Page 7 of Claimed By the Boss

But her visuals encapsulated me and pulled me in with no chance of getting out. The way her uniform fitted nicely along her curves is no mistake either. It was going to be a difficult night, the way my mind is running right now.

In an attempt to distract myself, I watch the way the light fractures through the glass in my hand. My reflection swims on the surface, split and distorted. My hand tightens around the glass until it creaks. I exhale slowly and set it down.

Tonight was messy, but it will send a message. I’ll make damn sure that when I finally get my hands on Rurik, he’ll regret every breath he ever stole.

3

LYRA

Iclose the apartment door behind me with a sigh that rattles through my chest. The deadbolt clunks into place, and for the first time all day, it’s truly quiet, except in my head.

Becca’s working the overnight shift at the hotel again, and the apartment feels hollow without her there to fill the space with chatter about rude patients and front desk gossip. I slip off my shoes and flex my toes against the worn hardwood. The ache from hours of standing settles into my bones.

Without thinking, I look down at my wrist, where I still feel the faint pressure from where that asshole grabbed me. My skin burns in a way that makes me want to scrub it raw. He had no right to speak to me the way he did, and he definitely had no right to grab me like that. My blood begins to boil at the memory, then my thoughts drift to the icy blue eyes of the man who stepped in.

Damien Morozov.

Not just my savior. Potentially my new boss. Or more likely, my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. He is quite high up there.

So it’s definitely not a good idea to think about him like this, to let that light, new-crush feeling float in my chest.

I open the fridge and stare inside, more bored than hungry. My stomach is still tight with leftover adrenaline, and everything in there looks like cardboard right now. I shut the door with a sigh, so full of nervous energy with nowhere to put it.

I head to the tiny living room instead and drop onto the hand-me-down couch we got from Becca’s older sister. It’s so lumpy it has its own topography. I sink into it and stare at the blank television screen, not really feeling like turning it on. I look down at my bag, slumped where I threw it when I walked in the door. I rummage through it until my fingers close over the already familiar business card. I pull it out and stare at it in the dim light.

Damien Morozov

CEO, Integrated Solutions

Integrated fucking Solutions. My throat goes tight. How the hell am I supposed to get through my interview tomorrow, knowing he’s in charge? A cold dread washes over me as I wonder whether he’ll sit in on the interview. Is that something CEOs typically do?

I groan, slumping lower into the couch.

I press the card against my lips for a second, then pull it away, embarrassed even though no one can see me. Becca would tease the hell out of me for this.

I shake my head hard and stomp toward the bedroom. I flick on the light and immediately regret the harsh glow. The bed is small and unmade, covers twisted from another night spent tossing and turning over the impending interview.

I toss the card onto the pillow and kick off my skirt, leaving it in a heap. I pull off my blouse, toss it after the skirt, and tug on an old T-shirt instead. I set my phone on the nightstand and climb into bed, pulling my thin blanket up to my chest.

I reach for the card again without thinking and hold it against my collarbone. My fingers stroke the embossed letters.

Damien Morozov.

I close my eyes and picture his face. I see those sharp, aristocratic features. The cold blue eyes that looked right through me. I shift under the blanket, rolling onto my side, curling around the card like it’s something precious.

I tell myself it’s stupid, but the memory won’t let me go. Suddenly, I’m back in the restaurant, watching as he calmly grabbed the creep’s throat and squeezed. He was so controlled, so graceful in movements that should have struck me as violent. A dark part of me was so turned on and wanted to know what it would be like to feel that power directed toward me.

My thighs press together without my permission.

This is ridiculous. I need to get some sleep. I need to be rested and on my A-game for my interview tomorrow.

But my body doesn’t listen.

What Damien did shouldn’t be sexy, but I can’t stop picturing his big, strong hands. I imagine them on my body, feeling, searching, and groping all over me.

My breath hitches.

I let my hand drift lower, hesitating for a second before I slip it under the waistband of my panties. I bite my lip hard, trying tofight it, but the images keep coming. Damien leans over me, his voice rough with command. He tells me with his delicious accent to spread my legs. To behave. To be a good girl.