I shouldn’t have worn this dress.
It clung. It shimmered. It said look at me in a room full of people who made more in a week than I had in a year. But it had felt right. Powerful. Until he walked in.
I knew who he was instantly. I’d seen him once—on a private floor at headquarters, flanked by men who flinched when he spoke.
Julian Roth.
The money behind the company. The man whose name was only whispered in legal documents and boardrooms. No one knew much about him.
But everyone knew not to speak unless spoken to.
He hadn’t said a word all evening. Just drank his bourbon slowly and watched me.
Watched.
Like he was waiting for something.
“Ms. Hale,” he finally said.
I turned, pulse tightening.
“Yes, Mr. Roth?”
“You’re new.”
“I was just promoted.”
He sipped his drink. “I noticed.”
The way he said it—I noticed—felt like a striptease in my ear. Low. Measured. Dangerous.
I tried to smile. “Well… it’s an honor to be here.”
He leaned in, voice low. “Would you like to stay late?”
My breath caught. “Excuse me?”
“I have something to show you. My office’s upstairs. Bring your wine.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked toward the elevator, knowing I’d follow.
And I did.
Because the way he said it… the way he looked at me…
I knew this wasn’t about paperwork.
His office was silent and sleek. Glass walls. Marble desk. Manhattan glittering behind him like a goddamn altar.
He shut the door. Locked it.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to the edge of the desk.
I sat.
He walked over. Towered over me.
“Do you know why I brought you up here?” he asked.
“No,” I said, lying through my teeth.
He smiled. “You wore that dress for attention.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. He wasn’t wrong.
“You’ve been looking at me all night,” he continued, voice silk-wrapped steel. “And I don’t like games. So I’m going to give you one chance to leave.”
I didn’t move.
He stepped between my knees. “Good.”
Then he kissed me.
No warning. No hesitation.
His hands tangled in my hair. His tongue slid past my lips like he owned me already. I moaned into his mouth as his fingers slid up my thighs, lifting my dress like it was in his way. It was.
He pulled his mouth away.
“On the table.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Now.”
I scrambled up, breathless. His desk was cold under my back, but he didn’t care. He was already between my legs, pushing my panties aside, licking a line up my slit like it was the first thing he’d eaten all day.
I cried out. Clutched the edge of the desk.
“Keep quiet,” he said. “The walls aren’t soundproof.”
His tongue circled my clit like he was studying it—memorizing what made me tremble. When I whimpered too loud, he shoved two fingers inside me, curling them just right until I choked on a moan.
My orgasm slammed into me, hard and fast, leaving me dazed and drenched on polished marble.
But he wasn’t done.
He stood. Undid his belt. Freed himself with the kind of confidence only a man like him could carry.
He was big. Hard. Mean-looking.
I bit my lip.
“No,” he said. “Eyes on me.”
I met his gaze.
He pushed inside me—slow at first, then deeper, relentless. I gasped, nails clawing at the table as he fucked me with perfect, brutal rhythm.
“This is what happens when you beg for attention with your eyes,” he growled. “When you show up dressed like a gift and expect no one to unwrap it.”
I moaned. He slammed harder.
“You wanted this,” he said. “Wanted someone to ruin you. Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I gasped.
“Say it.”
“I wanted you—”
“Louder.”
“I wanted you to fuck me on the table!”
He groaned. Grabbed my throat. Not tight. Just present. His eyes locked on mine as I shattered again beneath him.
“I’m not your boss,” he said, panting. “I’m your owner now.”
He came with a grunt, hips grinding deep until I felt every drop.
Silence followed.
He stepped back. Fixed his shirt. Zipped his pants.
And then—calm as ever—he handed me a pen.
“Sign your new contract,” he said.
It was already on the desk.