Page 68 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter sixty-eight

M y new keycard works on the executive elevator.

That alone should tell me how deep I've been pulled into this world.

No more badge-scans and "please hold." Just a smooth ride up and a direct text from Grayson:

Come to my office.

Close the door behind you.

I should be nervous. I’m not. I’m buzzing. Half from power, half from wondering how he’s going to ruin me in that stupid perfect chair of his.

The hallway outside his office is quiet, sterile, polished. The kind of quiet that hums with money and threat .

I bypass a bitchy-looking icy blonde who jabs the button to announce me when I don’t stop. She clearly isn’t used to anyone barging in on Grayson. Fool’s errand.

I tap twice and step inside without waiting.

He’s behind the desk, sleeves rolled, dark vest over a crisp white shirt. No tie. Collar open just enough to erase every intelligent thought I walked in with.

“You called?” I close the door.

His eyes drag from my heels to my mouth. He’s deciding what order to take me in.

“I wanted to congratulate you,” he says smoothly. “HR wasn’t even surprised when I promoted you. They already knew you wouldn’t stay at manager level.”

“I’ll take that as a win.” I step closer, fold my arms.

He gestures to the chair across from him. I ignore it and rest a hip against his desk, close enough he can feel the choice.

“I have your new assignments. People. Departments. Patterns. You’ll report directly to me. No one else needs to know how deep this goes.”

I nod, but my brain’s already slipping sideways. If I inch my skirt up, he’ll see the garters. I wore them for this.

Because Grayson Calhoun looks like sex and strategy wrapped in a man I should fear more than I do. And maybe it’s the leftover hum of orgasms in my system. Maybe it’s the power trip of a black keycard and a title that doesn’t exist.

But I don’t want to sit across from him.

I want to get on my knees.

“Anything else?” I ask, and my tone makes his eyes sharpen.

“Yes,” he says, leaning back. “But if you keep looking at me like that, I won’t remember a word.”

I push off the desk and slide between his legs, sinking to my knees.

“Reagan,” he warns .

Too late.

I unbuckle his belt, unzip, glance up with the look he said he couldn’t resist. “Let me congratulate you, boss.”

His jaw flexes. I see the exact second his restraint snaps.

One hand threads into my hair, slow and possessive. His grip says don’t stop. “You really want to do this here?” His voice is rough, low, dangerous in the way bourbon is dangerous. Smooth going down, then it hits.

I stroke him once, slow, lick the head. His breath stutters.

“Fawn, fuck, you’re a vixen.”

When I take him deeper, his other hand clamps the desk. His hips twitch forward. He’s close.

“Reagan,” he rasps, holding on.

I press my tongue harder, faster.

He curses and comes hot down my throat. I swallow every drop, clean him up like a thank-you note.

When I stand, I whisper, “Congratulations again, boss.”

He grabs my wrist. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

I grin. “That’s the only kind worth playing.”

I smooth my skirt down, hips swaying, lace flashing just enough to show the garter.

That’s when his control shatters.

In one brutal motion, he lifts me, throws me across the desk. Papers scatter.

“Gray—”

“Quiet.” His growl hits my spine. “You walk in here with that smug little mouth, then get on your knees? You think you’re in control?”

He shoves my skirt to my waist, yanks my panties aside. His mouth is on me before I can think.

Relentless. Hot. Starving .

His tongue flicks my clit in a ruthless rhythm and I break. My orgasm hits fast, brutal, wrecking.

“Come for me, little fawn,” he says against me. “Right here on my desk. Mark it.”

And I do.

When he finally rises, jaw slick, eyes blown wide, he curls a hand around my jaw. “You wanted power? You’ve got it. But don’t forget who lets you play with it.”

I smile slow, sharp. “You’re right. It’s mine now.”