CEO wants his secretary (2)

The next morning, the office felt different. The air was too thin, and every sound—the hum of the copier, the clicking of keyboards—seemed to echo in my skull. I had done my best to cover the mark on my neck with a silk scarf, but I could still feel the phantom sting of Vincent’s teeth every time I moved my head. I felt like a walking secret.

I was standing in front of the chrome elevator doors, clutching my tablet to my chest like a shield. I just needed to get to the 42nd floor, sit at my desk, and pretend that my boss hadn't reclaimed my body on a mahogany desk twelve hours ago.

The doors slid open with a soft ding.

My heart stopped. He was already inside.

Vincent was leaning against the back wall, one hand in his pocket, looking every bit the untouchable titan of industry. He didn't have a jacket on today; his shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing those thick, powerful forearms that had pinned me down just hours before. He didn't say a word. He just looked at me, his eyes tracking the way my chest rose and fell with my shallow breaths.

I stepped inside. The doors closed, sealing us in a small, mirrored box that smelled intensely of him. I reached for the button for my floor, but before my finger could touch the glass, his hand shot out and hit the emergency stop.

The elevator jolted to a halt between the 15th and 16th floors.

"Mr. Thorne, what are you doing?" I gasped, my back hitting the cold metal wall. "I have a meeting with the marketing team in ten minutes."

"The marketing team can wait, Aubrey," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that made my knees instantly weak. He stepped toward me, closing the distance until I was trapped between the mirrors and his massive frame. "Did you think yesterday was a one-time thing? A lapse in judgment?"

"I... I thought it was a release," I whispered, my eyes fixed on the knot of his tie.

He let out a short, dry laugh and reached out, his thumb hooking under the edge of my scarf and pulling it down just enough to reveal the dark purple bruise on my skin. "It wasn't a release. It was a down payment."

He didn't wait for me to argue. He grabbed my waist and hoisted me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. The sudden movement made my skirt ride up, my bare skin meeting the cool fabric of his trousers. I felt him—hard and ready against my core—and a sob of pure, unadulterated need escaped my throat.

"You're already wet for me, aren't you?" he growled, his mouth hovering just inches from mine. "In the middle of a workday, in a glass box where anyone could hear you scream."

"Vincent, we can't... not here," I pleaded, even as I arched my back, seeking more of his heat.

"I own this building, Aubrey. I own the cameras. And right now, I own the air you’re breathing."

He reached down and yanked my panties to the side, his fingers finding me with a brutal accuracy that had me slamming my head back against the mirror. The sound of the impact echoed in the small space, but I didn't care. The sensation was too much—the friction of his hand, the vibration of the elevator, and the sheer, terrifying thrill of being caught.

He unbuckled his belt with a sharp, metallic click. He didn't use any finesse. He guided himself in, a slow, deliberate stretch that felt like he was rearranging my very soul. I cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth as he crushed his lips against mine.

It was frantic. It was dirty. It was everything I shouldn't want. The elevator swayed slightly with the force of our movements, the mirrors reflecting a dozen versions of our tangled bodies. Every time I thought I couldn't take any more, he would whisper something filthy in my ear, a promise of what he was going to do to me once we actually made it to his office.

I was close. I could feel the tension building in my spine, that sharp, agonizing peak that only he could trigger. My nails were digging into his shoulders, tearing at the fabric of his shirt, my breath coming in ragged, broken sobs.

"That's it, Aubrey," he grunted, his pace becoming a punishing, rhythmic assault. "Take it. Take everything I have."

Just as the world started to dissolve into white light, just as I felt the first wave of release hit my system, a sharp, electronic voice crackled through the intercom.

"Security to Elevator 4. Mr. Thorne? We're seeing an unauthorized stop on the grid. Is everything alright in there?"

Vincent didn't stop. He didn't even flinch. He kept moving, his eyes locked on mine with a feral, defiant intensity. He leaned over, his hand hovering over the intercom button, his fingers just a fraction of an inch away from letting the entire security team hear exactly what was happening to his secretary.

He looked me dead in the eye, a dark, wicked smirk spreading across his face.

"Aubrey," he whispered, his finger twitching over the button. "Do you want to tell them... or should I?"

The boardroom was freezing. The air conditioning was humming at a level that should have kept everyone sharp, but all I could feel was the sweat pooling between my shoulder blades. I was sitting to Vincent’s right, my iPad open to a spreadsheet that looked like gibberish to me now. Around the long, polished table, six regional directors were arguing about logistics and quarterly margins.

I looked at Vincent. He looked perfect. His charcoal suit was crisp, his tie knotted with mathematical precision. He was leaning back, listening to a director from the Chicago office, his face a mask of bored professional indifference.

He didn't look like the man who had nearly exposed us to security in the elevator an hour ago.

"The margins in the Midwest are unacceptable, Thorne," the director said, slamming a folder onto the table.

Vincent didn't blink. "Then fix them, Miller. I don't pay you to bring me problems; I pay you to bring me results."

While he spoke, I felt his hand vanish from the top of the table. A second later, I felt the heavy heat of his palm land on my knee under the table. I jumped slightly, my stylus skittering across the screen of my iPad. Miller glanced at me, his brow furrowed.

"Everything alright, Aubrey?" Vincent asked, his voice smooth and cold as ice. He didn't even look at me.

"Yes, sir. Just a cramp," I managed to choke out.

His hand didn't move away. It began to climb. His fingers were slow and deliberate, bunching up the fabric of my pencil skirt with a practiced ease. I tried to keep my breathing shallow, my eyes fixed on my notes, but my heart was hammering so hard I was sure the man sitting on my other side could hear it.

He found the lace edge of my stockings. His thumb traced the line where the silk met my skin, a touch so light it was agonizing. Then, he went higher.

"As I was saying," Miller continued, oblivious to the fact that his CEO was currently reclaiming his secretary inches away from him. "If we don't adjust the shipping rates—"

I let out a tiny, muffled gasp as Vincent’s fingers found me. I was still sensitive from the elevator, still slick and aching, and his touch was like a match hitting gasoline. I gripped the edge of my chair, my knuckles turning white. I wanted to scream, to push him away, to pull him closer.

Vincent shifted in his seat, leaning forward to address the table. "I think Miller has a point. Aubrey, could you pull up the shipping manifests from last June? I’m sure you have them... handy."

The double meaning was a physical blow. I had to lean forward, my chest nearly touching the table, to reach for the files. As I did, Vincent used the opportunity to deepen his touch. He wasn't being gentle. He was demanding. I felt my face flush, a deep, burning red that I knew everyone could see. I pretended to be frustrated with the software, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper.

"I... I’m looking for them now, Mr. Thorne," I whispered.

My voice was a wreck. It was thick with the kind of need that had no place in a boardroom. Under the table, Vincent was relentless. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was watching me struggle to stay professional while he dismantled me in front of the most powerful men in the company.

The meeting dragged on for another twenty minutes. To everyone else, it was a standard debate over numbers. To me, it was an endurance test. I was vibrating, my muscles taut, my mind a haze of heat and desperation. Every time I thought I was going to snap, every time a moan threatened to break past my lips, Vincent would pull back just enough to let the tension simmer, only to return with even more intensity.

Finally, Vincent stood up. "That’s enough for today. Miller, I want that report on my desk by Monday. Aubrey, stay behind. We need to go over those manifests."

The directors filed out, murmuring among themselves. I didn't move. I couldn't. My legs felt like jelly, and the ache between them was a physical weight. As the heavy oak door finally clicked shut, the silence in the room became deafening.

Vincent didn't wait. He walked around the table and grabbed the back of my chair, spinning me to face him. He didn't look bored anymore. His eyes were dark, the gold in them burning with a feral, satisfied hunger.

"You handled that well, Aubrey," he said, his hand reaching out to tilt my chin up. "Almost too well. I was starting to wonder if you were actually enjoying the risk."

"You're insane," I hissed, finally finding my voice. "Someone could have seen. One look under that table and—"

"But they didn't," he interrupted, his smirk widening. He stepped closer, his thighs pressing against my knees. "And that’s the point, isn't it? The thrill of knowing I can do whatever I want to you, and you’ll just sit there and take it because you’re a professional."

He reached for the belt of his trousers.

"Now," he growled, "since you were so helpful with the manifests... I think it’s time for your performance review."

I looked at the door. It wasn't locked. Anyone could walk in—a janitor, a late-working director, security.

"Vincent, the door..." I started.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine, his hand already moving to the zipper of my skirt.

"Let them watch," he whispered. "I’ll fire them before they can even blink."