Mister St. James (CEOs of Kink #13)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

The Boss

Catalina

It’s ass early in the morning and I’m wide awake and already in the lobby of Precision Dynamics International, badge clipped, heels sharp, the only sound my echo on marble and the faint tick of the building’s internal clock.

“Good morning, Ms. Vaquer.” Security waves me through on muscle memory.

“Good morning, Tony,” I reply, stepping onto the elevator.

As the numbers climb, I check my reflection in the elevator door.

Today I am wearing the blouse. It’s red silk, and nearly scandalous, if you’re the sort to measure HR violations by square inch.

I am. After all, you don’t survive nine months as executive assistant to Aiden St. James by missing details, or by dressing like you’re hoping for invisibility.

Which I never am. My blouse is cut just shy of indecent, with a neckline that makes people—men, women, execs, IT interns—glance once, then make a show of never glancing again.

The rest of my outfit is strictly business: tailored black skirt, pointy flats, hair pulled into an updo, big and bouncy, strategic even in its chaos. I’m the devil’s own HR paradox. Never breaking the rules, only bending them until they almost snap. But almost doesn’t count.

I unlock the main suite and make straight for the galley.

First order of business: coffee. Not for me.

For the King in the Glass Castle, my personal obsession and workplace nemesis.

Aiden St. James expects it to materialize on his desk at precisely 7:05 on the dot.

Lavazza, pure black, in a mug warmed to his exacting standard.

I measure the grounds like a chemist before adding one teaspoon of sugar he didn’t ask for but I know he loves.

I do it all while humming an off-key bolero because I’ve not only met his rules but mastered them.

I carry the mug down the hall, past the open-plan bullpen.

The air, even at this hour, is chilled and antiseptic, a climate engineered for focus, never comfort.

After one more elevator ride, I unlock the glass double doors to the executive suite.

The air is always warmer up here, probably because I made one too many sarcastic comments about it.

My personal workspace is a riot, a subversive fuck-you to the minimalist aesthetic of the suite.

The desk is ruthlessly organized, yes: laptop front and center, blue notebook to the left, five perfectly sharpened pencils in an acrylic holder.

But color creeps in where it’s not wanted, sticky notes in coral and fuchsia, a ceramic sugar skull in the inbox, a tiny framed print of La Virgen de Guadalupe tucked behind the dual monitors.

Every time Aiden suggests that I “streamline” my desk, I add something new and louder, just to watch him sweat.

Before the rest of the world invades, I claim three minutes for myself. Out comes the compact mirror: quick scan for dark circles (none today, gracias), fresh sweep of red lipstick, and a tiny dot of highlighter at each inner corner of my eyes. I’ll look awake even if my soul is still asleep.

A spritz of the good stuff, something loud and citrus and as subtle as a loaded gun, at my pulse points.

Even if he ignores me with his eyes, he can’t with all his senses.

Satisfied, I snap the compact shut and slide it back into my purse before pulling out my planner and the morning packet of financials, project updates, and personnel notes.

I leaf through my planner with a red-lacquered fingernail, finding today’s date already hemmed with notes in my own code.

Three clicks of the pen, always the Montblanc, before signing documents.

Tie adjustment, before important calls. These are not the habits of an ordinary man, but Aiden is not even in the genus of ordinary.

He is an evolved specimen. A subspecies: hyperfunctioning control freak, genus: executive predator.

I hear the elevator’s soft chime. 7:02, right on cue. There are twelve seconds from the ding to the doors opening and of course I will use them. I stand, adjusting my blouse for maximum appropriate exposure just as the doors slide open.

“Good morning, Mr. St. James,” I call before he’s crossed the threshold, voice warm enough to melt the frost off his bespoke suit.

He doesn’t walk so much as advance, like a chess piece in some private, elegant war. Tall, lean, razor-cut hair that falls into his eyes, and silver-framed rounded glasses. He’s wearing the steel-grey suit today, my personal favorite. It makes his eyes look like storm clouds just about to break.

“Ms. Vaquer,” he says, eyes flicking up away from the phone in his hand, scanning me for just a moment before returning. “Early, as usual.”

“I aim to please,” I say, grabbing the coffee and the packet from my desk before following him into his office.

I love my job as an executive assistant, and I am phenomenal at it, but working for him comes with a list of challenges I wasn’t ready for when I took this position nine months ago.

The biggest one being how much I want to fuck my boss and how irritating it is when he doesn’t ever acknowledge the fact that I am indeed a woman.

I hand him the coffee before he can set his bag down. He accepts, glancing at the clock on the wall. 7:05, on the dot. He sips. His eyes close, just for a heartbeat. My internal scoreboard lights up: ten points to Cat for a perfect brew.

“I see the quarterly numbers already came through,” he says, nodding at the folder tucked under my arm.

“Landed at 5:31 AM.” I tap the top folder before handing it over the desk to him. “Marked the trend line on page three. Personnel flags are on yellow sticky, per your request.”

I watch him unbutton his suit jacket before taking his seat behind the desk and flipping open the first folder.

I wonder if he knows that every woman in this building would kill to be this close to him.

If he realizes that they stare at him when he walks by, or how adorably fuckable he looks when he adjusts his glasses when he is reading.

He leafs through the packet, pausing at the spreadsheet I’ve made and his mouth twitches, so slight most people would miss it.

I don’t. He looks up. His gaze flickers, not quite to my chest but close enough that I feel the heat of it, then back to my face.

“I see we’re using the new spreadsheet format. When did I authorize that?”

“You didn’t. But you will, once you see the error rate drop.” I grin and give him a wink. If I’m being honest, I live for this: the push-pull, the elegant banter of office politics distilled into ten-second exchanges.

Aiden sets the folder down and fixes me with a look. “You know, most assistants don’t innovate without approval.”

“Most assistants aren’t me.” I square my shoulders before continuing, “And you know that I’m the best.”

A pause. He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You do enjoy being exceptional, don’t you?”

“I enjoy watching you pretend I’m not.” I turn on my heel, letting the silk of my blouse shift against my skin. I know he’s watching as I leave, and the knowledge warms me all the way down to my bones.

Lunch is a blur. Leftover arroz con pollo at my desk, complete with a piece of chicken bone that almost took me out.

I use the time to scan internal message boards, catching up on company gossip.

Nothing useful, except an intern apparently saw Aiden in the gym at 5:30 this morning. Shirtless. Lucky.

My alarm jingles, signaling another meeting.

I enter the office and see that Aiden is hunched over his desk, sleeves rolled up to the mid-forearm, a blue vein pulsing just beneath the surface of his wrist that I want to trace with my tongue.

His glasses glint with the pale white of his monitors, the light painting ghost patterns on his face and he is so consumed with work he doesn’t even notice me standing in the doorway until I speak.

“Mr. St. James, it’s time for the weekly project meeting.” He looks at me from behind the monitor and blinks before nodding and standing. I wait patiently with folders and notebooks in hand, my bag slung over my shoulder.

The whole leadership team crams into the glass fishbowl of the boardroom: six men, two women, everyone armed with laptops and caffeinated beverages. The room is always freezing, an intentional move to keep everyone alert.

I sit in the seat to Aiden’s right, adjusting the chair to a higher height when I catch it. Aiden’s eyes lingering just for a minute longer than respectable. I try to fight the sudden rush of adrenaline that spikes at the knowledge of his gaze, smoothing my hands along my thighs to ground myself.

Ten points for the blouse. I stifle a yawn, more for effect than necessity, and stretch my arms behind me, arching my back. The move is studied, just this side of innocent. If I’m going to be eye candy, I’ll at least have fun with it.