Chapter 21
H ow many times can a boss think about getting their employee off with a purple vibrator before it becomes unhealthy?
Two? Three?
How many times can that same boss jerk off to the image of her thighs spread wide, soaked and shaking, while she comes all over his tongue—before HR should be notified?
Because if the limit is three, then I hit that somewhere between last night and this morning.
And that’s not even counting when she showed up at The Masquerade in that black dress, all curves and fire, practically begging for trouble. Or when she sat on my lap—smug and sweet—and I got a feel of those fucking stirrups holding up her stockings.
I still haven’t recovered from that.
I release another deep breath, irritation curling under my skin as I stare blankly out the window of my office. The city looks deceptively calm this morning.
Shame I’m not.
Because when I think about my finger toying with those stockings I remember Mateo saw her first.
The thought alone is enough to make my grip tighten into a fist. Even for a second—before I had a chance to really see her, to touch those legs—he got a glimpse.
And that pisses me off more than it should.
But I got my first real taste when I bent her over my desk.
Correction—when I made her bend.
Teaching her the position I like. The one she’ll need to remember for the punishments I know are coming. Because she’ll earn them. She wants to.
That look she gives me from behind the Devil’s mask at the club—curious and daring. That fucking look that dares me to lose control.
The way she mouths off, pushes buttons, tracks my movements like she’s studying the exact moment I’ll snap. Watching for the tension in my fists, like it turns her on to see me restrain myself.
Spoiler: It does.
And now I’m thinking about spanking her.
Great.
My cock’s already hard—again.
It’s like my brain tries to run damage control while my body’s already halfway to pressing her over the nearest flat surface and showing her exactly what happens to bad little rabbits.
Her ass would be beet red. Warm under my palm. My hand stinging from every delicious impact. Her breath hitching. Her back arching. Her thighs slick.
I shift against the counter and mutter, Jesus Christ , under my breath.
I need caffeine. Strong, black, and distracting.
I finish making the espresso, fixing it just the way I like it, and not a second too soon. Because I can feel her the moment she steps into the building.
She’s pissed.
Good.
The rush of her footsteps echoes sharply down the corridor. Her presence is electric. Hot. Furious.
Right on schedule.
I school the smirk tugging at my mouth, turning just in time as she storms through the door of my office like a goddamn hurricane.
I lift the delicate porcelain saucer and cup, perfectly calm, my expression schooled into smooth indifference. The scent of dark roast wafts between us as I take a sip.
“Congratulations on being on time today,” I say, cocking a brow as the heat from my coffee rolls across my tongue. “I almost thought I’d have to start without you.”
“Start what? Being an overbearing jerk?” she snaps, her voice tight and biting.
Her eyes blaze—stormy, furious, beautiful. That sharp, blue fire burns through me more effectively than the espresso sliding down my throat.
I set the cup down slowly, carefully, because if I’m not deliberate, I might break something. Or worse—pull her over the desk and end this argument the way I want to.
“You had no right,” she grits out. “No right to interfere in my personal life. Invading my space like that?—”
I let her finish, because watching her come undone is almost better than touching her. Almost.
When she finally draws breath again, I speak with practiced calm. “Your safety is my business, Sienna. Because you are my business.”
She rolls her eyes and throws her hands up. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You don’t get to toss around that line like it justifies everything. I didn’t ask you to protect me.”
“No,” I agree, stepping closer, “you didn’t. But you also didn’t stop to think that someone might need to.”
“I can take care of myself,” she shoots back.
My mouth tilts into something that’s not quite a smile. “Can you? With an ex who still has a key to your apartment? A building with no security? A landlord who doesn’t give a fuck?”
“You can’t just go around doing whatever you want,” she says, her voice rising, every word dripping with frustration. “Sending people to my apartment? Having work done without permission?”
“I can,” I interrupt smoothly. “And I will.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You will ?”
I nod once, unapologetic. “I did.”
Her jaw clenches as she steps forward, eyes blazing with disbelief. “Stay out of my building, Lucian.”
And now I really do smile.
“I bought it,” I say, letting the words settle between us like a slow-burning fuse. “So technically, it is my building now.”
She goes still.
I watch the exact moment her brain stalls out. The wheels are turning, trying to process whether I’m bluffing.
I’m not.
I never bluff.
“It pays to have friends in the right places,” I continue, casually walking back around to my desk. “Friends who owe you favors. One call to the right person, and by dawn, I owned the building.”
Her lips part, stunned.
“Within fifteen minutes, the locksmith was en route,” I add. “And another fifteen after that, your piece-of-shit landlord found out who his new boss is.”
I sit back in my chair, steepling my fingers in front of me, gaze locked on hers.
“I expect Mr. Jenkins will be much more... amicable to tenant needs going forward.”
Sienna just stares at me, silent, blue eyes wide with stunned fury.
And fuck, I want to see what she does next.
And soon I will.
Because the new lock and security monitoring?
That’s not the only change happening in her apartment today.
No less than a dozen cameras are being installed—discreet, invisible to the untrained eye. Jaxon’s tech. His best work. Firewalled, encrypted, completely secure.
No creeps. No risks. No chance of some perverted fuck hacking into the feed and watching what belongs to me.
I’ll get alerts when she leaves. When she gets home. When she’s in the shower or curled up on her couch or asleep in bed with that damn plush blanket pulled up to her chin like she’s not the most temptable thing I’ve ever seen.
And when she touches herself—when she spreads those pretty thighs and plays with her tight little pussy and that goddamn purple vibrator—I’ll be able to hear the breathless sound of my name fall from her lips as she comes around it.
Because she will.
She already does.
I clench my fists beneath the desk, dragging in a slow breath as I try to push the thought away, but it’s no use. My cock’s already hard again, straining against the confines of my pants like it’s just as obsessed with her as I am.
Fuck.
I have to stop.
If I let these thoughts keep spiraling, there won’t be a single drop of blood left in my brain to keep me sane. It’s all going to rush to my dick.
Sienna doesn’t stay quiet long.
Her mouth parts like she’s about to launch another tirade—probably something about boundaries, privacy, or how I’m violating every line in some imaginary rulebook she thinks applies to me.
But I’ve had enough.
“Drop it, Sienna.”
My voice is low. Firm. Final.
Her eyes flash with defiance, but she hears the edge in my tone. The warning. She huffs, arms crossing over her chest in a petulant gesture that makes my cock twitch again.
I record the look for later—burn it into memory.
That’s three spankings now: one for the mouth, one for the attitude, and one just because I want to feel her writhing under my hand.
Soon.
But for now, there’s work to do.
* * *
H alf an hour later, we’re in the training room.
The girls are seated in a semi-circle, a sleek black monitor mounted behind me, ready to light up. I stand in front of them, hands loose at my sides, watching each face with calculated ease.
Some of them fidget.
Some look too confident.
Sienna—she’s fighting not to glare at me, but her curiosity is winning out.
I press the remote and the screen flares to life.
“This exercise,” I begin, voice even and clipped, “is about reading what isn’t being said.”
The remote clicks, revealing a picture of a man—mid-forties, expensive suit, thin smile, tired eyes.
“Your job is to match this face to the right client profile in your Ledgers. You’ll each receive the same set of possibilities. You have one minute to decide.”
A few girls shift in their seats, murmuring softly.
“Your entire profession,” I continue, “relies on your ability to understand people before they open their mouths. Before they tell you what they want. Sometimes they don’t even know what they want.”
Another click. Another photo. A younger man this time. Arrogant smirk. Slightly askew tie. Restless energy in his posture.
“Your contract may arrive in a good mood and leave dangerous. Or they may arrive calm and stable—but are carrying a ticking time bomb in their chest.”
I let that hang there, sweeping my gaze across them.
“Profiling matters. Recognizing tension in a jaw. A twitch in the hand. A dullness in the eyes. All of it tells you something. And if you’re good—if you’re really good—it could mean the difference between a satisfying night and a dangerous one.”
I glance toward Sienna.
Her lips are pursed, her posture tight. But she’s listening.
She always listens when it counts, even if she’s looking at me like she wants to bust my balls.
“Let’s begin.”
An hour into the exercise I click to the next image: a woman this time. Mid-thirties, elegant but closed-off, with sharp eyes and a perfectly neutral expression.
“Take sixty seconds,” I instruct. “Then tell me which of the four profiles you believe fits. And why.”
The room settles into thoughtful hum of low conversation as girls tap their manicured fingers against tablet screens and whisper to each other. I scan them all, but I’m watching Sienna the closest.
She looked at her screen about ten seconds and is not sitting, tapping her pen against her lower lip—absently, like she has somewhere better to be. Then, as if feeling my eyes on her, she flicks her gaze up to meet mine.
And smirks.
Not subtle. Not sweet.
Smug.
“Got something to share, Miss Knight?” I ask coolly.
She blinks innocently. “No, sir. Just waiting for my turn to be right. Again.”
A soft giggle escapes one of the other girls—Gia, a petite redhead with a sharp tongue. “She’s not wrong. She’s nailed, like, every single one.”
“Don’t inflate her ego,” mutters Nika, flipping her long braid over her shoulder. “It’s already spilling into my personal space.”
Sienna just beams at them like she’s being serenaded.
I arch a brow. “Confidence is encouraged. Smugness gets you nowhere.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not aiming for nowhere,” she shoots back sweetly, crossing one leg over the other in a slow, deliberate motion like she wants to drag my attention straight to her thighs.
She knows I’m going to fucking take that bait.
Careful, my gaze tells her. You’re pushing.
She lifts her chin, reading it perfectly.
Good, her expression says back. Because I’m not done yet.
Someone finally blurts out an answer. Incorrect but the logic wasn’t terrible. Someone else delivers the right answer and in return I click to the next profile.
When I walk behind the row of chairs, I slow deliberately as I pass her. I feel her straighten slightly as I near—waiting. Testing.
I lean close enough for my voice to hit only her ears.
“Keep it up,” I murmur. “See what that confidence earns you.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just turns her head slightly and whispers back.
“Oh, I hope it earns me a restraining order against my nosey boss.”
My pulse spikes. My hand grips her chair harder.
Nika clears her throat. “I think it’s Profile C—guy looks like he drinks top-shelf whiskey and cheats on his wife with yoga instructors.”
Gia hums. “Profile A. Divorcee. Wants validation from pretty women and to feel interesting again.”
I nod once. “Good. You’re learning to look deeper than the surface.”
My gaze flicks back to Sienna.
She’s still smiling. Still smug.
And still completely determined to cross whatever line I draw—just so she can watch what I do when she does.
I hope she fucking likes what she’s begging for.