Page 8 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

I nod, obeying his every fucking word.

“Good,” he says, breathing deeply. “Please sit on my desk and take off your clothes, including the heels. Once you’re fully naked, you’ll open your legs and show me how you like it.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, reality flowing back to me in waves. My boss is about to see me naked, and I can’t take off my clothes fast enough, unbuttoning my blouse, tossing it out into the room.

“Do it slowly, Miss Bennett. Rushing through life never gets us very far,” he says, the leather chair squeaking again as he sits back into it. “Remove your skirt.”

I tilt my pelvis, hands fumbling over the zipper as I bring the skirt down.

Mr. Moretti arches his eyebrow at the panty hose, his gaze fixated on my panties themselves. “It seems you planned for this to happen,” he comments, noting the matching green lace.

“Wearing matching underwear is all part of the outfit.”

“And now I want it off,” he commands, snapping his fingers, which brings my attention to his wrist.

I frown, staring at the watch. “I thought there were a hundred other places you needed to be.”

Mr. Moretti tenses his jaw. “Correct, but this is the only room I am interested in being in, Miss Bennett, as you remove your clothes and show me your tight pussy. The rest of it can wait.”

He’s pressing pause on his crazy schedule just to fuck me? The unloved part of myself who’s never been a man’s first choice in anything, always kicked to the curb as a last thought, is celebrating right now, wanting to invest more of myself in this man. But the rational side of me knows better to entertain a powerful man like Salvatore Moretti who has more options than cars.

And he has quite an impressive collection of those. Mr. Moretti is simply acting selfishly, wanting to shove his cock into new pussy.

You can put a pin in anything when sex is involved, even if you’re as busy as Mr. Moretti. We all have needs.

And mine are about to be met.

Desire threads through me, taking control of my hands, my fingertips, which are already running over the hem of my panties. I hook my pinky under the lace, pulling my panties down to my knees, lifting my legs to remove them completely, and giving my boss a show while doing it.

Fresh air rushes to my pussy, along with Mr. Moretti’s watchful gaze as he stares between my legs.

I lean back into the desk, propping myself up with my forearms, my legs dangling off the edge.

I part my thighs, my pussy drenched as I live in the euphoria. I have gone to bed countless times picturing Mr. Moretti seeing me naked, those dangerous green eyes finally seeing me in a different light. I’ll be his own personal whore, morphing myself into anything, all to make him happy. As a feminist, objecting myself for a man is pretty fucking low, but Mr. Moretti is more than a man. He has substance, dominating every space he enters without even needing to speak.

Perhaps I can borrow some of his strength as he fucks me, getting a taste of true power.

I slide a finger between my folds, showing him how I like it, as per his very direct instructions.

Desire presses on my eyelids, closing them to shut again as I take myself into a different world, focusing on reaching the end.

“Eyes open, Miss Bennett. I won’t warn you again.” He lifts from the seat, shadows casting over me as he steps forward, putting me in darkness once again. “Remove your bra. I want to see your tits.”

A vulgar comment to make, but it sounds hot coming out of his mouth.

Shivers run down my spine, the fire in my stomach becoming more powerful, more uncontrollable.

I place a hand behind my back, unclasping the bra. The lace falls to the floor, my breasts bouncing out. Fresh air brushes over my sensitive nipples. I tune back into reality for a moment, seeing myself from the third person as I picture how this looks—completely nude, alone in an office with Salvatore Moretti at the very top of Manhattan.

I now understand why Aunt Viv has been encouraging me to live life more, putting less pressure on work. My heart has never thumped this wildly before. The high you get from delivering a good presentation is nothing compared to this.

Mr. Moretti inspects my breasts, turning his head.

Pinning me a look, he pinches my nipple between his fingers, rendering the nub even harder.

Arousal ripples through me, my eyelids growing heavy again.

I struggle to keep them open, since I’m hanging onto consciousness by a single thread, ready to be taken, to be used as a toy for my boss. I’ll be anything he needs. What pleasures him satisfies me. Salvatore Moretti is a tough man to please, but the hard bulge poking through his pants suggests he’s about to be a very satisfied man.