Instead, he closes the contract, slides it into a pristine manila folder, and extends it to me.
“Take it home. Read it carefully.” His fingers brush against mine as I accept the folder, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. “You can take a day offtoday and tomorrow.”
The confidence in his voice should piss me off. Instead, it sends a shiver down my spine.
He reaches for his suit jacket, and I watch, mesmerized, as he slides it on with practiced ease. “I have another meeting. My driver will take you home.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed.
22
Konstantin
Iwatch her leave.
More specifically, I watch that ass leave.
Her ass— Perky, round, fucking perfect handfuls, the kind that would redden beautifully under my palm, that would bounce and quiver with each thrust. I adjust myself, irritated by how quickly she affects me.
I lean back in the chair, arms folded, watching as Isabella Marquez storms down the hallway like she has somewhere better to be.
She doesn’t.
I remain seated, forcing myself not to follow. Not to drag her back by that wild mane of hair and bend her over this desk. Patience. I’ve always excelled at patience.
Isabella Marquez’s file might as well be tattooed on the inside of my skull. Three consecutive years as top seller. A 98% closerate on luxury properties. Seventeen industry awards collecting dust on a cheap particleboard shelf.
She doesn’t peddle houses. She reads people. Finds the spaces where they feel powerful, vulnerable, aroused—whatever psychological button needs pressing. Then she sells them their perfect cage and makes them thank her for it.
I respect skill.
What I respect more is that she didn’t spread her legs to get where she is. I’ve investigated—exhaustively. No fucking clients for signatures. No sucking off listing agents for prime properties. No riding her boss’s cock for bonuses. In this industry of desperate, fame-hungry whores, she’s built her reputation on raw talent alone.
That talent is the only reason this pathetic excuse for a company still exists. One competent woman—Isabella Marquez—holding up a crumbling empire of mediocrity. That talent is what made acquiring this place worth my time. Talent like hers doesn’t just deserve to be bought—it deserves to be owned. Controlled. Directed.
Her purse rests beside the ancient coffee machine that smells of burned grounds and corporate angst. She walks toward it with that deliberate confidence that makes my cock stir against my will. When she leans into the counter to reach for the bag, her waist narrows, her hips flare, the cheap fabric of her skirt straining to contain what’s beneath.
I imagine that ass beneath my palm. Beneath my belt.
The thought of her former boss—that impotent, balding American with his polyester ties and middle-management backbone—sitting in this very chair watching this same view every day makes something primal rise in my chest. The rage of a predator finding another male’s scent on what should be his territory.
That worthless fuck never deserved to employ her. To witness this daily ritual. To have any claim to her time or talent.
She feels my eyes. Turns her head slightly, catching me watching over her shoulder. For one electric moment, blue eyes meet mine—defiant, nervous, hungry. Her lips press together before she quickly looks away, but not before I see the flush creeping up her neck.
Her fingers aren’t as steady as they were during our negotiation as she folds the contract in half, then forcefully shoves it into her purse like it’s contaminated. Like putting distance between herself and the document might somehow protect her from what we both know is inevitable.
With a practiced motion that’s part habit, part performance, she tosses her hair back over her shoulder. The movement ripples through her entire body, making her ass shake subtly beneath that tight skirt. The sight shoots straight to my groin.
Blyad.
I imagine the sound it would make if I spanked it. The way she’d gasp. The way she’d glare at me afterward, her eyes flashing, her body stiff with the kind of tension that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how badly she wants it too.
She does. And fuck, I like that. Too much.
I saw it. Smelled it. My cock stirs. I adjust myself, irritated by my body’s predictable response.
I clench my jaw as I watch her wave goodbye to Mark Harrison—43, balding despite the hair transplant he thinks no one notices, divorced twice, useless middle management I’ll be replacing by week’s end. He smiles at her with that pathetic longing of a man who’s spent years staring but never daring to touch.
