Angry.
But ready.
I grab my blazer off the back of my chair, shove my arms through the sleeves, and square my shoulders.
This is it. This is my war march. This is my moment.
“I quit, Mr. Orlov.” I practice the words under my breath as I stride, testing how it feels. My voice shakes a little, so I clear my throat and give it another try, firmer this time. “Iquit, Mr. Orlov. Take your bullshit deadlines and—” I let the words trail off into a muttered curse.
It feels good, dangerous almost. Like standing on the edge of a cliff or hitting the peak of a roller coaster right before the drop.
The office is eerily silent at this hour. Pretty much all of the staff is gone—if anyone else is here but me and the big man, I don’t see them. The lights are dimmed, and off in the distance, I hear the cleaning staff vacuuming. The air conditioning hums low and steady, making me feel like I’m in the belly of a big, mechanical beast.
My heels click against the floor as I make my way down the corridor. Each step closer sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through me, making me feel hot and reckless. My nerves are jangling, my pulse throbbing, but I don’t slow down.
A smile forms on my lips as I picture his face after I tell him. I picture those obsidian eyes narrowing, his jaw twitching. He’ll try to play it cool, but I’ll know better. He’ll be full of fury, rage at me stepping out from under his foot.
For once, I’ll win. For once, I’ll be the one holding the cards.
The hallway stretches out, lit by thin strips of fluorescent light that make everything feel sterile and hollow. Down at the very end, Sasha’s office looms. Those big glass doors are shut, amber light glowing faintly inside. Just me and him.
Three years of hell. Three years of his games and bullshit.
No more.
My heart’s pounding as I step up to the office doors. My speech sits on my tongue like a red-hot coal. I take a deep breath, grab the door handle, and then I push inside. I don’t bother knocking. Why would I? I’m the one in charge now. I shove the door open, and as I do, I realize that I’ve been waiting years for this exact moment.
“Mr. Orlov, I?—”
I stop mid-sentence. Something’s wrong. Then my mind draws a blank.
The office is dimmer than usual—only a single lamp glows near the corner, throwing long slashes of amber light across the desk. It takes me about two seconds to realize what’s going on.
Sasha isn’t working. Not at all. His jacket is tossed over the back of his chair. His tie is loose, hanging undone around his thick neck. The top two buttons of his shirt are open. He’s leaning forward, one hand gripping the edge of his desk, like he’s trying to steady himself.
The other hand? That’s gripped around something else.
His cock.
At first, I can’t believe what I’m looking at. Sasha Orlov, my boss, the man who signs my paychecks and the man who torments me on a seemingly daily basis, is right in front of me, stroking himself.
He’s pumping slowly, his grip tight around his cock. Just as I would’ve guessed, Sasha is thick and long, long enough for hishand to start at the root and slide upwards. His grip is hard enough to make the veins of his gorgeous, ropy forearms pop a bit. I can even see a little bead of cum at the end of his dick.
I freeze. At first, I can’t even comprehend what I’m seeing. My boss, the single most in-control man I’ve ever known in my life, is touching himself right in front of me. His eyes are closed.
Then his head tips back, a sound coming from him. A groan. “Gabriella.”
My name.
What. The. Fuck.
It feels like the ground drops out from under me. My blood goes cold, then hot, almost scalding. Ice, then fire. Mortification crashes into disbelief, which crashes into something else, something I don’t want to name.
Does he not know I’m here? He strokes himself again, groaning once more. What’s he imagining? Me on the desk in front of him, his cock plunging into me again and again? Or me on my knees, taking him into my mouth?
All I know is that what I’m seeing, I wasn’t meant to see. I should turn around slowly, back out of there, hope he was so deep into his fantasy about me that he didn’t notice. But I can’t. I can’t move, can’t breathe.
It’s crazy. The sight of him touching himself like this should disgust me, at the very least make me feel like I’ve stepped into something intensely private and personal. But all I can think about is how he somehow still looks so powerful. I can see the shape of his sculpted chest, his neck tense, his grip sosolid it makes me wonder what it would be like for him to holdmethat tightly.
