CEO wants his secretary (1)

The glow of my dual monitors was the only thing keeping the darkness of the floor at bay. It was 9:45 PM. Everyone else—the people with actual lives—had left hours ago. My neck was stiff, and my back ached from sitting in this ergonomic chair that cost more than my first car but felt like a park bench after ten hours. I reached for my coffee, but the cup was cold, a thin film of cream settled on the top.

I leaned back, stretching my arms over my head, and that’s when I heard it. The heavy, rhythmic sound of leather soles hitting the carpet. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air in the room didn't just change; it felt like it was being sucked out.

Vincent.

He didn't stop at his office door. He kept walking until he was standing right behind my chair. I could smell him—expensive sandalwood, clean laundry, and that sharp, metallic scent of power that always made the hair on my arms stand up. I stayed frozen, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Still here, Aubrey?" His voice was a low, velvet rasp. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

"The Q3 reports needed finishing, Mr. Thorne," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. It didn't work. It came out breathless, revealing exactly how much his presence was affecting me.

I felt his hand drop onto my shoulder. His grip was firm, his thumb tracing the line of my collarbone through the thin fabric of my blouse. He didn't have to do much; just that small, possessive touch was enough to make my thighs ache.

"The reports can wait," he murmured. He leaned down, his face so close to mine that I could feel the heat of his breath against my ear. "I’ve been watching you on the security feed for the last hour. Do you have any idea how much you fidget when you’re frustrated?"

I swallowed hard, my eyes fixed on the blank spreadsheet on my screen. "I didn't know you watched the feeds."

"I watch everything that belongs to me," he countered.

He didn't let go of my shoulder. Instead, his other hand moved to the armrest of my chair, spinning me around so I was forced to look at him. Vincent looked like he’d stepped out of a high-end magazine—his dark suit was perfectly tailored, his white shirt unbuttoned just enough at the collar to show a hint of tanned skin. But his eyes... they were predatory. Dark, hungry, and fixed entirely on my mouth.

"You're shaking, Aubrey," he noted, a slow, cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Is it because you're scared, or because you've been sitting here all night thinking about exactly what I’m going to do to you?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. The truth was too loud in my head. I’d spent months imagining him losing that icy composure, imagining him taking me right here on the desk where I filed his paperwork.

"Answer me," he commanded, his hand sliding from my shoulder to my throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make me gasp.

"Both," I whispered.

The word was barely out of my mouth before he was moving. He didn't ask. He didn't negotiate. He grabbed the lapels of my blazer and yanked me out of the chair. I stumbled against him, my breasts hitting his hard chest, and for a second, the world just stopped. He was solid, massive, and smelled like everything I wasn't supposed to want.

"Good," he growled. "I don't have the patience for lies tonight."

He shoved me back against the desk. My hip hit the edge, sending a stack of folders sliding onto the floor, but neither of us cared. He stepped between my legs, his heavy weight pinning me against the mahogany. He reached down and gripped my skirt, bunching the fabric upward until I felt the cool air of the office hit my bare thighs.

"Mr. Thorne—" I started, but he cut me off with a kiss that was more of an assault.

It tasted like coffee and cold ambition. His tongue was demanding, marking me, claiming me in a way that made my knees go weak. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. I wanted to be consumed. I wanted him to erase every boring hour I’d spent in this office with the raw, unpolished reality of his touch.

He pulled back, both of us panting, his forehead resting against mine. His hands were busy now, unzipping his trousers with a jagged, metallic sound that echoed in the empty office.

"You're not a secretary tonight, Aubrey," he whispered, his eyes dark with a heat that threatened to burn me alive. "Tonight, you're just mine."

He didn’t give me a chance to breathe. His hands were everywhere at once, rough and possessive, stripping away the professional persona I had spent years building. He reached for the buttons of my silk blouse, and when one didn't give fast enough, I heard the sharp snap of thread. I didn’t care about the shirt. I cared about the way his eyes flared when he saw my black lace bra straining against my skin.

"I knew it," he hissed, his voice thick with a dark kind of satisfaction. "Underneath the spreadsheets and the polite smiles, you’ve been hiding this for me."

He grabbed my waist and lifted me, sitting me squarely on the edge of the mahogany desk. I felt the cold surface against my skin, a stark contrast to the blistering heat radiating off him. He moved back in between my legs, his heavy weight pinning me down as he buried his face in the crook of my neck. He didn't nibble; he bit. A sharp, stinging mark that I knew would turn purple by morning. I let out a jagged cry, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my nails leaves red half-moons in his expensive suit jacket.

"Vincent, please," I gasped, my head falling back as his tongue traced the line of my throat.

"Please what, Aubrey?" he growled, his hand sliding down to the junction of my thighs. "Do you want me to stop? Do you want me to let you go back to your reports?"

"No," I choked out, arching my back as he found exactly where I was most sensitive. "God, no."

The sound of his zipper was like a starter pistol. I watched him, my breath hitching, as he freed himself. He was thick, angry, and ready to reclaim every second of overtime I’d ever worked. He didn't use a condom. He didn't ask for permission. He grabbed my knees, pulling them wide, and pushed inside me in one heavy, unforgiving thrust.

I screamed into the empty office, the sound echoing off the glass walls. It was too much and not enough all at once. He was stretching me, filling the void I’d been carrying since the first day I walked into Thorne Industries. He didn't start slow. He didn't give me time to adjust. He began a punishing, rhythmic pace that had the monitors on my desk shaking.

Every thrust was a statement of ownership. Every time he hit the back of my throat with a low, guttural groan, I felt more like his property than his employee. My heels were dug into the wood of the desk, my hands clutching the edge of the mahogany so hard my knuckles were white.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice sounding more like a king than a CEO.

I forced my eyes open, my vision swimming. Vincent was staring down at me, his face a mask of raw, unadulterated lust. The cold, calculating man who ran boardrooms was gone. In his place was a predator who had finally caught his prey.

"You're mine, Aubrey," he grunted, his pace becoming frantic, his skin slick with sweat that smelled like woodsmoke and desire. "Say it. Tell me who owns you in this office."

"You," I sobbed, the pleasure building into a sharp, agonizing peak that I couldn't escape. "You own me, Vincent. Only you."

He let out a roar, his body tensing as he hit his limit. I felt the heat of him flooding me, a violent, shaking release that triggered my own climax. I fell forward, my face buried in his shoulder, my teeth sinking into the fabric of his shirt as the world dissolved into white light and the sound of our ragged, synchronized breathing.

We stayed like that for a long time. The only light came from the flickering screen of my computer, displaying a report that no longer mattered. Vincent didn't pull away immediately. He stayed heavy against me, his heart thudding against my chest like a drum.

He finally pulled back, his eyes returning to that cold, distant gold, but the smirk stayed. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who had just dismantled me.

"Go home, Aubrey," he whispered, his voice returning to that professional rasp. "I'll see you at 8:00 AM. And don't bother with the blouse. I’ll have a new one waiting in your locker."

I watched him walk away, his silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the executive wing. I was left alone in the dark, my body humming, my desk a mess of ruined papers and spilled coffee.

The contract had just been signed in skin and sweat.