looked ready to pass out from nerves, and a Senior Counsel who nodded at me like we were old war buddies. I gave him a tight smile and tried to focus.

I really did.

But somewhere between paragraph four and whatever clause we were pretending to care about, I zoned out.

It wasn’t my fault. Really.

Brandon stood to address the room and slipped off his suit jacket in one fluid motion, draping it carefully over the back of his chair like it was worth more than my rent.

Then came the sleeves.

He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up to his elbows—slow, precise, deliberate. Like even the way he bared his forearms had to be done efficiently.

I didn’t mean to stare.

I really didn’t.

But my gaze dropped before I could stop it. To his forearms. To the veins that stood out just enough to make my mouth go dry. To the quiet flex of muscle under crisp, white cotton.

My eyes kept going.

To the flat plane of his stomach beneath that fitted shirt.

To the way the fabric pulled just slightly across his chest when he moved. I swallowed hard.

What would he look like with that shirt unbuttoned?

What would his chest feel like under my palms—

Hard. Warm. Smooth.

God.

I looked away, then looked back—because I’m weak and stupid and because I hate myself apparently. And my cock has a fucking brain of it own.

Brandon was talking, pointing at something in the contract printouts, completely oblivious to the meltdown I was having three feet away from him.

He looked unfairly good like that. Sharp and composed and completely out of reach. Like he was carved from ambition and cold-brewed fury. Like no one had ever touched him without permission.

It was completely unfair. He shouldn’t be allowed to look like that and be a jerk. Pick one. Don’t be an untouchable Alpha Adonis and the bane of my existence.

“Kingsley.” He called out my “last” name.

My head snapped up as my cock hardened even more.

Shit.

“Yes?” I tried not to sound out of breath.

“So what do you say?”.

“Yes,” I blurted out, my voice sharp and eager. “That’s… a great idea.”

I didn’t even know what the hell he’d said. My brain had been too busy short-circuiting—caught between the ache in my pants, the heat in my chest, and the sound of Brandon’s voice curling around my name like it belonged to him.

But knowing Brandon, it would be a suicide mission to ask him to repeat himself. The man had zero patience for repetition. Or incompetence. Or assistants who couldn’t keep it in their pants during meetings.

So, I faked it.

The rest of the room stared at me like I’d just announced I was donating a kidney. Or jumping off a cliff. Maybe both.

A long silence stretched out as Brandon turned back to the documents in front of him, seemingly satisfied. I let out the shallowest breath of relief, hoping no one could hear the desperate thump of my heart behind my ribs.

“I can’t believe you said yes,” Jone—the junior Omega legal assistant—whispered to me once Brandon turned away.

I blinked at him. “Will you believe me if I tell you I have absolutely no idea what I just said yes to?”

He looked even more shocked. “You… what?”

“Shhh.” I kept my eyes glued forward, trying to play it cool. Which was difficult, given the half-chub in my pants and the fact that my boss—my brooding, infuriatingly hot Alpha boss—had just looked at me like I was more than office furniture.

Jone leaned closer, eyes wide. “Mr. Brandon said he has a meeting out of state next week. Something about a private pitch to a potential investor that could double our quarterly revenue.”

I tried to keep up, nodding like I was totally tracking.

“And,” Jone continued, “he said it’ll be a seven-day trip. Long hours. Full support needed. No distractions. No mistakes.”

My stomach dropped.

“You just agreed to go with him. Alone. For a week.”

My mouth went dry. “I did?!”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And you’ll be sharing the executive suite floor.”

F**k.

I looked at Brandon again. He was back to taking notes in that silent, laser-focused way of his, like the world would collapse if his pen slipped an inch. Like he hadn’t just casually sentenced me to seven days of professional torment and personal madness.

Of course, I couldn’t back out now. That would only make it worse.

“That’s… fine,” I said aloud, mostly to convince myself. “Totally fine.”

Jone gave me a look like I’d sprouted a second head. “You really had no idea what he was saying, did you?”

“I was… distracted,” I muttered.

By his voice. His arms. His sleeves. His everything.

Brandon looked up again suddenly, like he could hear the filth in my thoughts.

“Kingsley,” he said, voice clipped. “Send me your updated availability by the end of the day. And confirm with travel that they’ve booked the suite for two.”

Two. The word hit me like a punch to the gut.

“I—yes. Of course.”

I barely held it together. I scribbled down a note I couldn’t read and pretended I wasn’t already spiraling.

A week.

A full week with Brandon.

In the same hotel.

Late nights. Long meetings. No distractions.

I was so screwed.

And not in the way I desperately needed to be.