Page 6

NATALIE

Monday morning, and the air at McDaid Security is thick with disinfectant and denial. My phone dings three times before I even hit the lobby. The first is a calendar reminder, the second is a threat from our IT contractor, and the third is a terse all-caps text from the man himself.

The Boss

COME STRAIGHT TO MY OFFICE.

It’s seven o’ two, and I’m already at my desk, hair brushed so smooth you could ice skate on it.

I’ve worn my most boring blouse and buttoned it so high it might double as a nun’s collar.

I’m also wearing new lipstick. It’s a shade called “neutral assertion,” which is total bullshit, because every time I catch my reflection, I remember Friday and my knees get wobbly.

There’s a flicker of motion in my periphery, a shadow that moves with military precision.

He’s across the atrium, already scanning the lobby.

He wears a black suit like it’s body armor, his gait as loose and predatory as a wolf in a tie.

His beard is trimmed shorter than last week, but the scar on his knuckle is the same.

It flexes when he clenches his fist, which he does as soon as he spots me.

I pretend not to notice, but I do. I notice everything. He keeps walking, not a word, but as he passes my desk, I hear the low, vibrating growl of his voice: “My office, ten.” Then he’s gone, trailing the sharp scent of his aftershave and pure command.

I check my pulse and find it beating at one-thirty, which is normal for me any time Declan McDaid is around.

Nine minutes and thirty short seconds later, I’m standing outside his door, my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest. My hand hovers over the wood, trembling embarrassingly.

I knock, and his deep, commanding voice slices through the air. “Come in.”

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open to find him sitting behind his desk like the king of the corporate jungle. His suit is immaculate, tailored to hug every inch of his broad shoulders and chest.

“Hi,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper as I wonder if I just dreamed what happened Friday. God, I hope not. My pussy is already throbbing, slick with anticipation, and I haven’t even taken a full step into the room.

He stands up, and fuck me sideways, he’s so damn tall. His hands go to his tie, and he starts pulling at it, his eyes locked on mine like a predator sizing up its prey. My breath hitches, and I can feel my nipples hardening under my blouse, begging for his touch.

“Close the door,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. I obey, my fingers fumbling with the handle before I finally manage to shut it. The click of the lock echoes in the room, and I swear I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

He steps around the desk, and I can see the bulge in his pants, straining against the fabric like it’s trying to break free. My mouth waters as I remember what’s hiding in there. His cock is so thick, hard, and ready to ruin me in the best way possible.

“We’re not going to pretend Friday didn’t happen,” he growls, sending shivers down my spine. He prowls over to me and stands so close I can smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more primal.

“No,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “We’re not.”

His hand reaches out, and I sigh as his fingers brush against my cheek. They’re warm, calloused, and they send a jolt of electricity straight to my clit. He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look into his dark and hungry eyes. What I see shining from his gaze causes my knees to go weak.

“Good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against mine in a soft, almost cruel kiss.

As his tongue slides into my mouth like he owns it, I grip his shoulders for dear life.

Damn. My heart squeezes in a funny way that’s terrifying.

Having hot, monkey sex with my boss is one thing, but actually falling for him is something else.

His hands move all over my body, starting at my waist and moving to my ass then my tits, and I can’t think straight.

He pulls my blouse open with a force that makes me gasp.

Buttons scatter across the floor, and I don’t give a damn because his mouth moves to my neck, sucking and biting in a way that’s going to leave marks I’ll have to explain later.

“Please,” I whimper as his hands find my bra, unhooking it with practiced ease.

My tits spill out, and he groans, his mouth latching onto one nipple while his fingers pinch and twist the other.

The pain is sharp, delicious, and it makes me arch into him.

I should be embarrassed that my pussy is so wet I can feel it soaking through my panties, but my brain isn’t firing.

He pulls back for a moment, his eyes raking over my body like he’s memorizing every inch. “On the desk,” he commands, and I don’t hesitate. I climb onto it, my skirt riding up to expose my thighs, and he’s there in an instant, pushing my legs apart with a force that makes me gasp.

His fingers slide under the edge of my panties, and I can feel how wet I am, how ready.

He growls, low and deep, and then he’s pulling them down, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

His mouth is on me in an instant, his tongue lapping at my clit like it’s the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever tasted.

“Oh God,” I moan, my hands tangling in his hair as he eats me out like a man possessed. His tongue is relentless, flicking and circling in ways that make me see stars. I can feel the pressure building, coiling tight in my belly, and I know I’m so close.

But then he stops, pulling back with a smirk that makes me want to scream. “Not yet,” he says, his voice rough with need.

He stands up, unbuckling his belt quickly, making my head spin. His thick, hard cock springs free and I can’t help but reach for it. I wrap my hand around the base and give it a slow stroke.

He groans and thrusts deeper into my hand.

Before I know it, he pushes me back onto the desk and spreads my legs wide.

The head of his cock presses against my entrance, and I can feel how wet I am, how ready.

I hold my breath as he slides in slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he’s buried to the hilt.

“Fuck me,” I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as he starts to move. His thrusts are deep and hard, each one hitting the spot inside me that makes me see stars.

“Come for me,” he growls, his voice rough with need. And I do, my body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. He follows me over the edge, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me up with everything he’s got.

We collapse onto the desk, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and cum. His breath is hot against my neck, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.

“We’re definitely not pretending this didn’t happen,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.

“No,” I agree, my voice barely above a whisper. “We’re not.”

* * *

The next two hours are a slow-motion trainwreck as I attempt to put on my “work” face and ignore the electricity pulsing between us.

Every time he walks past my cubicle, the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention.

He barks orders with his usual snarl—“Print those contracts, Hollister,” “Conference room, five,”—and I volley them right back.

By eleven, I’ve edited three decks, fact-checked six pages of legal jargon, and survived two meetings with only minor bloodshed. The city council liaison tries to corner me by the Keurig, his eyes flicking to my blouse, but before he can say a word, Declan appears at my elbow.

“Ms. Hollister,” he says, voice low. “Walk with me.”

The liaison melts away. I walk at his side, my heels echoing his boot steps in perfect counterpoint.

He never looks directly at me, but as we approach the glass-walled conference room, he leans just close enough to say, “You’re good at keeping secrets.” His breath is hot on my ear, and the words slide into me like a knife.

“Part of the job description, I think,” I answer, keeping my tone as cool as possible.

He almost, almost smiles.

We hit the conference room and he’s back to business, bulldozing through the agenda with zero patience for small talk. But I see the way his fingers drum against the table whenever I speak, and how he tracks every motion, every shift in my seat.

Lunch is a bottle of Smart Water and a Luna bar. He skips food altogether, just stands in his office, staring out at the city, fists clenched behind his back. I catch him doing this three times. By two-thirty, I’m convinced he’s going to implode.

* * *

At four, the admin pool starts thinning.

By five, it’s just me, Declan, and the ghost of Mrs. Thomas, whose retirement photo still sits at the front desk like a guardian spirit.

I begin closing down for the day, double-checking his next-day calendar, when he appears in my doorway.

He’s leaning on the frame, arms folded. He’s lost his tie and unhooked the top button of his shirt.

He doesn’t knock. He just says, “You’re staying late.”

I look at the stack of files on my desk. “Is it a problem with the software invoices?”

“No.” He shakes his head, jaw flexing. “I need to talk to you.”

“Of course, Declan,” I say, standing up. Since it’s after work hours, I use his first name and hold my breath, waiting to see if he objects. When he lets it slide, I slowly exhale.

“I wanted to set some ground rules between us.” He runs his finger over his bottom lip. “Because you’re the best goddamn PA I’ve had since Margaret retired and I don’t want our sexual relationship to interfere with our work relationship.”

“Okay.”

He seems almost relieved that I didn’t make a joke or blush or flinch. “First rule,” he says, and steps fully into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, “neither of us brings it into meetings, into email, or anywhere the rest of the company could see it.”

“Fine.” I nod. It’s easier than I thought it would be.

“Second,” he says, searching my face for any sign of rebellion, “if you ever get tired of this, or even think you want to stop, you say so. I’ll listen. No drama, no reprisal.”

That one lands differently. I can’t see ever getting tired of this, but I keep that little tidbit to myself. Instead, I just say, “I agree.”

He nods, silent for a breath or two longer than I expect.

There’s a knot in his jaw like he wants to say more, but the words don’t come.

I wonder, for a heartbeat, what would happen if I reached out and ran my thumb over the angry curve of his mouth.

Instead, I button my jacket and reach for the stack of folders beside the monitor.

He opens the door to see me out, but before I step past him, he catches my wrist gently. “Third rule,” he says, voice pitched so low it’s more vibration than sound, “you can always tell me if I’m being an asshole.”

I grin broadly, unable to suppress the amusement bubbling up inside me. "That will be an ongoing theme, I’m sure," I tease, my voice light and playful.

He’s trying hard not to smile, a subtle twitch at the corners of his mouth betraying his effort.

It’s as if he’s forgotten how, like this simple act of smiling is foreign to him.

"Maybe," he concedes, his voice low and smooth.

His eyes, deep and mysterious, are so dark they nearly swallow all light, rendering them almost black in the dim room.

"Since we've got that all cleared up," I relax a little, "I think we should also agree to keep our hands to ourselves during working hours." I propose the rule, my gaze steady and challenging, like a chess player daring their opponent to make the next move.

"Agreed," he responds promptly, without a flicker of doubt, his tone firm and resolute, like a knight accepting a noble quest.

Over the next week, we slip into a well-worn routine, spending our days side by side, diligently focused on our tasks.

It's as if an invisible line separates us, a silent agreement holding us in check.

The air around us hums with unspoken tension, yet we move through our work seamlessly, as if nothing is simmering beneath the surface.

Then we spend the evenings upstairs in his penthouse exploring this insane connection between us. Several times, I have to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out my growing feelings for him.