Page 23 of Claimed By the Boss

My pulse trips.

There’s nothing casual in the way he says it. He’s very direct, and it’s clear he isn’t just impressed by my coding skills.

He stands and steps toward me, then perches on the edge of his desk, gazing down at me.

“And you’re very good under pressure,” he adds. “Not everyone would’ve kept their cool the way you did earlier. You gave a master class in calming a crowd.”

“Someone had to,” I say softly.

He’s so close to me, I can almost feel his body heat. He doesn’t touch me, but he doesn’t need to. His presence alone is enough to fill every inch of space between us. I feel his gaze like a physical weight on me, and it makes my heart stutter.

“Your generation doesn’t get enough credit,” he says.

“For what?” I ask, taken aback.

“For knowing what you want,” he says, the words weighted.

I try to laugh it off, but the sound catches in my throat.

“You think I know what I want?” I ask, incredulous.

“I do.” His voice is firm and sure.

I should leave. I know I should. I should take a step back and draw a line and remind us both that this is inappropriate, that I work for him, that this is dangerous in ways I can’t even begin to unravel yet.

But I don’t.

Because he’s looking at me like I’m something rare. Something interesting. Something worth pausing for.

And the worst part is, I like it. I want him to keep looking at me that way. I want him to. To lean in closer. To close the distance between us.

“I don’t normally do this,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Speak with my employees on their first day. Invite them into my office. Alone. Waste time chatting with them when we’re both busy.”

I hesitate.

“I don’t think this is wasting time.”

He smiles faintly. “Then maybe it’s not.”

He takes another step forward, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to. I don’t. My breath hitches. My palms are damp. Every inch of my body is on high alert, waiting, bracing for something I shouldn’t want.

His eyes drop to my mouth. He doesn’t move closer, but I swear I feel the heat of him all the same.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he says.

My voice is barely a whisper. “Why not?”

“Because I wouldn’t stop.”

I freeze. I believe him. Completely.

“And you work for me,” he adds, his voice barely audible now. “Which complicates things.”

I nod slowly. “It does.”