12. Sasha
12
SASHA
The email lands in my inbox like a bomb.
Subject: Staff Meeting with the CEO – Mandatory Attendance
Time: 4:00 PM
Location: Executive Conference Room, Top Floor
I stare at it.
Then I stare some more.
Because clearly, I’m hallucinating.
There is no logical reason for me to be invited to a meeting with Damien Zaitsev.
The CEO.
The man who runs this entire building, who probably makes more money in a week than I’ll see in my lifetime, and who also may or may not be holding a grudge against me.
I squint at the email, wondering if it’s some kind of prank.
Brittany must be screwing with me. She’s probably behind her desk snickering, waiting for me to freak out and embarrass myself.
But just in case, I swivel my chair toward my supervisor’s desk.
“Hey, Mark?”
Mark doesn’t even look up from his screen. “Hmm?”
I wave a hand toward my monitor. “I just got an email saying I have a meeting with the CEO. That’s…not real, right?”
Mark glances up briefly, then shrugs. “No, it’s real. He’s pulling a few employees from every department for some kind of engagement initiative.”
I blink.
Engagement? Initiative?
I am not engaged with anything in this company except my paycheck and how fast I can leave at the end of the day.
“What did I do?” I blurt out, half-panicking.
Mark finally looks at me. “What?”
“What did I do?” I repeat. “Is this about the corrupted slideshow file? Because I swear that wasn’t my fault.”
Mark sighs, rubbing his temples like I’m giving him a headache. “Sasha. Calm down. It’s just a meeting.”
Right. Just a meeting.
With the scariest man in the company.
The same man who looked at me in the kitchen like I was a waste of oxygen.
The same man who, whenever I catch his gaze, makes me feel like he’s two seconds away from eating me alive.
And not in a good way.
I stare at the email again, my stomach twisting.
Last time I saw the CEO? I was standing in the breakroom looking suspiciously useless while he annihilated Ryan with his mere presence.
He probably thinks I’m a liability.
Or lazy.
Or both.
Maybe he wants to personally fire me.
Maybe I should fake a medical emergency and skip the whole thing.
I’m still debating my exit strategy when a high-pitched squeal erupts from behind me.
“Oh my GOD,” Brittany practically sings.
I turn slowly, already knowing what’s coming.
“Did you see the email?” she says, grinning ear to ear. “I’m in the CEO meeting! Can you believe it?”
Oh, I believe it.
Of course Brittany got invited.
She’s exactly the kind of employee engagement initiative Zaitsev would appreciate—sucking up to executives, name-dropping her uncle, doing just enough work to stay on top while somehow avoiding anything remotely difficult.
But me?
There has to be a mistake.
“Wow,” I say, forcing a smile. “Lucky you.”
Brittany flips her hair. “I know, right? I can’t wait. Imagine being in the same room with him! So powerful, so intimidating. ”
She shivers dramatically, and I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes.
I don’t need to imagine.
I’ve already felt the full force of Damien Zaitsev’s presence.
And “intimidating” is an understatement.
He doesn’t just walk into a room—he owns it, commanding attention without a single wasted movement. The man is power wrapped in a designer suit.
Brittany sighs. “He’s so hot , though. I mean, the power alone is enough, but can you imagine?”
I do not want to imagine.
Unfortunately, my brain betrays me immediately.
I remember the elevator.
The way I could feel him watching me before I even looked up.
The way my breath caught when his gaze lingered just a little too long.
The way I sometimes—inconveniently, frustratingly—think about what it would be like if he ever lost that cold, controlled composure.
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
This is not happening.
I shove every inappropriate thought into a mental box, slap a warning label on it, and lock it forever.
* * *
I adjust my blouse, smooth down my skirt, and try to look like I belong here.
I don’t.
Not at all.
Brittany, on the other hand? She’s thriving.
“Oh my God, I wonder what he’s going to talk about,” she practically chirps, her voice at full, high-pitched volume as we step into the executive conference room.
I barely hear her.
My nerves are too loud.
What am I doing here?
Brittany flips her hair. “You must be like, so nervous,” she says sweetly. “Since, you know, you’re new and all.”
I force a tight smile. “Oh yeah. Super excited to be here.”
She doesn’t even hide the way she looks me up and down, like she’s still confused about how I ended up here at all.
And honestly? Same.
I follow her inside, my stomach twisting as I take in the room.
It’s massive. All sleek glass, polished wood, and an obnoxiously long table that screams money. The other employees—a small selection from different departments—are already settling in, chatting quietly.
I sink into my chair, opening my laptop like a security blanket, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Maybe if I look busy enough, he won’t notice me.
Right. Good luck with that.
Because a few seconds later?—
The door opens, and he walks in.
The room goes silent.
Damien Zaitsev doesn’t command attention.
He demands it.
It’s not just the way he moves, though that’s part of it.
It’s the sheer presence of him—like the air itself shifts, like the temperature drops a degree, like everyone in the room suddenly remembers they’re standing in front of the most powerful man in this company.
He’s tall—so much taller than I remembered.
Broad-shouldered, built like a man who should not look that good in a three-piece suit.
His hair is silver and thick. Even though he must be in his early forties at least, he doesn’t look old, not even close. He’s HOT.
And beneath the pristine lines of his jacket, I know what’s hidden underneath. I’ve seen the edges of ink before—just the slightest hint of tattoos peeking out beneath his cuffs.
And now that I’m looking, I can’t stop wondering.
How much of him is covered in ink?
I swallow hard, eyes dropping back to my screen.
I need to get it together.
Damien Zaitsev commands the room without trying. He stands at the head of the table, broad shoulders filling out his suit, exuding that effortless, intimidating authority that makes everyone sit up a little straighter.
I pretend to be cool, unaffected, even as my heart hammers.
But then—he speaks.
And my stomach drops.
Because his voice.
It’s low, deep, smoothed out like dark velvet, with just the faintest hint of something dangerous beneath it.
“Good afternoon,” he says, his tone measured, even. “I won’t waste your time with unnecessary pleasantries, so let’s get to it.”
His fingers move on the trackpad of the laptop in front of him, and a slideshow pops up on the projector. Damien takes a seat at the head of the table while another employee takes over.
It’s a typical corporate presentation, bullet points and numbers I should probably pay attention to. I quickly click open my notes, fingers poised over the keyboard.
Because if I’m going to survive this meeting, I need to focus.
Stay professional.
Do not get distracted.
I start typing.
Then—
A message pops up.
A text.
Right on my Mac’s screen. It’s from my phone, and my iPhone mirroring is always turned on.
Unknown Number: Are you wearing panties today, printsessa?
My fingers stumble, missing a key.
I stare at the screen, my heart slamming into my ribs.
No.
Not now.
I swallow, my eyes darting around the table, but everyone is still focused on the presentation.
My notifications are silent, of course.
No one sees how my screen just betrayed me.
I exhale slowly, shifting in my chair, trying to ignore it.
Then—another.
Unknown Number: I bet you’re already squirming in your seat.
I squeeze my thighs together on instinct.
Heat crawls up my skin, pooling in places I really, really don’t need it to.
Not here.
Not in a meeting with the actual CEO of my company sitting less than ten feet away.
I force my hands back on the keyboard, trying to focus.
Quarterly trends suggest continued market growth?—
Unknown Number: Spread your legs a little. Feel how wet you’re getting for me.
I swallow hard.
The air in the room suddenly feels too thick. The voices muffle, the numbers on the screen blurring together.
Because he’s right.
I can feel it.
The slow, traitorous heat pooling low in my belly.
I reach for my trackpad, my hand trembling slightly, debating muting my notifications?—
But then—more messages, one after the other.
Unknown Number: I bet you’re already dripping. I want you to slide a hand between your legs, right now. Feel how soaked you are for me.
Unknown Number: I’d push my fingers inside you under the table, stretch that tight little cunt while everyone else sits through the meeting, completely unaware.
Unknown Number: You’d take it, wouldn’t you? You’d bite your lip and keep still while I fucked you open with my fingers, knowing you couldn’t make a sound.
Unknown Number: Or maybe I’d just bend you over this table. Have you moaning into the wood while I fill you up, stretch you until you can’t think of anything but me.
I press my thighs together so tightly I might as well be a vise.
And then?—
I make a huge mistake.
I look up, straight into Damien Zaitsev’s eyes.
And he’s watching me.
A jolt runs through me, leaving a cold, sinking feeling in my stomach.
The texts.
They mention the meeting.
But I never told him.
I didn’t say a word about it. Not last night. Not this morning. Not even in passing.
So how does he know?
My fingers hover uselessly over my keyboard, my thoughts racing, my body wired too tight. I glance at my laptop screen as if the answer will magically appear, as if I can somehow will this away.
But it’s too late.
Because when I finally look up, Damien Zaitsev is still watching me.
A slow, almost amused smirk tugs at his lips, like he’s waiting for me to catch up. Like he knows exactly what’s going through my mind right now and is enjoying every second of it.
Oh God.
Oh God.
It’s him.
It’s been him this whole time.
The man I’ve been texting, the man who has been driving me insane every night with his filthy words, the man who has been inside my head and under my skin in ways I don’t even want to admit?—
He’s sitting right in front of me.
And he knows that I know.
I can barely breathe.
Heat rushes up my neck, my skin tingling with awareness, every part of me locked in place like a deer caught in headlights.
No. No, no, no. This has to be a mistake.
It can’t be him.
It can’t?—
My laptop screen flickers with another message.
Unknown Number: You finally figured it out, didn’t you, printsessa?
I slap my laptop shut.
The sound is too loud, echoing through the boardroom like a gunshot.
Conversations stop.
Every head turns toward me.
I feel the blood drain from my face as my vision blurs at the edges. My pulse hammers, my ears ring, and for a second, I think I might actually pass out.
I need to get out.
My chair scrapes against the floor as I push back from the table, my movements clumsy.
“I—uh, excuse me,” I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper.
No one stops me. No one calls me back. But I feel his gaze burning into my skin as I bolt for the door.
The moment I’m out in the hallway, I suck in a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my stomach to stop the nausea rolling through me.
It’s him.
I’ve been sexting the CEO of my company.
I force my legs forward, stumbling down the hall, desperate to find a bathroom.
The first door I see, I shove open without thinking, stepping inside and twisting the lock behind me. I brace myself against the sink, gripping the edges so hard my knuckles turn white. My chest rises and falls too fast, my breath uneven.
I reach for the faucet and splash cold water onto my face, trying to ground myself. The water drips down my cheeks, soaking into my collar, but I don’t care.
I force myself to look up, into my own wide, frantic eyes.
My reflection stares back at me, a complete mess.
My dark brown hair is disheveled, strands falling from the low bun I’d twisted it into this morning. My lipstick—subtle, neutral—looks slightly smudged, and my skin is flushed, my pupils blown too wide.
I look like I just got caught doing something sinful.
And maybe I did.
Because now I know.
And so does he.
I grip the basin tighter, trying to steady myself.
My blouse clings to my damp skin, my breathing uneven, my heart still pounding.
I need to pull it together.
I need to get through the rest of the day.
The door clicks open behind me and I freeze, my breath stilling in my chest.
I whirl around, my damp hands gripping the sink behind me as Damien Zaitsev steps inside.
The room shrinks instantly.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, broad shoulders filling the doorway, his gaze locking onto me like I’ve nowhere to run.
“This is a private hallway,” he says, voice smooth and dangerous. “Accessible only to me.”
Oh God.
I shouldn’t be here.
Of course I shouldn’t.
“Sorry,” I manage to say, my voice weaker than I’d like. “I must have…lost my way.”
I keep my eyes down, sidestepping him, my pulse still hammering, my body still too warm from those texts, from realizing it’s him.
I try to slip past.
I don’t make it.
His hand closes around my wrist.
Firm. Unrelenting.
A silent command to stay.
I suck in a shaky breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze?—
And that’s a mistake.
Because the moment my eyes lift to his, I see it.
The hunger.
The heat that darkens those storm-gray eyes, the tension crackling between us, a live wire pulled too tight.
Then—
His mouth claims mine.
It’s not gentle.
Not soft.
Not tentative in the way first kisses usually are.
No, this is possessive, raw, a declaration.
He kisses me like he’s staking his claim, like he already owns me and he’s just reminding me of the fact.
A low, needy sound escapes me, and that’s all it takes.
He presses me back against the sink, his hand sliding into my hair, tilting my head up to take more. His lips part mine, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting, devouring, demanding more.
I moan into his mouth, my entire body arching into him, the heat between my thighs borderline unbearable.
He’s hard. I can feel him through his slacks, pressing against my stomach.
His grip tightens, his fingers digging into my waist as he presses me further against him.
I barely register the sound of the lock clicking into place.
The hand in my hair slides down, tracing the column of my throat, fingers teasing over my collarbone before dipping lower?—
Undoing the first button of my blouse.
I gasp, and he takes advantage of it, swallowing the sound, his tongue stroking against mine.
I should stop this.
I should be thinking rationally.
But there’s nothing rational about this.
About the way my body is burning under his touch.
About the way his mouth feels like a drug I never want to quit.
Another button pops open, his fingers skimming against the top swell of my breasts.
He groans, his lips breaking from mine only to trace along my jaw, down my neck, sucking at the sensitive skin just below my ear.
I whimper, my hands fisting in his shirt, tugging him closer, needing more.
His breath is hot against my throat, his voice a low growl.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing my skin, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
I shudder, my entire body unraveling. I feel him everywhere. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head, deepening the kiss until I’m light-headed, desperate, aching. I clutch at his shirt, fisting the expensive fabric, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between us.
But it’s not enough.
Not even close.
His hands move, trailing down my spine, gripping my hips, lifting me onto the edge of the sink.
“You sound so fucking sweet when you moan for me,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough.
His hands push my blouse open, his fingers brushing against my bare skin, sliding down to cup my breasts through the lace of my bra.
I arch into him, my thighs tightening around his waist as his thumbs stroke over my nipples, teasing, coaxing.
“Damien,” I gasp, barely recognizing my own voice.
His name sounds filthy on my lips.
His eyes flick up, locking onto mine as his thumbs roll over my stiff peaks, his touch pure torture. “Say it again,” he commands, his voice thick with need.
“Damien,” I whisper, breathless, desperate.
He groans, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading me wider.
His mouth moves lower, lips trailing down my chest, pressing open-mouthed kisses over the swell of my breasts before he tugs my bra down, exposing me to him.
The moment his mouth closes over my nipple, I gasp, my head falling back. His tongue flicks, slow, deliberate, before he sucks hard, his teeth lightly scraping against me.
I cry out, clutching at his hair, my body burning under his touch.
One of his hands trails lower, gripping my waist, then moving between my legs.
My breath catches.
His fingers slide up my thigh, pushing my skirt higher, until he reaches the thin scrap of lace covering my core. His hand cups me through my panties, his fingers pressing firmly against my aching cunt.
“You’re soaked,” he mutters, his voice thick with dark satisfaction.
I whimper, hips rocking into his touch, desperate for more, desperate for him to push inside, to ruin me right here against the sink.
He strokes me slowly, his fingers teasing, not enough but too much all at once.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me, printsessa?” he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot as his fingers stroke over me again, this time pressing harder.
I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders, my entire body trembling.
I am seconds away from begging him, from falling apart in his hands, from giving him whatever he asks for?—
A knock at the door.
We both freeze.
Reality slams back into place.
Damien doesn’t move for a second, his chest rising and falling hard against mine.
Then, slowly, he steps back. His jaw is tight, his fists clenching at his sides like he’s seconds away from losing control again.
I don’t trust myself to speak. Because if I do, I might beg him not to stop.
“Mr. Zaitsev?”
Damien lets out a low, murderous growl against my skin.
I try to move, but his grip tightens, keeping me in place for another agonizing second. He presses one last, hard kiss against my throat before he finally, reluctantly pulls back.
His eyes are dark, filled with something dangerous, something possessive.
“This isn’t over,” he murmurs, voice rough, filled with promise.
And I know?—
I am completely and utterly fucked.