Chapter 6
BETWEEN A HORN AND A HARD PLACE
JAMIE
It’s late. Too late. The kind of late where even the cleaning crews have finished.
The building drones like it’s asleep, and the only lights still on are in Magnus’s office.
The rest of the floor is dark. Quiet. A little spooky, except I’ve got the big, strong CEO with me, so really—if there’s a ghost, it should be the one who's worried.
My head feels warm. Not spinning, not foggy.
Just light. Scotch isn’t usually my drink of choice, but Magnus insisted I try it with the pasta, and damn if it didn’t pair like a dream.
Still—my tolerance is not his. He’s huge, and the man drinks like he could outlast an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day.
I’ve had, what, one glass? He’s had… enough to put an entire bachelorette party on the floor, and he’s still sharp.
And damn, he looks good. The loosened tie, the open collar with even more of that shaggy golden brown fur poking out, the way his horns catch the low light like polished marble.
I keep catching myself staring at them. I can’t stop.
They’re mesmerizing. Like twin crescents, elegant and a little intimidating, curving back just enough to remind me—oh yeah, he’s commanding.
And yet, he’s so… sincere. The way he chuckles under his breath when I mispronounce the name of the scotch. The way he leans back in his chair, stretching, groaning softly, and pretending he doesn’t notice when I almost choke on my pasta watching the way his chest pulls tight against his shirt.
I stand to catch my breath, steady my legs, and our hands brush. My eyes—like a magnet—are drawn once more to those stunning horns. I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how obvious I am, and shove my hands into my pockets like a fool, hoping he didn’t notice.
“Jamie.” His voice cuts through my daze, low and deliberate. “You’re staring again—”
My stomach drops. “What? No, I was—uh—just—”
“—at my horns.” His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “You’ve been staring at them for twenty minutes.”
Shit. I grip my scotch. “I wasn’t. Okay, maybe a little. They’re just… they’re beautiful.”
Beautiful? Did I just say beautiful? Out loud? About the horns of my very large, very powerful boss?
He blinks, caught off guard, then tilts his head, considering me like I’m some kind of puzzle. “Most people are either terrified of them or make bull jokes.” There’s a spark in his eyes. “You want to touch them, don’t you?”
I nearly choke again. “What? No. I mean. Yes. Maybe. I—”
Magnus leans forward, forearms braced on the desk, his sheer size swallowing the space between us. My chair tilts back, and I suddenly realize I’m caged in by his stunning horns. His voice softens, not teasing now, but serious. “Go ahead. Please. You have my permission.”
My heart kicks hard. Permission. The word lands heavier than it should, like he’s testing me. Like this is a line, and he’s daring me to cross it.
I reach out. Hesitant at first but then bolder. My fingertips brush over one horn—smooth, cool, ridged near the base. Unexpectedly warm where it meets the skin under his fur. I swear the damn thing hums under my touch, alive and answering me in a way it has no right to.
“Mmmh.” He exhales—slow, deep, a sound I feel in my chest more than I hear. His eyes flutter shut, just for a second, and when they open again, they’re molten. Hungry.
That’s it. That’s the moment. The one where the air thickens and I know something’s about to happen.
And then I pull him closer, letting my hands glide along his horns to guide his long face toward mine. He exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, and for a moment, he looks like he could devour me whole. Fuck—I hope he does.
“Can I… kiss you?” The words tumble out before my brain can stop them. This has to be the height of unprofessionalism. I fully expect a summons to Amara’s office tomorrow, pink slip in hand. And I don’t even care.
He hesitates just a fraction, his warm breath brushing my cheek. “Are you sure?”
I can only nod, rising on my toes until our lips meet.
Holy fuck. It’s happening. I’m kissing Magnus Trainor.
After a year of asking everyone in the mailroom about him, stealing glances as I did my rounds, and feverishly jerking off in my apartment imagining his giant hands all over me, I’m kissing him.
My legs wobble slightly, and I bump gently against his chest. He chuckles—a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through me—and I freeze, unsure if I should apologize or kiss him harder.
He pulls back, lips ghosting on mine. “Tell me to stop.”
“Why would I do that?”
Magnus kisses me again—hot and consuming—as I paw at his suit jacket, pulling him down, closer, before returning to caress his horns. He groans, a rumble that vibrates straight through my chest.
“Careful with the horns,” he mutters, half-grinning, half-growling, his voice teasing yet charged.
I can’t help a small laugh, brushing my hands along the smooth curve of one. “I’m… I’m trying,” I whisper against his mouth.
He leans in just a fraction closer, fingers grazing my arm, his touch feather-light but deliberate, guiding me like he’s both boss and partner in this little, reckless act. I can’t stop smiling against his mouth, even as my brain screams don’t get fired, don’t get fired.
The kiss deepens, slow at first, testing boundaries, and I realize just how magnetic he is.
His tail slaps against me, and I reach down and rub it right near the tip.
He lets out a low groan at the touch, his eyes almost closing.
Every inch of him is impossibly alive, warm, and commanding, yet somehow careful—like he doesn’t want to crush me or break this delicate, unspoken trust.
And just like that, the office, the late hour, the binders, the pasta—none of it matters. There’s only his lips on mine.
He’s careful at first, then not careful at all.
His mouth is hot and insistent, mine eager and clumsy but desperate to keep up.
His tongue is broad, long, a little coarse, and all I can think is how it might feel in…
other places. And his hands—lord, his hands.
Rough in the best way, immense and sure, like they’re ready to claim me.
He pulls back once, breath ragged, fuzzy forehead against mine. “Jamie,” he rasps. “Consent. You have to say it. I need to hear it. This—” His jaw tightens. “This can’t be about power. This has to be about you.”
It’s me. Gods, it’s so me. There’s zero hesitation. “I want this. I want you.”
That’s all it takes. The dam breaks, and he lets out a noise that makes my pants tight in all the right places.
“Holy hell, do you always growl like that?”
“Only when I want to ruin someone.”
Magnus grabs my waist and pulls me close, and holy crap, if that’s his cock pressing up against mine, they may have to take me out of here on a stretcher.
It can’t be. There’s no way. He’s got to have something…
large and, well, dick-shaped in those trousers.
Maybe it’s his cellphone… or a sledgehammer.
I’m somehow both petrified and delighted. Part of me wants to bolt for the elevator, but most of me needs this. Him. Magnus.
“Can I help you with this?” My hand does its best to wrap around the outline of whatever lurks beneath his pants, but I can barely cover the girth. Of all days to leave my baseball mitt at home.
“Are you sure?” He huffs a breath and then kisses me again.
The softness of his muzzle tantalizes, and without answering him, I undo his buckle.
He’s wearing one of those expensive-looking belts—the kind that probably costs more than I make in a week.
The buckle catches the light as I tug it free, the leather snapping before I toss it carelessly to the floor.
Then he’s back at my mouth, kissing, licking with that immense tongue, and my body reacts—dick, ass, everything twitching like it’s wired straight to him.
It’s a little tricky working his pants open without looking, but I spent a year in the mailroom waiting for a break; persistence is listed as one of my greatest skills on my resume.
When I finally get them open, pushing his boxers down with them, his dick springs free, pushing against my chest, and I stumble back at the force.
And then I see it.
Holy. Fuck. Balls.
No, literally. His balls are massive. Like two softballs.
Or grapefruit. Or maybe small melons. Which are those?
Honeydew? I’ve never seen balls this large.
Covered in fur like the rest of his body, but it’s shorter.
So you can easily see the ball shape. Does Magnus Trainor manscape?
And the size. Grapefruits. Yeah, definitely grapefruits. Hopefully, they’re not as sour.
And then there’s his cock.
Yes, it's long. Easily the size of my forearm. But the thickness—what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Where is it even supposed to go? My jaw drops like a buffoon. Because sure, Magnus is packing a dick bigger than anything I’ve ever taken—or, let’s be honest, even seen—and my only thought is: yep, I still want him inside me.
“Jamie.” Magnus leans in, one big hand under my chin, shutting my mouth. “You’re drooling.”
Oh, crap. I am.
“Sorry, it’s just—”
“A lot, I know.” He fumbles for his pants, stuck halfway down those thick thighs.
“No. I mean, yeah, sure, it is, but—” I grab his hand before he can pull them up. My hand looks tiny on top of his, but damn his fur is so warm and cozy against my skin. And then he looks at me—hungry, but almost shy about it—and it just knocks the wind out of me.