MR. STERLING'S TERMS

Chapter One

NOVA

The first thing Dominic Sterling ever said to me was: "You're overqualified."

The first thing he ever did to me was bend me over his desk and fuck me until I couldn't remember my own name.

Those two things happened five days apart.

Monday was the interview. He sat across from me in a suit that cost more than my rent and read my resume for nine minutes and looked at me for two and in those two minutes his eyes did something that had nothing to do with my qualifications. A slow, complete sweep — face, neck, chest, back up — that landed on my eyes with a heat in his that made my cunt clench right there in the chair.

He hired me on the spot.

I drove home with my underwear soaked and my hands tight on the wheel and that night I lay in bed and pushed three fingers into my cunt and thought about his eyes and came so hard I saw white.

That was Monday.

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Tuesday I arrived early. Pressed navy dress, hair pinned, the full armor of a woman determined to be professional. His office smelled like leather and his cologne — something dark and expensive that hit the back of my throat and went straight between my legs — and he was at the window when I walked in, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms that made my mouth water in a way I had no clinical explanation for.

He turned around.

Said good morning.

Looked at my mouth for one second too long.

I sat at my desk and crossed my legs and told my cunt to behave itself.

My cunt was not interested in behaving itself.

By Wednesday I was changing my underwear at lunch because every time he leaned over my desk to point at something on my screen his cologne hit me and I soaked through in thirty seconds flat. By Thursday his hand on the small of my back when he guided me through doorways — brief, warm, deliberate — had me pressing my thighs together through three consecutive meetings.

Friday morning he put a black coffee on my desk before I arrived. No note. No acknowledgment. Just left it there like he'd been paying attention since day one which he had, which was the problem, which was why by Friday afternoon when he said *stay late, there's a contract crisis* I said yes knowing it had nothing to do with any contract.

---

Eleven pm. Everyone gone. Just us and the city dark outside his glass walls.

He sat back from the documents and looked at me and the professional distance dropped off his face like a coat he was done wearing.

"Nova." First name. First time.

Something happened to my breathing.

"Come here," he said.

I walked to him. Stopped in front of his chair. He was still seated and I was standing and he reached up and put one hand flat on my stomach through my dress and looked up at me with dark eyes and said: "I've been thinking about your cunt since Monday."

The words hit me like a fist.

"Since Monday," I repeated.

"Every meeting. Every document. Every time you walked into this office." His hand slid down. Slow. Over my stomach, over my hip, to the hem of my dress. "I've been thinking about what it looks like. What it tastes like." His fingers found the hem and pushed underneath. "What it sounds like when you cum."

I grabbed the back of his chair.

His fingers found my underwear and pressed against the soaked fabric and he inhaled sharply. "Christ, Nova."

"I told you," I managed. "Since Monday."

He pulled my underwear aside and ran two fingers through my cunt — slow, parting me, feeling how slick I was — and the sound that came out of me bounced off every glass wall in his corner office. He pushed both fingers inside me and curled them and my knees buckled and his free arm caught me around the waist and held me up.

"Stand," he said.

"I'm trying—"

"Stand, Nova." His fingers drove deeper and I cried out and grabbed his shoulder and he watched my face fall apart above him with an expression that was the most undone I'd seen from a controlled man in my life. "That's it. Let me hear it."

I came standing in front of his chair with his fingers knuckle-deep in my cunt and his eyes on my face and his name tearing out of my throat so loud the windows rattled.

He stood.

Unzipped me from behind, dress to the floor, bra gone in one motion. Stepped back and looked at me naked and shaking in the low light of his office with the city spread out behind me and said one word: "Perfect."

I reached for his belt. Got it open. Freed his cock and wrapped both hands around it and felt how thick and hard he was, already leaking at the tip, and I squeezed and he grabbed my wrist.

"On the desk," he said. "Now."

He lifted me himself. Set me on the edge of his mahogany desk and stepped between my legs and I watched him roll the condom on with steady hands while I was still shaking from cumming and the sight of him — suit trousers open, shirt half-undone, cock hard and ready — made my cunt clench so visibly he saw it and made a sound low in his chest.

He lined himself up.

Looked at me.

"Eyes on me," he said.

He pushed his cock into my cunt in one long, deep, merciless stroke.

I screamed.

Not loud — swallowed it, bit it back — but the sound came out broken and desperate and raw and he buried himself to the hilt and held there while I shook around him and my nails dug into his forearms hard enough to leave marks.

Full. Thick. Deep in a way I felt in my stomach.

"Breathe," he said.

I breathed.

He pulled back and drove in again and I stopped breathing entirely.

He fucked me on that desk like he'd been planning it since Monday. Like he'd mapped every stroke in advance and intended to execute them with the same precision he brought to nine-figure investment decisions. Long and deep at first, his cock driving into my cunt with a rhythm that made the desk knock against the window and made my eyes roll back, and then harder, his grip bruising on my hips, his cock hammering into me while I held the desk edge and took it and took it and begged for more.

"Cum for me again," he said against my ear. Low. Certain. The voice he used in boardrooms when he wanted something and intended to have it. "Now, Nova. Cum on my cock right now."

I came so hard I bit through my lip.

Clenching and shaking and crying out against his shoulder while he fucked me through every wave of it and then drove in deep one final time and came with a rough broken sound against my neck that I felt in every bone.

After.

Silence.

His office. The city. Both of us wrecked and breathing.

His hand found my hair somehow. Heavy. Warm.

"Monday," he said. His voice had nothing left in it. No edges. No composure. Just sound.

"What about Monday?" I said.

He lifted his head. Looked at me with something cracked open in his expression that I understood would be composed again by morning and was being given to me right now in the dark.

"Monday," he said, "I want you in my office at seven am. Door locked. Before anyone else arrives." His thumb moved against my jaw. "I have things I didn't get to tonight."

I looked at the scattered contracts. The overturned coffee cup. The city.

"What things?" I said.

He looked at my mouth.

"I haven't tasted you yet," he said simply.

My cunt clenched around nothing.

Monday could not come fast enough.