Used by My Dominant Boss

Chapter 1

The lights in my bathroom look brighter today, but I tighten my ponytail, even as my fingers tremble. "You deserve this job," I whisper to myself, my reflection staring back with flushed cheeks and parted lips.

The black pencil skirt hugs my hips, and the white blouse I chose clings to my curves, with two buttons undone to show a little cleavage. I exhale, smoothing my hands over my thighs before grabbing my purse.

The cab ride feels like forever as I watch different people walking on the busy street. Thirty minutes early. Good. I want to be the first one in; I want to prove I belong here. As I walk to the elevator door, men in suits pause mid-conversation to watch me pass, their gazes lingering on the sway of my hips, the way my blouse stretches over my breasts.

I ignore them, lifting my chin and pretending to be bold.

The elevator ascends, the numbers lighting up one by one. Twenty-eighth floor.

My floor.

His floor.

The doors slide open, and there it is: my name on a sleek black plaque beside the door. Leila Carter, Junior Analyst. A smile tugs at my lips. And then I see it, the door right next to mine, polished mahogany with gold lettering: Adrian Blackwell, CEO.

My stomach flutters.

My phone buzzes in my purse, the vibration sharp against my thigh. I pull it out, my breath catching when I see the name on the screen.

Adrian Blackwell: Sort the files in my office. Now.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard, my pulse hammering in my throat. On it, sir, I type, hitting send before I can second-guess myself.

His office smells like him-cedar and bergamot, dark and intoxicating. The scent wraps around me as I step inside, my heels sinking into the plush carpet.

The city looks magnificent beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I barely notice the details. My focus is on the desk, the scattered contracts, and his huge desk.

I plug in my headphones, queuing up a focus playlist, but my eyes - the memory of the last interview I had with him comes into focus: how I'd frozen when he looked at me, how he froze too, his face lingering on me far too long, the way his voice had dropped, rough and low, when he'd said, "You're hired."

A book on the shelf catches my attention - Shakespeare's Sonnets. Odd for a man like him. I reach for it, my fingers brushing the book cover, and the entire shelf shifts with a quiet click.

I gasp.

The bookshelf swings open, revealing darkness in front. My heart slams against my ribs, but I don't hesitate. I step inside, and immediately the hidden door swings shut behind me with a soft thud, making me jump.

The darkness inside was thick, and suffocating. I press a hand to the cold stone wall, my fingers tracing the rough surface as I move forward. My breath comes in shallow bursts, my pulse roaring in my ears.

Then my fingertips brush against a lever. I pull, and light floods the room.

It feels like my breath leaves my chest.

It's a dungeon.

Not just any dungeon-his dungeon.

There are bondage tables with padded restraints, a spanking bench, its surface polished and shiny. Ceiling hooks with chains dangle from the roof. A wall lined with whips, floggers, and canes, each one perfectly hung. Mirrors cover one side of the room, reflecting the equipment and gadgets.

My pussy clenches, a sharp ache blooming between my thighs. I'd never been touched -I'm a virgin, never been used-but God, I want to be. I want to know what it feels like to be bent over that bench, my ass bare, my wrists bound, his hand coming down on my skin.

I swallow, stepping further inside. My fingers trail over a spreader bar, the metal cool against my skin. I imagine it locked around my ankles, forcing me open, exposing me, and my nipples tighten, pressing against the fabric of my lace bra.

Then I see the files.

A stack of them, tucked into a drawer beneath a table. I pull one out, my breath hitching as photos spill into my hands.

Women.

Bound. Gagged. Bent over benches, their asses red from spankings, their pussies glistening. Butt plugs stretching them, clamps pinching their nipples.

And in every single one, he's there. Adrian, fully dressed, his expression cold, his hands on their bodies, his cock buried inside them. His grip bruising on their hips, his fingers tangled in their hair as he fucks their mouths.

My throat goes dry. I trace a finger over one woman's thigh, her skin marked with red stripes from a cane. Jealousy burns through me, hot and ugly. I want to be them. I want to be his.

A clock on the wall ticks loudly. I have five minutes left. I shove the photos back, even as my hands shake, and I reach for the lever, but a hand clamps around my throat.

And I gasp, my back slamming against a hard chest. His cologne fills my nose, and his breath is hot against my ear.

"You found my secret, pet ."

His voice is a growl, low and dangerous. His fingers tighten just enough to make my pulse jump beneath his grip, but not enough to hurt.

Not yet.

I don't struggle. I melt in his touch.

"I did, sir," I whisper, my voice steady despite the way my body trembles and my cunt clenches.

My lips brush the shell of my ear, his thumb tracing my jawline. "And what are you going to do about it?"

I don't get to answer. He spins me around, pressing me against the wall. His body pins me, his thigh forcing my legs apart. His free hand slides down my throat, over my collarbone, then lower, until his palm cups my breast through my blouse. He squeezes, his fingers finding my nipple, rolling it between them until it ached.

I whimper, my head falling back against the stone.

"You want this, don’t you?" His lips graze my ear, his voice a dark murmur. "You want to be in those pictures. Bound. Helpless. Begging for my touch."

My pussy throbs and my panties are soaked. "Yes," I whisper.