I grit my teeth, pushing myself farther, demanding extra, more stringent with my body than my boss would ever be. My passion builds until I can’t take one more thrust, one more second of delicious torment, my need stretched agonizingly tight.

I smack my clit with the heel of my hand. This pain breaks me, and I scream, bucking upward, my pussy clenching around my fingers, moisture flowing over my hands. The darkness bursts with light and color. Sound rushes in my ears. Ecstasy shakes my form.

The tremors gradually ease and I still, sagging against the chair, the tension drained from my shoulders, from my soul. “I needed that.” I roll my shoulders.

“We’re keeping the chair,” a familiar voice rumbles.

“Oh my God.” I open my eyes, my body temperature dropping.

“You called me John previously.” My boss gazes at me, at all of me, my body spread open to him. I straighten, lowering my feet to the carpet, removing my fingers from my pussy. “Don’t move,” he commands and I freeze, confused, mortified. He saw me.

John rounds the desk, grabs my wrists and raises my fingers. “I have to taste you.” He closes his grim lips around my index finger and sucks. The sight of my fingertip in my boss’s mouth is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. The pressure on my skin is exactly right, his mouth hot and wet. My nipples tighten to painful points, my arousal reviving.

His eyelids lower as he leisurely, thoroughly licks every finger clean, the expression on his face blissful. My boss is tasting me, my pussy juices, my skin, everything. I tremble and he tightens his grip on my hands, flicking his tongue over me.

Silence stretches. I can’t move, can’t escape, can’t retrieve my panties, the bright pink silk pooled on the carpet inches away from John’s black leather shoes. The cursed chair continues to hum, brushing against my back and ass.

John lifts my hands to his face and he breathes deeply, his nostrils flaring, his eyes as dark as the night sky. He enjoys my taste and my scent. While this thrills me, I don’t fool myself into thinking his enjoyment will change my future or ease my punishment.

“You’ve been a bad assistant, Grant.” He pulls me to my feet.

I sway, my legs unsteady. “I know I’ve been a bad assistant, Mr. Powers.” I lower my gaze to his chin, unable to see the disapproval, the disappointment reflecting in his eyes.

“You do not hang up on me. Ever,” he bluntly states, holding onto me. “I end our calls. You do not.”

“Yes, sir.” I squirm inwardly with embarrassment as I wait for him to mention my activities in his chair.

“Now, go. Get me that young pup Bass’ file.” John releases my wrists. “We have work to complete.” He sits down in his chair, the chair branded with my scent, with my wetness.

I gape at him, not moving, not speaking. Isn’t he planning on firing me, punishing me, doing something? He saw me masturbate, heard me call his name, tasted me.

“The file now, Grant,” John barks.

I jerk, his voice cutting through all of my concerns, and I rush out of the office, looking for the file.

* * *

We work until the early hours of the morning. I sit in one of the guest chairs across from John, our laptops and the desk separating us. He assigns me task after task after task, driving me as he drives himself, ruthlessly, without stopping.

Around two a.m., I hit the exhaustion wall. One moment, I’m blinking at a spreadsheet, trying to keep my eyes in focus. The next moment, John pushes against my right shoulder, shaking me.

“What? Where? Yes, sir.” I raise my head, confused. My curls frame my face and cascade down my back, sticking to my cheeks. I always wear my hair up at work. I can’t remember loosening the tight chignon.

“Where is your overnight bag?” John’s eyes soften, his expression warm and caring.

I must be dreaming. My boss isn’t warm and caring. I rub my hands over my face and his countenance becomes businesslike once more.

“It’s under my desk, sir,” I reply. He has asked me to always have an overnight bag packed, in case there’s an emergency in another city. “Are we going somewhere?” I stagger to my feet and wander into the hallway.

“My house is closer to the office.” John follows me, locking his door behind him. “We’ll stay there tonight.”

We’ll stay there tonight. I’m sleeping over at my boss’ house. I tug on the bag, my brain remaining fuzzy.

“You’re a mess without your coffee, Grant.” John takes the bag from me and clasps my hand, pulling me along the hallway.

I stumble forward, holding onto John’s arm. His muscles ripple under my fingertips. I barely notice. My eyes feel gritty, my mouth is dry, and I’m tired, my exhaustion bone-deep. “My name is Trella.”

“I know what your name is,” he drawls, slowing his pace. I’m still dreaming. John doesn’t slow down for anyone. “Trella Patrice Grant.” He hooks his right arm around my waist, supporting some of my weight. “Who puts their middle name on their resume?”

“You asked me that during my first interview.” I tuck my body deeper into his, savoring his heat, his musky scent, his unbending strength. “And again during my second interview and once more during my third interview. You were relentless.”

“You never did give me a satisfying answer.” He presses the button for the elevator. The doors open as though they’ve been waiting for us. We enter and he chooses executive parking. “You made no sense even then with your fancy degree and your hopeless amount of debt.”

“That debt is all paid off now.” I hold up one of my index fingers.

“I know it’s all paid off.” He rests his chin on the top of my head and rubs his fingertips into my hip. “Thanks to this job. What would you have done without me?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, too sleepy to lie. I can’t imagine my life without him. “I love working with you.” I love him.

“For me,” he corrects. “You work for me. Tonight doesn’t change that.” He nuzzles into my hair, his tender actions belying his stern words.

We stand, staring at the red digital numbers, John’s muscles flattening my curves, his arm around my waist, his fingers splayed over my hip. A companionable silence stretches, broken only by our breathing.

“Are you going to fire me?” I finally ask the question I’ve been worrying about.

“No, I’m not firing you.” He sighs, his chest rising and falling against me. “But next time, lock my door. Anyone could have seen you.”

The doors open and we walk to the waiting limousine. I’m steadier, more awake, but I don’t pull away from him, relishing this rare chance to touch him, to belong, if only for a moment.

We reach the vehicle before Dave, the driver, wakes. He rushes around the hood, his flat black cap askew. He’s too slow. John opens the door for me and I climb inside, inhaling the scent of leather and man. My boss slides along the seat until his thigh presses against mine. Dave takes my bag from him and shuts the door, enclosing the space, creating a private oasis for the two of us.

The limousine moves, the outside noise muted, the tinted windows darkening our already dark surroundings. John stretches his legs out, drapes his arms over the back of the seat, and says nothing. I sit with my knees pressed together, my hands clasped in my lap, very much aware of the big man beside me.

His eyes close, his breathing levels and his body relaxes. He has put tonight’s activities out of his mind and I should be glad, ecstatic, relieved. I’m not. I’m irked that I showed him everything, my sexual self, my hidden dreams, a slice of my very soul, and he can forget all of this so easily, purging it from his memory as though nothing has happened, nothing has changed.

I take a deep breath, count to five, and exhale. “I’m tired of being alone, John.”

He opens one of his eyes. “Mr. Powers.”

“I’m not speaking to my boss. I’m speaking to you.” I lift my chin. “I’ve been alone for the past three years. I won’t be alone any longer.”