#ceo simp

Which would have been easier, if you hadn’t been hyper-aware of him all day: the way his gaze flicked over you during a board presentation, how his hand brushed your lower back when he leaned in to murmur a directive, how the heat of him seemed to linger long after he walked away.

Your pulse skittered in your throat as you gathered your tablet and a stack of notes you’d prepared for tomorrow’s investor meeting.

“Sir,” you began softly, “if there’s nothing else, I’ll—”

“Stay.”

The single word was so quiet, so steady, that you almost thought you’d imagined it. You looked up in surprise. His blue eyes were fixed on yours, cool and impossibly calm. But something flickered there—something that made your mouth go dry.

“…Stay?” you repeated.

He set down his pen with deliberate slowness. The movement drew your attention to his hands—large, elegant, precise. You’d seen those hands sign multi-million-dollar contracts, gesture through presentations, smooth over tense negotiations.

You’d never imagined they could look so…possessive.

“I have more work for you,” he said, his voice deeper now, pitched low in a way that made your heart beat unevenly. “It won’t take long.”

Your lips parted, but no protest emerged. Giyuu rose from his chair in one fluid motion, crossing the room until he stood in front of you. He was tall—taller than you remembered, or maybe it was just that the room felt smaller now, the air thicker.

Your back bumped lightly against the edge of the conference table as you took an involuntary step back. The tablet in your hand felt suddenly ridiculous—like a flimsy shield against something you weren’t ready to name.

He looked down at you for a moment, silent, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze dropped—slowly—to the shape of your mouth, and the breath caught in your lungs.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.

Your eyes widened. “I—sir, I haven’t—”

“You have.” His tone wasn’t accusing, exactly. Just stating a fact. “Ever since the quarterly gala.”

Heat shot up your throat. The gala. You’d been careful not to think about it—the soft press of his hand against the small of your back, the way he’d leaned close to murmur praise in your ear, the unmistakable flicker of desire in his eyes when you’d looked up and met his gaze. You’d chalked it up to champagne, to exhaustion, to imagination.

But now, standing inches away from him in the dim office, you knew it hadn’t been imagined at all.

He studied you, waiting. You couldn’t find words. You set the tablet down on the table behind you, suddenly aware of how fast your heart was pounding.

When you didn’t speak, Giyuu moved closer—just a fraction, but enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. His scent—clean, understated cologne and something darker, warmer—wrapped around you.

“Tell me,” he said softly. “Was I mistaken that night?”

You wet your lips. His eyes followed the motion, and something in them darkened. You swallowed.

“No,” you whispered. “You weren’t.”

His chest expanded on a slow breath. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his hand lifted—so carefully, as if he expected you to stop him. His knuckles brushed along your jaw, tracing the line to your chin. The contact was barely there, but it sent a tremor all the way down your spine.

“I thought so,” he murmured. “I’ve tried to be patient.”

Your lips parted, but you couldn’t make your voice work. His thumb grazed your lower lip, and the contact made your whole body tighten with anticipation you didn’t dare name.

He leaned in, his mouth just over yours, his breath warm and measured. But he didn’t kiss you—he held himself there, so close you could almost taste him.

“Do you know how hard it is,” he asked, voice hushed and ragged around the edges, “to sit across from you in meetings…to watch you pretend nothing has changed between us?”

You couldn’t answer. Your pulse thundered so loudly it was all you could hear.

His hand drifted lower, sliding to your waist. He didn’t pull you forward—but he didn’t let you move away, either. The touch was firm, possessive. It made your stomach flip in a way you’d never admit.

“You’re always so composed,” he went on, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “So proper. But I see the way you look at me.”

“I…” Your voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His soft exhale was almost a laugh—low and disbelieving. His nose skimmed your cheek, the faintest ghost of contact. Your hands curled against the table behind you, grasping for balance you couldn’t find.

“You look at me like you’re trying to convince yourself you don’t want this.” His hand slid higher on your waist, fingers flexing. “Like you’re trying to convince me.”

A shiver ran through you. You couldn’t deny it—not when you were standing here trembling under his touch.

He drew back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching. His thumb brushed your cheekbone.

“I’m not going to pretend anymore,” he said, quiet but resolute. “I’ve been patient long enough.”

His hand slipped to the small of your back, guiding you forward until your hips met his. The contact was shockingly intimate. You gasped—only for his other hand to rise, fingertips pressing lightly under your chin to tilt your face up to his.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “If you don’t want this.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was so close. His lips hovered over yours, waiting. You could feel the hard line of his body against yours, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of your blouse.

Your hands lifted slowly, curling into the front of his suit jacket. You didn’t push him away.

“I don’t,” you whispered.

His eyes closed—just for an instant, as if he were steadying himself. When they opened, the restraint you’d always known in him was gone, replaced by something raw and hungry.

“Good,” he breathed. And then, finally—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was the culmination of every stolen glance, every brushed touch, every unspoken confession. His mouth claimed yours with a force that made your knees weaken, and his arms circled your waist, anchoring you to him like he had no intention of letting go.

You melted against him, your hands fisting in his jacket. His tongue swept over your lower lip, and you opened to him without thinking, a soft sound escaping your throat. The kiss deepened, slow and thorough, as if he needed to taste every hidden part of you he’d been denied.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless. His forehead pressed lightly to yours, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip, swollen from his kiss.

His voice was ragged. “We should…stop here.”

You swallowed, your head spinning. “Do you want to stop?”

His hand at your back flexed, pulling you a fraction closer. His gaze held yours—dark, unguarded, filled with the desire you’d tried so hard to deny.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “But if we don’t…this won’t be something we can take back.”

A shiver rippled through you. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his jacket. You looked up at him, the answer already clear in your mind.

“I don’t want to take it back.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then his mouth curved—a rare, small smile that made your heart lurch. His hand rose to cradle your cheek.

“Then stay with me,” he murmured. “Just a little longer.”