Obsessed

~Hermes ~

Fuck!

The word echoes through the glass walls of my office like a bullet off marble.

I don’t whisper it. I mean it.

She messed up a date on the board presentation. One date. But it could’ve cost us a multi-million-dollar partner. I don’t tolerate sloppiness, especially not in the current situation I am.

So I fired her.

It’s barely 8 a.m., and my blood pressure’s already peaking. My jaw aches from clenching. I roll my shoulders back and pour a shot of espresso from the machine behind my desk, black as night. I swallow it like a drug and drop the glass back in the tray.

The office is too bright.

I walk to the window and let the sun cut into my face. I should be focused on the shareholder report, on the quarterly pivot for Apex’s innovation funnel, on… anything other than her.

But I’m not.

I can’t stop thinking about the girl from the bar.

That mouthy, tequila-soaked, hazel-eyed girl with the boldness of a poker player and the dress of someone who didn’t know the word “modest.”

Her eyes... Her eyes looks like she's about to swallow your pride, so well, you'll never forget the process.

She could have done it that night. I want her to do it. If I see her again. Fuck! I shouldn't been thinking of that now.

I told myself it meant nothing. Just a body. Just release. But God damn, it's a body that I want to keep hitting until I get tired of it.

She sat beside me like she had a right to. Asked for my number like it was a game. Said “A night?” without hesitation when I told her to.

God, that fucking night.

Her skin was soft. Tan. Smooth like heat and chaos and sunshine wrapped in sweat. Her mouth didn’t shut up, not until I buried myself inside her. And even then, she had the nerve to grin.

“Maybe you’re just huge.”

I loved the way she said it, that I made her say it again while I bury myself inside her again.

I didn’t leave her money. That’s a rule I never break. A little envelope, no name, no number. Keeps things clean and in control.

But I left her a note instead.

Thank you.

Like a fucking amateur.

I exhale, long and sharp, and go back to the desk. The board files are still open, so I swipe them shut.

"Need to focus," I mutter.

I pick up my phone to schedule a therapy session. I need the routine again. I’ve been spiraling since I took this damn job. Since the press started calling me Lucien’s Legacy. When I inherited a rotting empire I now have to bleach clean with my bare hands.

I tap the assistant line.

"Paul," I call when he picks up. "Get someone in here. Temporary secretary. I don’t care who. I just need competence and silence."

"Yes, sir."

I hang up and take the jacket off, toss it over the back of the chair.

The cuffs are too tight, so I roll them up, until my forearms breathe.

I’ve fucked my own hand too many times thinking about her. And it still doesn’t get her out of my head, instead, it fuels the unspeakable thoughts.

I look out the window to busy my raging mind. The city looks smaller from up here. The whole strip, glittering and pathetic. Las Vegas, where illusions run on electricity and greed. And somehow, this mess is mine now.

I rest one hand on the glass and look down.

The door clicks behind me and then I smell it.

That perfume. Peony, citrus, clean skin. Too distinct to be coincidence. My neck goes stiff. My entire body stills.

No. It can’t— I must be over imagining things.

I turn slowly.

And there she is in my office wearing a blouse she’s trying to look confident in. Leather folder clutched like a shield. Her wild chest-nut brown hair back, barely. Her full, slightly bitten pink lips parted. Those same hazel eyes — wide and wickedly sexy.

My heart doesn’t race, instead it drops. Heavy and sudden, like it’s trying to hide inside my ribs.

She freezes, and I do too.

She knows what I know.

Fuck.

I school my face, tighten my jaw and straighten my back. I say nothing and I don't move.

She looks at the nameplate like it’s a twist in a bad soap opera. Her gaze flicks to me again. There’s shock, sure. But there’s more, fear, confusion, heat.

I make my eyes cold and my hands still and see her shift on her heels. She's nervous.

I nod once. The barest motion. "Close the door," I instructed, voice frost-bitten.

She jumps, then obeys. The click of her door feels louder than it should.

And I stare at the girl I swore I’d never see again. The girl I shouldn’t remember.

The girl my body won’t let me forget.

I close my for half a second — just enough to block out the sudden flood of imagery: her parted lips, her skin flushed beneath my palms.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, grounding myself, but it does nothing. The images keep downloading, fast and dirty, like a virus I can’t debug. That's the thing with being hypersexual. It's not just hunger — it’s obsession, the mental noise and constant, relentless. I can fuck someone once and be haunted for years.

And this one? She’s an itch I can’t even scratch in private anymore. She's here.

"Sit," I say, harsher than intended.

She lowers herself slowly, her legs pressed together, her eyes wide with recognition.

I hate that I notice. I hate that I want to notice.

My gaze drops anyway. Down to her thighs, barely visible beneath the fabric of her skirt. My thoughts derail before I can stop them, that same thick thigh I gripped as I made my way to her slick, trembling core. The sound she made when I bit her just above the knee. The way she looked when she came.

Fucking hell.

I blink hard. Force it down. Did she see where my eyes went?

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even pretend to introduce herself. Maybe she’s waiting to see if I’ll acknowledge it.

But that’s not the issue.

The issue is that I ruined her before I knew her name. And now she’s mine, in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with proximity.

She’s my secretary and current obsession.

And my condition? It doesn't come with an off switch as my therapist says.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?