CEO wants his secretary (3)

The silence of the boardroom was more suffocating than the noise had been. Vincent’s hand was a heavy, scorching weight on my thigh, and the click of his belt felt like a gavel hitting a sound block. I looked at the oak door. No lock. Just a handle that anyone could turn. The thought of a director walking back in for a forgotten phone made my stomach flip, but the pulse between my legs was drowning out my common sense.

"You’re terrified," Vincent murmured, his eyes scanning my face with a dark, predatory satisfaction. "And yet, you’re shaking with the need to have me. Tell me, Aubrey. Is the fear making it better?"

"I hate you," I whispered, though my hands were already reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

"Liars don't get bonuses," he grunted.

He didn't waste time with a bed that wasn't there. He swept the remaining folders and iPads off the end of the long conference table with one brutal motion. The sound of expensive electronics hitting the floor was sharp, but it was drowned out as he grabbed my waist and hoisted me onto the polished wood. The surface was freezing against my bare skin as he yanked my skirt up to my waist. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely under his control in the middle of the room where millions of dollars were negotiated every day.

"Open for me," he commanded.

I didn't hesitate. I pulled my legs back, hooking my heels over the edge of the table, exposing myself to the harsh fluorescent lights above. Vincent stepped into the space I’d created, his body a wall of heat. He didn't use finesse. He didn't use a condom. He guided himself to the entrance of my heat and pushed in with a slow, agonizing force that made me cry out, the sound bouncing off the glass walls.

"Vincent!" I sobbed, my fingers clawing at the polished mahogany.

"Let the whole floor hear you," he hissed, his pace turning into a punishing, rhythmic assault. "Let them know exactly what happens when I decide I want something."

The friction was intense. Every thrust was a wet, slapping sound that filled the silent room. He was heavy, his sweat dripping onto my chest, his scent of sandalwood and raw power overwhelming my senses. I watched his face—the way his jaw was set, the way the gold in his eyes seemed to glow with every hit. He wasn't the CEO now. He was a man taking what he had claimed as his.

I was reaching the edge. The risk of being caught, combined with the brutal honesty of his movements, was pushing me toward a cliff I couldn't avoid. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down until his mouth was inches from mine.

"Don't... don't stop," I begged, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

"I'm never stopping," he promised, his voice a guttural growl. "You think this ends when we leave this room? You’re mine, Aubrey. In the office, out of it, in your bed, and in mine. You signed your life away the moment you let me touch you."

He quickened the pace, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow. I felt the tension snap in my spine. A violent, shaking orgasm ripped through me, my legs tightening around his waist as I screamed into his shoulder. I felt him follow me a second later, his body tensing into a cord of hard muscle as he poured himself into me, marking the boardroom table with the evidence of our transgression.

We stayed like that for several minutes, the only sound the hum of the air conditioning and our broken breathing. Vincent eventually pulled back, adjusting his clothes with a terrifyingly quick return to his professional composure. He looked down at me, still disheveled and shaking on the table.

"Clean yourself up, Aubrey," he said, his voice back to that cool, authoritative rasp. "And call maintenance. Tell them someone spilled coffee in the boardroom. We wouldn't want the cleaning crew to find anything... unprofessional."

He walked toward the door, stopping only to pick up his jacket. He didn't look back as he stepped out into the hallway, leaving me alone in the freezing room.

I sat up, my body aching, my skin still humming from his touch. I looked at the empty doorway. I was a secretary again. But as I touched the marks on my thighs, I knew the report was finished. The deal was done.

I stayed on the table for a long time after the door clicked shut. The cold of the mahogany was finally starting to seep into my bones, replacing the blistering heat Vincent had left behind. My breath was still coming in shallow hitches, and the silence of the executive floor felt like it was pressing against my eardrums. I looked down at my lap; my skirt was ruined, the silk stained and wrinkled beyond repair. I looked like what I was: a woman who had just been dismantled on a conference table.

I forced myself to slide off the wood. My legs buckled for a second, my muscles still twitching from the intensity of the release. I had to grab the edge of the table to keep from falling. I felt messy, sticky, and completely unraveled. There was no romance in this—no soft words, no afterglow. There was just the smell of him and the physical evidence of my own lack of control.

I walked over to the corner of the room where the small bar was set up for high-level clients. I grabbed a stack of linen napkins and wet them with bottled water, my hands shaking so hard I almost dropped the glass. I cleaned myself with quick, clinical movements, trying to erase the physical trace of him even though I knew the mental mark was permanent. I watched my reflection in the darkened glass of the window. My hair was a bird’s nest, my lipstick was smeared across my cheek, and my eyes... they looked feral.

I pulled my skirt down and tried to button my blazer, but the missing button from the night before reminded me that this wasn't a one-time lapse. This was my life now. I wasn't just Aubrey, the efficient assistant with the perfect spreadsheets. I was the girl who stayed late because the danger was more addictive than the paycheck.

I picked up my iPad from the floor. The screen was cracked, a jagged line running right through the Q3 projections. It felt like a metaphor I didn't want to acknowledge.

As I reached for the door handle, I saw a small, cream-colored envelope tucked into the frame, right at eye level. He must have left it there as he walked out. I opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was no note, just a sleek, black keycard with no markings and a handwritten address for a penthouse in Chelsea.

Underneath the address, in his sharp, arrogant handwriting, were four words:

"8:00 PM. Don't be late."

I leaned my head against the cool wood of the door. My performance review was over, but my shift had just begun. I wasn't going home to sleep. I was going home to shower, put on the highest heels I owned, and walk right back into the fire.

I stepped out into the hallway, my heels clicking against the marble with a newfound, dangerous confidence. I didn't care who saw me now. I didn't care what they whispered. Because while they were fighting for crumbs of his attention in the boardroom, I was the only one who held the key to his private world.