Page 8

CHAPTER 8

SHOMUN

T he lights of Dubai flicker to life outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the suite, a glittering sprawl of ambition and excess. I sit in the dimly lit living area, the report in my hands, my jaw tight. The city’s glow does nothing to soothe my mood. Two days. Two days I’ve been kept waiting by John Flair, the Australian representative for the rare earth mining company. It’s a power play, and I despise it. Veritas needs those minerals, but I won’t let him think he has the upper hand.

My thoughts drift to Claire, as they often do. She’s in the kitchenette, the faint clink of porcelain betraying her presence. She’s been quiet since we arrived, reserved as always, but there’s something about her—a sharpness, a hidden fire that surfaces when she’s relaxed. I find myself drawn to it, to her. It’s a distraction I can’t afford, not now. Not ever.

I force my attention back to the report she prepared. My eyes scan the pages, my mind demanding precision. And then I see it—a typo. A single misplaced decimal point. Minor, perhaps, but to me, it’s an affront. My frustration boils over.

“Ms. Redding!” My voice cuts through the quiet like a whip. “Get in here.”

She appears almost instantly, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Her honey-blonde hair is pulled back, her green eyes wide with concern. She’s holding a cup of coffee, steam curling lazily from the surface. She sets it down on the table in front of me, her movements careful, deliberate.

“Yes, Sir?” Her voice is calm, but I catch the faintest tremor.

I hold up the report, my finger jabbing at the offending number. “What is this?”

She leans in, her brow furrowing as she studies the page. “It’s the projected yield for the mining operation. Why?”

“Why?” My tone is sharp, and I see her flinch. “Because it’s wrong. A decimal point out of place. Do you know what happens if we base our negotiations on flawed data?”

She straightens, her chin lifting slightly. “I’ll fix it immediately.”

“You’ll fix it?” I rise from my chair, towering over her. “This isn’t a first-year accounting class, Ms. Redding. This is Veritas. Mistakes like this could cost us everything.”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “I understand, Sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Ms. Redding,” I growl, my voice low and deliberate, “I will make sure that it does not happen again.” She doesn’t flinch, damn her. There’s a calmness to her that’s almost infuriating. She should be trembling, should be apologizing profusely. Instead, she’s standing there, her green eyes steady, her lips slightly parted as if she’s about to say something she knows I won’t like.

I point to the window. “Over there. Kneel. Hands behind your back.”

Her chin lifts just a fraction, and she obeys without a word. She kneels on the plush carpet, framed by the glittering Dubai skyline, her hands clasped behind her back. Her posture is perfect, her skirt riding up just enough to reveal the curve of her thighs. My jaw tightens. She’s too composed, too... serene. It’s as if she’s enjoying this. And that thought only makes my anger burn hotter.

I grab the report and press it against the glass. “Lean forward. Nose to the decimal point. Hold it there.”

She leans forward, her breath fogging the glass slightly as she places her face against the paper. “Yes, Sir,” she murmurs, her voice soft but unyielding. There’s a... something in her tone that I can’t quite place. Something that sets my nerves on fire.

I step behind her, towering over her kneeling form. My fingers twitch, wanting to reach out, to grab her, to shake her until she understands the gravity of her mistake. But I don’t. I stand there, my chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, watching her.

“If you drop that paper,” I say, my voice like gravel, “I’ll have to discipline you further.”

She doesn’t respond right away, and the silence stretches between us like a live wire. Then, in that same soft, infuriatingly calm voice, she says, “I’m sorry I failed to perform for you, Sir.”

My hand clenches into a fist, and I’m suddenly aware of the heat pooling low in my abdomen. My cock stirs, pressing against the fabric of my trousers. I grit my teeth, trying to will it away, but the image of her kneeling there, obedient and yet somehow defiant, sends a jolt of arousal through me.

I reach down, my fingers brushing against the bulge in my pants. I shouldn’t do this. She’s my subordinate, my responsibility. But I can’t help it. The thoughts come unbidden—images of her on her knees, my hand fisted in her hair, her lips wrapped around me...

The phone on the table rings, shattering the moment. I curse under my breath and step away, my hand dropping to my side. I glance at the caller ID—John Flair. Damn it. I can’t ignore this.

I look down at Claire, still kneeling, still holding the report against the glass. “Stay there,” I snap, my voice harsher than I intended. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch.

I snatch the phone off the table and answer it, my voice clipped. “Flair. You’re late.”

“Ah, Simon, mate!” John Flair’s voice crackles through the phone, too cheerful, too smooth. “Deepest apologies for the delay. You know how it is—time zones and all that. Bloody nightmare.”

I grit my teeth, pacing the room. Claire kneels by the window, her silhouette framed by the glittering Dubai skyline. Her hands are behind her back, her posture obedient, but I know her better now. She’s watching me, calculating. Always calculating. “Cut the pleasantries, Flair. You’re three days late. What’s the holdup?”

“Well, you see, Simon,” he drawls, “we’ve had a wee chat with the board, and, uh, seven billion seems to be the magic number.”

I stop pacing. Seven billion? The company’s barely worth one. My hand clenches around the phone. “Seven billion? Are you drunk, or just delusional?”

He chuckles, a sound that makes my scales itch. “Now, now, no need for that tone. Why don’t you make me a new offer, eh? Something more... reasonable.”

My eyes flick back to Claire. She’s shifted slightly, her knees clearly aching, but she’s holding her position. Good. She needs to learn. I walk over, my boots silent on the marble floor, and place a hand on her shoulder. She flinches, nearly dropping the paper pressed against the glass.

“Careful,” I murmur, my voice low. “Hold it steady.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispers, her voice soft but tinged with defiance.

I let my hand slide down her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her blouse. My fingers trail over her side, and I cup her breast. She inhales sharply, her back arching ever so slightly. I feel her nipple harden under my palm, and a soft moan escapes her lips.

“Simon?” Flair’s voice pulls me back. “You still there?”

“Yes,” I say, the heat pooling in my gut. “Let’s talk numbers. Your operation is hemorrhaging cash, and your assets are overvalued. Two billion. Final offer.”

“Two billion?” he sputters. “That’s a bloody insult!”

I squeeze Claire’s breast, my thumb brushing over her nipple. She stifles another moan, her breath fogging the glass. “Two billion, or I walk. And trust me, Flair, no one else is going to touch that sinking ship of yours.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Finally, he sighs. “Alright, alright. Two billion. But you’re a hard man, Simon Karr.”

“I know,” I say, ending the call.

The moment the phone is down, I hear a soft flop . Claire’s dropped the paper. She turns her head slightly, her green eyes meeting mine. “I dropped it, Sir. I’m sorry. I’ll accept whatever punishment you think is appropriate.”

Her tone is apologetic, but there’s a glint in her eyes that tells me she’s not sorry at all. I step closer, my hand still resting on her breast, and lean down until my lips are inches from her ear. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?”

“Never, Sir,” she murmurs, though the slight curve of her lips says otherwise.

I grip her chin, forcing her to look up at me. “You think you can play games with me, Claire?”

“No, Sir. I just... I thought you’d want to know if I made a mistake.”

“A mistake, yes,” I growl, my free hand sliding down her side, over her hip. “But this feels more like a provocation.”

She doesn’t answer, but her eyes say everything. She’s testing boundaries, seeing how far she can push me. And damn it, it’s working. My cock aches, demanding attention, and the way she’s looking at me—submissive but daring—only makes it worse.

“You’ll regret this,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.

She tilts her head slightly, her lips parting. “Will I, Sir?”

I sit back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and snap my fingers sharply. “Get over here, Ms. Redding.”

Claire hesitates for a fraction of a second before stepping forward, her green eyes locking with mine. “Yes, Sir,” she replies, her voice steady but laced with something else—curiosity, maybe. Or anticipation.

She’s standing in front of me now, her hands clasped loosely at her sides, her posture perfect. I can see the faintest tremor in her lower lip, though she’s trying to hide it. I reach out, grab her wrist, and pull her down over my lap in one swift motion. She gasps, her hands instinctively bracing against the floor to steady herself. Her skirt rides up, revealing the delicate lace of her panties. I take a moment to admire the view—her ass is a work of art, round and firm, begging for my attention.

“Attention to detail is very important,” I say. My hand comes down with a sharp crack against her right cheek. She cries out, her body jerking in surprise, and I feel a surge of satisfaction at the way her skin flushes under my palm.

I spank her again, this time on the other side. Her moan this time is different, deeper, more vocal. I can feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her panties, and it’s intoxicating. I increase the force of the next strike, and she practically keens, her hips lifting slightly, her body arching into the impact.

She’s squirming now, her legs shifting restlessly, and I can’t resist the urge any longer. My hand caresses her reddening flesh, the heat of her skin seeping into my palm. She bucks again, and my fingers slide between her legs, brushing against the damp fabric of her panties. Soaked. She’s soaked.

I tug the lace aside, my fingers finding her wet, slick folds. She gasps, her body tensing, and I slip a finger inside her. She’s so soft, so warm, and I can feel her clenching around me. I add a second finger, then a third, working her with a precision that makes her writhe on my lap.

“Please,” she moans, her voice trembling.

“Please what?” I growl, my thumb circling her clit.

“Please, more fingers... Sir,” she begs, her hips rocking against my hand.

I oblige, stretching her with my fingers, feeling her body respond to every movement. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and I know she’s close. I lean down, my lips brushing against her ear as I whisper, “Cum for me, Claire.”

Her body tightens, her back arching as she comes undone, her cries muffled against the armrest of the chair. I keep my fingers inside her, feeling her muscles clench and release as the aftershocks ripple through her.

When she finally stills, I lift her up, pulling her back to sit on my lap. Her body is still trembling, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. I lean in, my lips grazing her ear as I whisper, “Clarice, I want to be inside of you.”

She doesn’t respond with words. Instead, she grinds her bottom against my hardening cock, her body still warm and sensitive from her release. I groan, my hands tightening on her hips as I press her closer.