All He Asks 1 Read Online Free

in the room between us. He extracts the oxygen from my lungs merely by existing.
    Today, he wears a hooded sweater to protect himself from the bite of autumn. He’s carrying a life vest in one hand, a paddle in the other. The hems of his jeans are muddy. He’s been on the lagoon.
    “I didn’t remove the rubber band,” I manage to stammer. That seems important to communicate. I have to make sure he understands that I haven’t disobeyed him—that obedience is my utmost priority.
    Funny, I know. I work for Durand-Price’s interests, not Erik’s.
    Yet it’s his approval I long for.
    Erik brushes past me. He smells of soil and clean sweat. The inch of space between our bodies vibrates in the instant of passage and I think I might faint from proximity. The fact that he doesn’t respond immediately is much worse than being chastised.
    He opens the kitchen’s rear door to hang his kayaking equipment outside on the patio. Golden light reflects off of the lake, shining into the house. The brief taste of oxygen clears my head fractionally.
    The door creaks as he shuts it. We are trapped in the kitchen together once more.
    “Well?” Erik asks. “I asked you a question, Ms. Durand.”
    My throat is dry when I swallow. “The writing’s as impressive as always. I can’t judge the content without reading the rest.”
    “Do you want to?” His voice is husky. It’s criminal that this man is so disconnected from the marketing of his intellectual property. He could make a million by narrating his own audiobooks, surely.
    I’m distracted by his voice. It takes a moment to realize what he’s actually saying.
    “Are you offering to let me read your work in progress?”
    “I’m stuck,” Erik says, not without difficulty.
    “Oh.” I duck my head, tuck a blond curl behind my ear. My cheeks are warm. “I can definitely help you with that. There’s no hurry, though. You’re already well ahead of deadline. If you’d prefer to continue mulling over the plot on your own—”
    “No. I want you to read what I’ve written.”
    Oh dear . Erik Duke wants me to read his work in progress.
    I don’t think I’ve ever been so flattered by anything in my life.
    “Whatever you need, Mr. Duke.” It’s difficult to keep my tone professional when I feel so giddy on the inside. “I’m your assistant, after all.”
    “Call me Erik,” he says.
    My cheeks flame hotter. “You call me Ms. Durand.”
    “It’s different.”
    “I wouldn’t mind if you called me Christine.” My heart feels like it might explode as I make the offer. Suggesting that level of familiarity—it feels so intimate.
    Erik steps toward me. “Christine,” he echoes. He’s testing the name on his lips.
    I’m surprised by the thrills that race from my heart to my thighs at the sound of those two simple syllables.
    I’ve never heard him say that before. It’s always been Ms. Durand.
    He sheds the hooded sweater. Writers are not, as a rule, an athletic species; dedicating one’s life to the reading and writing of books is exercise for the mind rather than body.
    Erik is not like most writers.
    His hard form has been developed by the long hours he spends on his property, both on the lake and off. He has barely an ounce of body fat to conceal the cords banding his steely arms and torso.
    His figure is impressive, but not developed for vanity. Sylvia Stone enjoys the appearance of being a woman who owns a yacht. She likes the idea that she might set sail at any moment, assuming that her ship is adequately stocked with sugary desserts.
    Erik Duke is a man who doesn’t care for appearances. His strength is functional. I wouldn’t be surprised if he vanished into the wilderness one autumn day and didn’t return until spring thaw, whittled down to his absolute minimum by months of darkness and ice.
    The sight of his pecs and shoulders stretching out his shirt makes my lips go dry.
    He knows I’m watching him. He’s watching me, too.
    Something is different