Page 5 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

“Thank you. I only got lost twice.” She opened the folder, fingers nimble. I noted the nails; short, clean, painted a colorless gloss. No rings, but her fingers were slim and pretty. Since when did I notice pretty hands? “You said you wanted preliminary options for the reunion event. I’ve pulled together some-”

“Yes.” I cut her off, not because I was bored, but because she’d leaned forward as she spoke, and the second button of her blouse looked dangerously close to giving up. I was sure she could feel me staring; I was equally sure she was pretending not to.

She laid out three sheets in a fan. “Option one is traditional, with white flowers and a plated dinner. Option two-” She tapped it, and the movement left the fabric of her shirt gaping between the buttons. I could see the creamy skin and the curve of her breast into a black lacey bra. My blood pressure, already north of acceptable, kicked up another five points. “-is more modern, with passed small plates and live music. Option three-”

I did not care what option three was. All I could see was the pulse at her throat, thumping fast, the same rhythm I felt in my own wrists. I watched her mouth as she spoke: full, plush, beautiful. She pulled her lip into her teeth, unconsciously, and my hands, calloused, dangerous, gripped the edge of the desk so hard I expected the wood to splinter.

Get a grip, I told myself. She’s your employee, not your plaything. You hired her for her brain, not-

My mind short-circuited as she leaned closer, flipping a page, and the third button actually did pop open. Not catastrophically. She caught it with a thumb, smoothed it shut, then kept right on talking as if nothing had happened.

But worse, I could see down her shirt now. I saw the outline of her breast, pale and perfect, cradled into her bra. In that instant, I knew exactly how soft her skin would be under my hands.

I was going to hell.

She looked up. “Are you listening?”

“Of course,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what she’d just proposed. Option four? Arson? A seance? “Go on.”

She hesitated, then drew a deep breath that made her chest lift, and I nearly groaned aloud. “You said you wanted efficiency. My pitch is to combine the traditional with the modern; keep the formal seating, but do a tasting menu instead of a plated course. That way you get the best of both. People canmove around, interact. It’s less rigid. More-” She searched for a word, and I watched her tongue dart to the edge of her teeth, pink and quick. “-alive.”

Alive was not the word I would have chosen for my current state, but I nodded, grateful for the distraction. “That’s…not terrible.”

She grinned. I’d meant it as a compliment, but she seemed to know better. “High praise.”

I cleared my throat, which was suddenly thick. “What’s your budget breakdown?”

She launched into numbers, percentages, logistical minutiae. I tried to follow, but the only numbers I could focus on were the inches separating us and the fractions of skin she kept accidentally revealing. She wasn’t a seductress. That was the worst part. She was doing none of this on purpose; she was just…real. Open in a way I hadn’t been around in years.

I pictured myself reaching across the desk and catching her wrist, pulling her body down on the desk. Her papers would scatter, and she’d gasp, but not pull away. I’d push down her pants and her panties, and bury myself in her, kiss my way down the line of her collarbone, taste the salt and the softness and the way she’d tremble under my hands. She’d dig her nails into the desk, hard, perfect, and I’d fuck her right there, bent over the portfolio of her own making, until she was breathless and spent and dripping our juices.

The vision was so vivid, so physical, that for a split second I thought I’d actually done it. I blinked, and the fantasy flickered away, replaced by her actual face; flushed, focused, waiting for a response.

I had to shift in my seat. There was no way she hadn’t noticed. But if she did, she was too professional to let it show.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, cocking her head. The motion dislodged a stray hair that fell across her brow. I wantedto brush it away with my thumb, then draw her mouth to mine and taste the coffee on her breath.

I shook my head, careful not to trust my voice. She waited another beat, then gathered her pages, the motion making her blouse gap again, and I resigned myself to a permanent state of low-grade agony and raging hard-ons.

“Thank you for your time,” she said, stacking her things. “I’ll circulate revised plans by end of day. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

There was so, so much else. But I said nothing, only watched as she walked out, back ramrod-straight, pace brisk. I waited until the door clicked shut, then exhaled for what felt like the first time in ten minutes.

My cock was rock hard, and trying its hardest to knock on the other side of the desk and beg for escape. For a moment I considered the shame of it, the patheticness of a grown man undone by a woman with a decent mind and a slightly too-small blouse. But then I remembered the way she’d looked at me, really looked, not just as a boss but as a challenge, and I felt something I didn’t like.

Uncontrollable hunger.

I stayed seated until I could trust I wouldn’t give some poor staff member a heart attack. Then I got up, crossed to the window, and looked down at the garden below. Eden was there, sunlight catching the gold in her hair, talking to one of the grounds crew. She gestured with her hands as she spoke, animated, alive in a way I’d never let myself be.

If I had any sense, I’d fire her on the spot. But I didn’t. I had none.

I turned away from the window, forced my mind to silence, and got back to work.

Needing to cool down, I waited a full ten minutes before I dared leave my office. Even then, I took the back stair, just incase Eden was still prowling the main hallways. I needed a cold drink, anything to clear the residual haze from my head, and the kitchen was the only place in the house with both ice and a halfway functional human presence.

The corridor that led to the kitchen was long and unkind to the claustrophobic. Floor-to-ceiling paneling, stained so dark it was almost black, with sconces every six feet that gave the illusion of warmth but mostly made the shadows more complicated. This wing was my favorite. No family photographs, no art except for the antique hunting prints I’d inherited against my will, and the occasional wolf carving tucked into the crown molding. It was as close to privacy as you could get in a house this size.

The only downside was that every sound carried.