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I reached up. My hands found his hair. He stopped. Complete withdrawal.

"Oh, you are not⁠—"

"I'm the boss."

Those three words hit every one of my triggers.

I had spent my entire adult life working for bosses. Bosses who changed deadlines. Bosses who scheduled meetings that should have been emails. Bosses who took credit for work they hadn't done and delegated problems they couldn't solve.

My first instinct was annoyance. But then I realized my hands were empty. My calendar was cleared. Magnus hadn't asked me to do anything except lie back and enjoy.

I was the one lying on the bed.

I was the one being catered to.

I was the one receiving his undivided attention.

Meanwhile, Magnus was treating my pleasure like a personal project with deliverables, benchmarks, and an aggressive commitment to quality control. The man was currently putting in an astonishing amount of effort on my behalf. And he was very, very good at it.

"Breathe, Petronella."

I released the breath I had been holding. The tension in my thighs ebbed by a fraction.

He waited. Watching my chest rise and fall. Watching the flush at my collarbone recede slightly. Reading me with those amber eyes that saw everything, cataloguing my arousal with the precision of a man who could hear my heartbeat slow.

Then he started again.

He parted my thighs. Took a long, slow lick. We'd been here before. He'd received a glowing performance review. He would excel again. I tried to hold still for him to complete this task and — hopefully — move onto the next.

But fuck, he was good at this. He tongued my clitoris. I twisted my fingers into the bedsheets. He delved his tongue into my entrance, going deeper than any tongue should be able to. I grabbed hold of the headboard. His nose nuzzled my clit — was that on purpose? — and his tongue tasted my perineum, my anus. I wasn't a backdoor virgin, but I'd only had dick in there, not tongue. I was not going to survive this interview.

I reached the edge again. Felt it gathering; that deep, coiling tension that started in my lower back and radiated outward. He knew; he always seemed to know the moment before my orgasm was at the door. He pulled back again.

I said something that was not a word.

He made a low sound that might have been amusement if it hadn't been so warm.

"Please," I begged.

Magnus moved over me. He looked down at me with those amber eyes. I looked up at him. Something passed between us that was not heat and not strategy and not the negotiation we had been conducting since the cabin. I reached up and pulled him down.

He came. He kissed me. He entered me.

I froze. "Condom?"

"I'm a wolf. We don't carry diseases."

"Pregnancy."

He shook his head. "I can't get you pregnant."

I wanted to argue. His dick was inside me. That's how women got pregnant. Maybe boy wolves could only get girl wolves pregnant? I wasn't a wolf. I decided to trust him. He hadn't lied to me once.

The first time was slow but not restrained. He wasn't holding back. Magnus Blackwood was a big boy. But I didn't feel a single pinch. He slipped inside me as if we belonged together. I felt every inch of him, every shift and adjustment, my body accommodating him with ease.

I pulled him closer.

He went deeper.