Chapter 2
AbrAM
Jenna’s body could make a saint think wicked thoughts—and I’m no fucking saint.
My eyes track her ass shamelessly as she storms out of my office, fury in every click of her heels. That tight little A-line skirt hugs her curves so perfectly it’s almost sinful, framing the sway of her hips in a way that makes my mouth water.
For one indulgent moment, I allow myself to imagine calling her back, locking the office door behind her.
My voice would be calm yet authoritative.
I’d tell her to hike that skirt up around her hips, slowly slide her panties down her thighs, and climb onto my cock, riding me until she forgets every single reason she’s so damn angry.
I harden instantly, a raw surge of desire tightening in my core. I’ve never been a man ruled by impulse, but Jenna Ridley challenges that daily. Still, I shake the thought away with reluctant discipline.
Fucking your assistant is the oldest cliché in the book—one of those stupid, reckless mistakes men like me aren’t supposed to make.
No matter how tempting that mistake might be.
I push back from my desk and slowly stand up, rolling my shoulders as I cross to the window. Las Vegas sprawls beneath me, glittering in the afternoon sun, deceptive in its brightness.
Jenna has no real idea what it means to be involved with a man like me, though she knows enough to be wary. I’m Abram Vasiliev—head of the Vasiliev Bratva—feared and respected in equal measure.
Although she’s aware of who I am, I’m not sure she fully understands what it really means, the blood that stains my hands.
If she can handle that, maybe she’ll last long enough to become a decent assistant.
And God, I hope she does. Because the alternative—getting rid of her before I give in to temptation—is becoming less appealing every damn day.
Her fiery defiance, that blazing temper barely masked behind careful professionalism, draws me in like nothing else. Every time she walks into my office, my cock reacts instantly, shamelessly demanding what I’ve forbidden myself.
And each day, resisting her gets a little harder.
I chuckle under my breath, still staring out the window.
Jenna Ridley. Fucking hell. The whole reason she’s here is because of my meddling sisters, Anya and Tatiana.
They stormed into my office three months ago like a pair of smug hurricanes in heels, sitting themselves down like they owned the place and giving me a carefully rehearsed speech.
“You need someone who can take the weight of the world off your shoulders,” Anya had said with a knowing smile.
“Someone competent. Organized. Someone who won’t put up with your bullshit,” Tatiana added.
And then, as if they’d choreographed the whole thing, they said together: “We know just the woman.”
Apparently, Jenna had done a temp stint at a boutique real estate firm where Tatiana’s college friend worked.
She’d filled in for an executive assistant on maternity leave and left such a strong impression that word traveled fast. Efficient, sharp-tongued, calm under pressure.
A little too pretty for her own good, but my sisters didn’t seem concerned about that.
I insisted I didn’t need a damn assistant. I needed quiet. But they didn’t give a shit about what I wanted. Their little speech wasn’t about work. It was about tying me down.
They want to see me get married. Settled. Playing house like they are—soft mornings, matching mugs, fucking holiday cards. They’re happy and they think I’m secretly lonely. Like I’m just waiting to be swept off my feet by the right woman and a color-coded Google calendar.
I’m not.
I like fucking too much. The real kind. Not the performative honeymoon sex newlyweds pretend they’ll keep having forever. I’m talking about the kind that strips a woman down to her rawest needs and keeps her there.
Every night. Over my desk. In the shower. On the floor. Again and again.
From what I understand, wives don’t like that. Not after a while, anyway. Eventually, the excuses come. The headaches. The obligation. And I don’t want someone who fucks me because they think they’re supposed to.
I want hunger.
Filth.
Need.
So no, marriage isn’t for me.
But they got one thing right. Jenna is good.
Better than I expected. She’s smart. Fast. A little rough around the edges.
She’s emotional, impulsive, and a little too eager to talk back, but she learns quickly.
She expertly manages my calendar, types quickly and accurately, and anticipates what I need before I ask for it.
She’s not perfect. Yet.
And thank fuck she’s not soft. She doesn’t flinch when I raise my voice, doesn’t blush when I look at her too long. She meets me—challenge for challenge—and half the time I don’t know whether I want to bend her over the desk or see what else she’s capable of under pressure.
She still needs some work, though. She hasn’t been broken in yet, hasn’t been taught how I like things, how I expect things.
But she will be. Because I don’t accept incompetence. I don’t accept excuses.
I demand excellence.
And if she’s going to keep walking into my office with those curves and that mouth, she’d better learn how to be fucking flawless.
Nothing less will do.
Training her as an assistant will take time. Precision. Patience.
But there are other things. Darker things. Things I should not—must not—train her for.
I try to refocus, push the thoughts aside. But they slip in anyway. Uninvited. Unstoppable.
One moment I’m thinking about schedules and contracts. The next, her.
I close my eyes, jaw tight, as the image takes over.
Smoke curling under a locked door. Slow.
Inevitable. Her skirt sliding up, her fingers slipping beneath the hem of her blouse.
That look she gives me when she’s about to say something that will make my cock twitch—smug, teasing—like she’s always one step ahead.
In my head, she’s back in my office. That tight skirt now on the floor. The blouse, undone and slipping off her shoulders like it was made to fall just for me. She stands in front of me in black lace—bra lifting her full tits, panties hugging her hips so snugly it should be illegal.
“You’re staring, Mr. Vasiliev,” she says, voice low and knowing.
“Can you blame me?” I murmur, rising from the chair and circling her slowly. “You wore this on purpose.”
“To distract you,” she says, chin lifted. “Is it working?”
I reach out and grip her hips, firm and possessive, pulling her close. “You have no idea.”
Her laugh is wicked. “Maybe I need to spell out what I’m really here for.”
“Do it,” I breathe, already hard. “Say what you want.”
“I want your hands on me,” she whispers.
I growl, mouth crashing into hers. Deep. Claiming. The kind of kiss that erases logic, torches restraint. I feel her melt into me, arching, pressing her heat against the bulge in my slacks.
“You think this is smart?” I speak against her lips. “Fucking your boss?”
She grins against my mouth. “No. But you don’t hire smart girls for this.”
I chuckle. “No, I hire dangerous ones.”
And fuck, she is dangerous. Her body’s all curves and fire, hips made to be grabbed, thighs I’d let crush the life out of me. I lift her onto the desk—sweeping everything off in one careless motion—and bury myself in her so deep she forgets her own name.
Just as she leans back, spreading her legs for me, I blink. The image shatters. She’s not here. Just me and the silence of the office, a spreadsheet I’ve been pretending to read.
I drag a hand down my face and exhale slowly.
Dangerous, I think again. But I’m not sure I’m talking about the fantasy anymore.
I shake my head, coming back into the moment. I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled against my mouth, eyes unfocused. My mind drifts back to the conversation we’d had earlier.
“He mentioned it’s a sex club.”
Just like that. No hesitation, no awkwardness. Like she was reporting a fluctuation in the stock market.
And fuck me, it had taken everything I had not to react.
I’d asked the question to test her. I know what kind of club The 13th Floor is; hell, I’m the one buying it. I wanted to see if she’d flinch. See if she’d squirm.
She didn’t.
I shift in my chair, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to let the memory take hold of me.
And then she’d had the audacity to tilt her head, eyes sharp as razors, and ask, “If I were a man, would you have asked for those details?”
I’d kept my voice cool when I answered, telling her yes because it’s true. I expect thoroughness from everyone on my payroll. But that’s not what she was really asking. And we both knew it.
Because by then, the power had shifted.
And God help me, it made me want her more.
Not just to fuck. Not just to claim.
To unravel. To crack that shell. To see if she tastes just as sharp when she finally loses control.
I exhale slowly, adjusting myself under the desk.
I’m still imagining her saying all of that again—but on her knees this time, lips parted, eyes daring me to break her.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake it off. But it clings to me. The memory. The heat.
And the worst part?
It wasn’t flirtation. She wasn’t playing a game.
She was just doing her job, which means this isn’t going to go away. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until I know what she looks like when she stops being so goddamn composed.
And maybe not even then.
I stare at the office door, pulse thudding behind my ears. The air smells faintly like her—sweet and warm, with a trace of something sharp underneath. Something that cuts through my control like a blade.
I should get back to work. Instead, I stay frozen, staring at the place where she stood. Where she smirked. Where she challenged me, like she doesn’t know—or worse, doesn’t care—who I am.
Most women in this building shrink when I speak. Most don’t even look me in the eye. But Jenna Ridley? She holds her ground.
It should piss me off.
It doesn’t.
It makes me hard. And it makes me curious, which is far more dangerous.
I glance down at my desk, at the spot where she’d rested her tablet.
Something small catches my eye—a single strand of red hair.
Long, glossy, curled at the end. She must’ve tucked it behind her ear when she leaned forward earlier, just before telling me all about public sex with the voice of someone reciting quarterly financials.
I reach out, fingertip brushing it before I can stop myself.
Goddamn it.
This is how it starts. The obsession. The craving. The slow undoing of everything I’ve built.
She’s not just beautiful. She’s defiant. She’s clever. She doesn’t flirt, doesn’t posture. And somehow, that restraint makes me want her more. Makes me wonder what she’d sound like when she finally breaks—when she moans my name, desperate and ruined.
I drop the hair in the trash, disgusted with myself.
She’s your assistant. You don’t fuck the help and you sure as hell don’t think about them after they leave the room.
Yet here I am, staring at the door like I’m waiting for her to walk through it.