Page 10 of Claimed By the Boss

I glance at the clock. It’s 9:57. I can respect that.

“Send her in,” I say evenly.

I turn from the large window overlooking the city and sit behind the massive oak desk, folding my hands on the polished surface. Everything in here is designed to intimidate, especially new hires.

I pull out the candidate’s resumé, but before I can really look at it, the door opens. I look up, and my perfectly crafted veneer nearly cracks.

It’s Lyra.

Her strawberry-blonde hair is freshly tamed, though I already see a curl fighting to escape near her temple. Her green eyes lock with mine, and I can tell she’s having the same realization.

Or is she? If she’s as shocked as I am, she certainly hides it better.

She’s wearing a gray fitted suit that I’m sure is meant to make her look more professional, but it does nothing to hide the curves beneath. If anything, it makes her look even more tempting than her waitress uniform.

I feel a slow, hard burn start in my chest and sink low in my gut. It’s a good thing I’ve had decades of practice keeping my face neutral, because all I can think about is how easy it would be to lean across this desk, drag her onto it, and find out exactly what color her underwear is.

She stands in the doorway for a second, eyes flicking over the office. Her gaze lands on me, and she hesitates just slightly. Then she squares her shoulders, walks in, and sits in the chair opposite me without being asked. It’s bold. I like that.

She smooths her skirt, adjusting the way it sits over her thighs. She clears her throat.

“Mr.Morozov,” she says, voice steady enough that I’m impressed.

I lean back slightly in my chair, steepling my fingers. “Miss Taylor, I presume.”

Her cheeks color faintly. Good. She’s not as calm as she wants to appear.

“Can we start over?” she blurts.

I raise an eyebrow. “We haven’t even started the interview.”

She presses her lips together, then takes a breath. “I mean from last night.”

She’s embarrassed, but I keep my face completely impassive.

“From last night?” I ask, tilting my head slightly, to mess with her.

She huffs. “At the restaurant,” she clarifies. “Can we forget that any of that happened?”

Her voice is firmer this time, but there’s a hint of pleading in her eyes that I don’t miss. It does something to me I don’t appreciate.

I shrug slowly. “It’s forgotten.”

Her shoulders slump just a little in relief. I lean forward, pick up the folder containing her resumé, flip it open, and hold it up slightly, tapping the paper with one finger.

“Now,” I say, my voice even colder than before, “tell me why someone with these qualifications is working as a waitress.”

I watch her face carefully. For a split second, there’s something like indignation there. She doesn’t like the question.

She squares her shoulders again. “I’ve got to pay the bills.”

I nod once, setting the folder down.

Short, honest, and to the point. I can work with that. My eyes don’t leave hers. I make sure of it. I want her squirming and thinking about last night. I want her imagining what else I might do to her.

My eyes flick down to her suit jacket. She’s buttoned up, neat, and professional. I wonder how fast I could have it open. How she’d look with it falling off her shoulders. My fingers twitch slightly against the armrest of my chair.

She shifts in her seat, and I know she’s feeling it too. Her thighs press together almost imperceptibly, but I see it.