Page 5 of Masked Seduction

So no, marriage isn’t for me.

But they got one thing right. Jenna is good. Better than I expected. She’s smart. Fast. A little rough around the edges. She’s emotional, impulsive, and a little too eager to talk back, but she learns quickly. She expertly manages my calendar, types quickly and accurately, and anticipates what I need before I ask for it.

She’s not perfect. Yet.

And thank fuck she’s not soft. She doesn’t flinch when I raise my voice, doesn’t blush when I look at her too long. She meets me—challenge for challenge—and half the time I don’t know whether I want to bend her over the desk or see what else she’s capable of under pressure.

She still needs some work, though. She hasn’t been broken in yet, hasn’t been taught how I like things, how I expect things.

But she will be. Because I don’t accept incompetence. I don’t accept excuses.

I demand excellence.

And if she’s going to keep walking into my office with those curves and that mouth, she’d better learn how to be fucking flawless.

Nothing less will do.

Training her as an assistant will take time. Precision. Patience.

But there are other things. Darker things. Things I should not—must not—train her for.

I try to refocus, push the thoughts aside. But they slip in anyway. Uninvited. Unstoppable.

One moment I’m thinking about schedules and contracts. The next, her.

I close my eyes, jaw tight, as the image takes over. Smoke curling under a locked door. Slow. Inevitable. Her skirt sliding up, her fingers slipping beneath the hem of her blouse. That look she gives me when she’s about to say something that will make my cock twitch—smug, teasing—like she’s always one step ahead.

In my head, she’s back in my office. That tight skirt now on the floor. The blouse, undone and slipping off her shoulders like it was made to fall just for me. She stands in front of me in black lace—bra lifting her full tits, panties hugging her hips so snugly it should be illegal.

“You’re staring, Mr. Vasiliev,” she says, voice low and knowing.

“Can you blame me?” I murmur, rising from the chair and circling her slowly. “You wore this on purpose.”

“To distract you,” she says, chin lifted. “Is it working?”

I reach out and grip her hips, firm and possessive, pulling her close. “You have no idea.”

Her laugh is wicked. “Maybe I need to spell out what I’m really here for.”

“Do it,” I breathe, already hard. “Say what you want.”

“I want your hands on me,” she whispers.

I growl, mouth crashing into hers. Deep. Claiming. The kind of kiss that erases logic, torches restraint. I feel her melt into me, arching, pressing her heat against the bulge in my slacks.

“You think this is smart?” I speak against her lips. “Fucking your boss?”

She grins against my mouth. “No. But you don’t hire smart girls for this.”

I chuckle. “No, I hire dangerous ones.”

And fuck, she is dangerous. Her body’s all curves and fire, hips made to be grabbed, thighs I’d let crush the life out of me. I lift her onto the desk—sweeping everything off in one careless motion—and bury myself in her so deep she forgets her own name.

Just as she leans back, spreading her legs for me, I blink. The image shatters. She’s not here. Just me and the silence of the office, a spreadsheet I’ve been pretending to read.

I drag a hand down my face and exhale slowly.

Dangerous, I think again. But I’m not sure I’m talking about the fantasy anymore.