Maid to Pleasure (SPG)

The Salvatore mansion loomed before me like a beast made of marble and glass, its towering columns casting long shadows across the manicured driveway. I clutched my worn leather bag tighter against my chest, feeling every threadbare patch of my best blouse—the one I'd ironed three times this morning, praying it would pass as something a wealthy family might tolerate.

You need this job, Cleo. Mom's medical bills aren't going to pay themselves.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry despite the late afternoon humidity. The mansion's windows caught the dying sunlight, gleaming like cold, indifferent eyes watching me approach. I'd researched the Salvatores on my phone during the two-hour bus ride here. Old money. New power. And Cole Salvatore—the CEO who graced magazine covers like he was born for the camera.

The housekeeper who answered the door was a severe woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that assessed me in a single sweep. She didn't smile. She didn't offer pleasantries. She simply led me through corridors that smelled of expensive wood polish and something floral I couldn't name, until we reached a heavy oak door.

"Mr. Salvatore will see you now."

She left me there. Just... left.

I raised my hand to knock, but the door swung open before my knuckles made contact.

And there he was.

Cole Salvatore stood silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling windows, the golden hour light wrapping around his broad shoulders like a lover's embrace. He was taller than I expected—taller than the photographs suggested—with a physique that whispered of disciplined workouts and expensive tailored suits that hid nothing.

He turned.

God help me.

Dark hair, slightly disheveled as if he'd been running his fingers through it. A jaw sharp enough to cut glass. And eyes—deep, fathomless brown—that locked onto mine with an intensity that made my knees forget their purpose.

His gaze traveled down my body. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was cataloging every curve, every imperfection, every place where my pulse was suddenly hammering.

"You're late."

My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm exactly on time."

His lips curved—not quite a smile, something more dangerous. "I like punctuality. But I hate excuses. Which one are you?"

Both, I wanted to say. Neither. I don't know what you want me to be.

"I'm someone who needs this job," I said instead.

He moved from the window, each step a study in controlled power. His dress shirt strained across his chest, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing veins that traced along muscles I had no business noticing.

"Sit."

I sat.

He didn't return to his desk. Instead, he circled behind me, and I felt his presence like heat radiating from a furnace. His scent reached me—sandalwood, whiskey, something darker underneath that made my mouth water.

"Are you afraid of me?"

The question caught me off guard. "Should I be?"

"Yes."

His voice was low, close to my ear. I hadn't heard him move, but suddenly he was there—so close I could feel the warmth of his breath against my neck.

My hands trembled in my lap. I gripped my bag strap tighter.

"I don't hire people who bore me," he continued, his tone conversational despite the electricity crackling between us. "So far, you're not boring."

"And if I bore you?"

"Then you'll be gone by morning."

He stepped back, returning to his desk, and I released a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. But my relief was short-lived. He was watching me again—that same predatory focus—and my body was responding in ways I couldn't control.

Stop it. He's your potential employer. Stop thinking about his hands. Stop thinking about—

But I couldn't stop. His hands were large, his fingers long, and I imagined them gripping my waist, pulling me against him. I imagined his mouth trailing down my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone. I imagined his voice, rough and demanding, telling me exactly what he wanted to do to me.

The fantasy consumed me—his weight pressing me into silk sheets, the heat of his skin against mine, the friction, the release—

"Where did you go just now?"

His voice shattered the vision. I blinked, mortified to find my cheeks flushed, my breathing shallow. He was studying me with knowing eyes.

"Nowhere."

"You're lying." He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Your cheeks are flushed. Your breathing changed."

He rose, rounded the desk, and before I could react, he was crouching beside my chair. His face was inches from mine.

"You were thinking about me."

It wasn't a question.

I tried to look away, but his hand caught my chin—firm, commanding—and turned me back to face him.

"I—" My voice cracked. "I should go."

"You're hired."

The words didn't register at first. "What?"

"I said you're hired." He released my chin and stood, towering over me once more. "But I have rules. The most important one..."

He tilted my face up again, forcing me to meet those dark, devastating eyes.

"Don't ever look at me like that again."

"Like what?"

"Like you want me to ruin you."

My heart stopped. Then started again, racing.

He walked to the door, holding it open—dismissing me.

I gathered my bag with shaking hands and moved past him, desperate to escape, desperate to breathe air that wasn't saturated with him.

"Cleo."

His voice stopped me at the threshold. I turned.

"You start tomorrow. Six AM. Don't be late."

"And if I am?"

His smile was slow, dark, devastating.

"Then I'll have to punish you."

The door closed between us. I stood in the corridor, my heart pounding, my body aching with something I refused to name.

You're in trouble.

The understatement of the century.

I was already ruined.