5: Treating Bosses Like Prostitutes

RHEA

THE NIGHT BEFORE

We’re kissing before the door even closes. His mouth slams over mine, tongue pushing in deep, taking what he wants. I bite back, sucking his tongue, grinding my lips against his until we’re both gasping.

I yank his belt open, tossing it while he pins me against the door, one hand shoving my dress up my thighs. His fingers slide higher, find my panties, rub my clit hard through the lace.

“Ah—fuck!” I moan loud into his mouth, hips bucking into his hand.

He growls, breaks the kiss only to rip my dress over my head. It’s gone. He stares at me in just a bra and panties, eyes pure hunger. He licks his lips slowly. “Jesus, Ash. You’re fucking perfect.”

I grab his jacket, shove it off. He pulls his t-shirt off. I go for his pants, unzip fast, shove them down. He kicks them away. My bra is next—he unhooks it rough, yanks it off. His hands are on my breasts instantly, squeezing hard, thumbs flicking my nipples until they’re tight and aching.

“Harder,” I demand, pushing into his hands.

He does exactly that. I moan even louder, his lips catching mine in a hot, sloppy kiss that makes my toes curl. I bite his bottom lip—hard enough to draw blood. He groans deep, cock twitching against my thigh.

We break apart, panting. I smirk, swipe the blood off his lip with my thumb, then suck it clean. His bulge grows even bigger and I laugh. “You like that?”

His grin is pure filth. “Love it. Do it again.”

“You’re a freak.”

“You have no idea,” he says, voice thick.

He grabs my ass, and lifts me like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs tight around his waist, grinding down on his hard cock through his boxers. We both moan louder. He spanks my ass—a hard crack that stings perfectly. I yelp, grinding even harder.

“Fuck, yes,” I hiss.

He leans in, breath hot on my ear. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen,” he rasps, licking slow and wet up my throat. I shiver hard, nails digging deep into his shoulders, a needy gasp slipping out. “But you’d be even sexier with your hands tied, blindfold on, ass red from my palm, begging for my cock.”

He throws me onto the bed. I bounce once, panting, thighs already soaked. His words hit me hard—my panties flood, slick running down my skin. I almost come just from that.

I stare up at him—hard, sweaty, long hair stuck to the ink on his neck, boxers straining. I lick my lips slowly.

Fuck, I want him.

I spot his belt on the floor, hook it with my toes, then drag it up. I spread my legs wide, one knee raised, offering the belt. My hands slide up to my breasts, squeezing them, pinching my nipples while I bite my lip and watch him.

“Well?” I challenge, voice thick with need. “What’s stopping you? Tie me up. Spank me till I can’t take it. Fuck me senseless. I want it all.” I tilt my head, smile turning dirty. “Or do I have to beg, Mr. Voss?”

His eyes go black with lust, cock twitching hard against his boxers. He rips them off fast. He’s huge—thick, veiny, perfect. My mouth waters.

He grabs the belt, leans down, licks slowly down from my raised ankle all the way up my leg to my soaked center. I moan loud, hips lifting. He grabs both my thighs, yanks me down the bed until I’m right under him, his face between my legs. He blows hot air over my clit; I gasp sharp, back arching.

“Careful what you ask for, Dot,” he warns, voice rough and hungry. “I won’t hold back.”

I look straight at his cock, then up at him through my lashes. “Good,” I breathe. “Don’t.”

PRESENT

RHEA

Seeing Christian wear that same careless, almost roguish smirk sends last night crashing back into me. My thighs clench before I can stop it.

How the hell is this man a stereotypical CEO?

He’s nothing like the rumours say he is—nothing like the cold, ruthless shark everyone whispers about. None of it adds up. If he were half as cold and cruel as they say, he wouldn’t have caught my attention at all.

But then again… Sister Agnes always said I was drawn to trouble. Said one day it would land me flat on my face.

She was right about Victor.

I’d be an idiot to let her be right again.

“Please,” he says, slow and deliberate, each word sinking in like heat against skin. “Don’t stop on my account, Rhea Ashford.”

The look he gives me makes me fidget. It’s not crude. It’s worse than that. Like he sees everything—the faint bruises shadowing my collarbone beneath this damned shirt, the reason I chose longer sleeves, the places his hands lingered long enough to leave a memory behind.

His gaze lingers. Catalogues. Claims.

A low, satisfied sound hums in his chest, quiet enough that only I hear it. It still sends a traitorous spark straight through me.

Then his mouth curves—that wicked, knowing grin—as he leans back in the chair, elbow hooked over the armrest, chin settling into his knuckles like he owns the room.

“Well?” he drawls.

I finally find my voice. Clear my throat. Ignore the heat crawling under my skin.

“The interview just ended… Mr. Voss.” The title slips out before I can stop it. The second it does, I know I’ve made a mistake.

He remembers exactly how I said it last night.

I see it in the way his eyes darken. In the slow roll of his tongue over his bottom lip. In the look that burns, unapologetic.

“Is that right?” he says at last.

Only then does he acknowledge the rest of the room, flicking them a glance so bored it’s almost insulting. He reaches forward and plucks the stack of applicant files off the table, flipping through them slowly. Deliberately letting the silence stretch until it’s unbearable.

That’s when I notice it.

The tension isn’t just awkwardness.

They’re scared.

The board member with the bulging stomach wipes sweat from his forehead and swallows hard, like he’s forcing the words past his throat. “M–Mr. Damien… will we be expecting your older brother as well? Mr. Voss didn’t mention you standing in for him today.”

Damien?

My brows knit.

Why would he call Christian that?

Everyone knows there are only two Voss men—Christian and his father. His father retired years ago, and handed the empire to his only son.

My stomach drops.

Unless…

My gaze snaps back to the man casually tossing the file on the table like it’s worthless.

I’ve seen Christian Voss before. In interviews. In glossy magazine spreads. His hair was always cropped and perfect. His suits were always Armani. His presence was cold, polished, untouchable.

This man is none of that.

His hair is longer. His jacket is leather. The danger rolling off him is careless, unapologetic—nothing like Christian’s controlled frost.

How the hell did I miss it?

Shock nearly knocks a laugh out of me. Was it the cocktail? The dim lighting? Or the fact that he’d had me shaking beneath him only hours ago?

Christia– no, Damien’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course he didn’t,” he says easily. “He has no idea I’m here.”

A pause. Calculated.

“And it’ll be better for all of us if it stays that way. Don’t you think?”

The room goes very, very still.

“W–What do you mean, sir?” someone asks.

Damien taps the page once with his finger. “According to these evaluations,” he says, “you rejected experienced, talented designers because they didn’t attend the right schools.” Another tap. “You passed over exceptional work because it didn’t come with the right surname.”

Silence.

“That’s not Christian’s standard.” His tone goes lazy, almost amused. Like a cat stretching before it sinks its claws in. “My brother will be livid.”

My brother.

Christian. His brother.

A sharp scoff slips out of me before I can stop it.

There’s no fucking way.

His eyes find mine across the room—steady, burning.

“But of course,” he says smoothly, lips curving into that wicked smile I tasted for hours last night. “That’s just an assumption. What do I know?”

I shake my head, a helpless grin tugging at my mouth.

Well played, Mr. Voss.

Well fucking played.

And of course he sees it—that tiny crack. His smirk deepens, lazy and lethal, as he slips a hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket.

My heart stutters just as he pulls out a note.

My note.

It’s folded small, edges worn soft, like it’s been touched a hundred times. Like he’s carried it against his chest all day.

He lifts it slowly, deliberately, to his lips. Not a kiss, exactly. Just the brush of paper against that mouth I still feel between my thighs. His gaze never leaves mine, dark and ravenous, promising he remembers every gasp, every beg, every time I shattered for him.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is worse than treating my future boss like a prostitute.

I did all of that—every reckless, humiliating second—while mistaking him for his brother.

***

Author's Note:

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