Chapter 3
ALEKSEI
If I have to look at one more cheery résumé with a pink border, I might actually fire someone just for existing.
Yuri, my head of IT, stands behind my desk, tapping away on his tablet. He’s twenty-eight, likes loud sneakers, and has the relentless optimism of someone who’s never had to bury a body.
“See here, boss?” he says, gesturing at the screen like he’s unveiling state secrets. “We set up custom filters—work history, criminal record, language skills, even LinkedIn photo rating. You can swipe left or right, almost like Tinder, but for—well, an assistant.”
I grunt. This is too tedious. I should have automated the entire process, but I need to judge the person who’s going to do the sorting for me.
I’m looking for two things here: she needs to be smart, and she needs to be efficient.
The only reason I’m looking for a woman is that while she’s making the decisions that are going to change my life, I don’t want them thinking with their dick.
“There’s even an option for voice samples,” Yuri keeps talking, “If you want to check how they sound. Some people say that’s important for client-facing work—”
I raise a hand, cutting him off. “Just show me how to use it. I’ll handle the rest.”
He looks at me, one eyebrow up. “You sure? I mean, you’re not exactly famous for your patience with… admin things.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you questioning my abilities?”
He shrugs, holding up his hands. “Not me, boss. Just… Last time, you shot your own monitor.”
“One time. And the monitor deserved it.”
He laughs, the sound echoing in my office—too loud, too comfortable. Sometimes I wonder if I should have hired someone less familiar with my temper.
Yuri runs me through the platform anyway, showing me how to open the applications, skim the attachments, and flag the ones I like.
The system pings every time someone new applies, the list growing longer by the hour.
He clicks through a few profiles, reading snippets aloud with that annoying, singsong voice.
“‘Experienced, motivated, team player…’ blah blah blah. Here’s one who’s a ‘people person’—good luck with that.”
I grab the tablet from him. “Go.”
He raises both brows. “You want me to leave you alone with all this paperwork?”
“I want quiet. And coffee. Now.”
He grins again, clearly amused. “As you wish, Mr. Vasiliev. If you break anything, just call IT. Or… don’t.”
He disappears, sneakers squeaking down the hall, leaving me with the soft blue glow of the screen and the endless scroll of names, faces, promises. For a moment, the office is blessedly silent.
I let out a slow breath, rubbing the bridge of my nose. This shouldn’t be hard. Pick an assistant, marry a woman, make a child. Collect my inheritance. Simple.
But the names blur, voices blend, and everyone starts to look the same. I tap the next application open, not expecting much.
And then, in the next stack, I see it: an audio file. Something labeled “Interview Transcript – Z.D.”
I almost skip it, ready to dismiss another hopeful, but curiosity gets the better of me. I hit play.
A woman’s voice pours out of the speakers—rich, low, every word confident and hot enough to stop my heart.
I freeze, staring at the screen, unable to move. For the first time all morning, I forget everything else.
The first word out of her mouth sinks straight into my gut.
“Relax,” she says softly, like she already knows I’m tense.
“They don’t rush,” she reads. Not breathy. Not exaggerated. Calm. Assured. “They stand there for a moment, just breathing each other in. The air between them feels charged, like something waiting to snap.”
Something tightens low in my stomach.
It isn’t the words. It’s the way she paces them. The quiet confidence. The way her consonants land soft but precise, like she knows exactly where to linger and where not to.
“When he finally touches her, it’s almost reverent,” she continues. “His hand slides along her waist, slow enough that it makes her shiver. She turns into him without thinking, lips parting, already needy.”
My chest feels strange. Heavy. I shift in my chair, irritation flickering—this shouldn’t matter. I’ve heard women talk before. I’ve fucked half of Europe.
But this… this is different.
Her voice doesn’t seduce. It inhabits.
“She gasps when his mouth finds hers,” she says quietly. “Not because it’s rough, but because it’s thorough. Like he’s memorizing her.”
My cock stirs, just a little. Enough to be noticeable. Enough to irritate me.
I tell myself it’s nothing. A physiological response. Stress. Lack of sleep.
“His hands travel over her body, sliding beneath her dress, greedy, impatient. She moans when his lips brush the side of her neck, arching up into his touch. ‘You’re so wet for me,’ he whispers, and she gasps, her thighs parting, desperate for more.”
She takes a breath. Not a theatrical one. Just a small inhale, right against the mic, and my spine lights up like someone traced it with heat.
“He pushes her panties aside, two fingers sliding through slick heat, and she can barely breathe. Her hips lift from the bed, seeking friction, needing more. He’s everywhere, tongue tracing the swell of her breast, teeth catching on her nipple until she’s begging, wordless, hands tangled in his hair. ”
Her rhythm is perfect. Not rushed, not shy. Like she’s done this a hundred times, for a thousand listeners, each one convinced she’s speaking just to him. To me.
I inhale sharply.
My cock is hard now. Fully. Pressed tight against my trousers. I haven’t touched it. I don’t need to. Every word lands somewhere deep, bypassing thought entirely.
“She whimpers as he finally slides inside—slow, stretching, filling. They move together, her nails raking down his back, their bodies tangled, hungry. The sound of skin on skin, her breathless cries, his name on her lips. He thrusts harder, deeper, until she’s moaning in his arms, shuddering around him, her cunt pulsating. ”
Jesus Fucking Christ.
“Her sounds are quiet,” she continues. “Broken breaths. Soft gasps. The kind that slip out when pleasure is too full to contain. He stays with her, holds her there, until she’s shaking, until her body gives up and gives in.”
Something tight coils in my gut. Fast. Sudden. Unwanted.
I try to breathe through it. Try to pull back. But her voice doesn’t let me. She has me wrapped around her fingers.
“When she comes,” she murmurs, “it’s like a wave breaking slowly. Long. Overwhelming. She clings to him, trembling, breathless, undone.”
My hips jerk once, involuntary. I swear under my breath.
This is obscene. This is unprofessional. This is—
“Come for me,” she breathes. “Do it. Let go. I want to feel it. I want to feel your cock fill its seed in me.”
Something snaps.
The orgasm hits me without warning, violent and humiliating in its intensity.
I suck in a sharp breath as I come hard in my pants, pulse after pulse, warmth spreading as my cock empties against the fabric.
My hand slams flat against the desk, knuckles white, teeth clenched to keep from making a sound.
It takes several seconds before I can breathe again.
I sit there, staring at the tablet, chest heaving, body still buzzing. My pants are ruined. My office smells faintly of sex. And I’ve just come like a teenager from nothing but a stranger’s voice.
I drag a hand down my face, slow, controlled, forcing myself back into my body, back into reality.
What the hell did you just do?
My eyes drop to the file name again.
Z.D. Assistant applicant.
I lean forward, elbows on the desk, head in my hands.
Who the fuck is Z.D.?
And how fast can I get her in this office?