Chapter 22
A fter everything he did—the lock, the alarm, buying the fucking building—I made it my mission this week to make Lucian’s life hell.
And God, I’ve done a damn good job.
I ignore his instructions.
Roll my eyes when he corrects me.
Smirk when I catch him looking.
I challenge him in ways the other girls wouldn’t dare . Because I know he’s letting me push. Letting me dig my own grave.
And I can’t help it—I want to see how deep I can go.
I want to be reckless. To crack that carefully constructed armor of his and see what’s underneath. He crosses lines? So can I. And I’ll do it with a smile.
But every time I toe the edge, he doesn’t snap.
He watches. He waits.
And it makes me angrier.
It’s another training day. Another afternoon where Eve is off on a contract, so Lucian steps in—filling her role in the most uncomfortable way possible.
Today, he has us all in his office. Tea and coffee on polished trays. Everything just so, like always. Except nothing about this feels professional.
Because the other girls are acting like we’re on some delusional speed-dating episode of The Billionaire Jerk-face Bachelor .
Gia leans forward too far when she talks, hoping he’ll glance down her blouse. Nika plays with her straw like she’s trying to jack it off. Every question that gets tossed his way sounds like a pickup line, thinly veiled with curiosity of how big his dick is.
“What’s your favorite city to travel to?”
“Do you ever go to the beach?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Jesus Christ.
They have a chance to ask the most powerful man in this entire company anything—and this is what they do with it?
I sip my coffee and roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck there.
I prefer this office when it’s just us. When I can smell his cologne drifting in the air, mix it with the dark, bitter scent of espresso.
When he says my name low and quiet, in that voice that scrapes against my spine like a secret he wants to keep.
But right now? I’m over it.
Another girl—Tasha, maybe—leans toward me, all glossy lips and perfectly curled hair, and whispers behind her manicured hand, “These questions are so lame. I feel like we’re in a group date from Hell.”
I smirk, keeping my gaze forward, but my voice carries just enough Lucian hears it.
“Yeah, all we’re missing is a rose ceremony and matching bikinis.”
A few girls stifle awkward laughter. One lets out a choked snort. Tasha covers her mouth like she didn’t just start it.
Lucian turns his head slowly. That calm, collected mask he wears so well? Slipping.
Just a little.
Enough.
“Dismissed,” he says, low and clipped.
Chairs scrape and tea cups clink against saucers as the girls scramble out, tripping over themselves to avoid the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
I stand, smug. Victorious.
And then his voice slices through the room again.
“Not you.”
I freeze.
A thrill of heat runs down my spine. I’m not afraid.
But I probably should be.
The door closes behind the last girl with a soft click . The silence that follows is deafening— dangerous . I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Lucian doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t snap.
He simply straightens his cuffs.
Then he circles.
Slow. Measured. Predatory.
Every step feels like it echoes inside me. He’s not just walking—he’s stalking , and I’m his prey. The heat I was riding so confidently moments ago is already shifting—turning molten, disorienting.
“So,” he says finally, voice smooth as his espresso, “care to explain your little outburst?”
I try to roll my eyes. Try to summon the fire I felt just minutes ago.
But my mouth is dry. My heart won’t stop thudding.
I swallow, forcing the words past lips that suddenly don’t feel so smug. “It was... ridiculous. The flirting. The questions. I just—someone had to say something.”
He hums low, like he's considering that answer. He’s standing behind me now—I can feel him, close enough that the heat of his body kisses my spine.
“And of course,” he murmurs, “that someone had to be you.”
I don’t answer.
Because yes. It did.
Because I wanted to get under his skin.
I wanted him to lose control.
And now that he’s not? It’s somehow so much worse .
I hear the rustle of his jacket as he steps closer, feel the shift in the air as he lowers his voice to a deadly whisper.
“You’ve been pushing me all week, Sienna.”
My breath hitches.
“And now that you’ve woken the devil,” he continues, “what exactly do you plan to do with him?”
I don’t know.
God help me, I don’t know.
But I sure as hell can’t back down now.
I lift my chin, even though my voice isn’t nearly as steady as I want it to be. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t move.
He just speaks—low, lethal, final.
“Let’s see if that’s true.”
Lucian slips off his jacket with a fluid motion, the expensive fabric whispering against itself as he hangs it neatly on the coat rack in the corner of his office.
“Hands on the desk.”
“You can’t be serious.” My voice is breathless. Barely a whisper.
But he is.
He doesn’t answer—not with words. Just steps toward the desk, his movements precise, calculated. He removes his cufflinks—the same ones I picked up from the jeweler two weeks ago, the ones I remember being heavy and sharp in my hand—and places them gently on the wood surface, one by one.
Then, slowly, he rolls his sleeve. Not rushed. Not rough.
Deliberate.
Revealing bronzed skin, thick forearms roped with strength and veins that make my pulse skip.
“You’re about to learn exactly how serious I am,” he says, voice low and even. He starts on the second sleeve, rolling it to match the first.
“Hands–on–the–desk.”
Each word lands like a promise.
I move. Hesitant. Not because I don’t want this, but because suddenly I do .
And that’s more terrifying than anything.
I walk to the desk, walking softly across the polished floor. My fingers touch the surface first, then my palms.
I bend forward, mimicking the position he had me in the other day—but not quite. My stance is off. Elbows too tight. Back not arched. Feet not wide enough apart.
Part of me does it on purpose.
Part of me doesn’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore.
Lucian follows—quiet, patient.
I don’t hear him move. I feel him behind me.
And then his hands are on me.
Not rough. Not fast.
Just… firm . Controlled.
He adjusts my hips with a touch that lingers too long. Smooth palms sliding down my sides, pressing one hand between my shoulders until I sink deeper into the position he wants.
It’s humiliating. It’s thrilling.
It’s everything I didn’t realize I needed because I feel electrified inside and it’s flowing straight to my pussy.
This feels like foreplay and just this thirty seconds of interaction has me soaking fucking wet. So much more so than Ben was ever capable of.
Lucian’s voice slides over me like smoke. “You’ve been very naughty, Sienna. Rolling your eyes. Talking back. Pushing.”
Oh my God. I swallow. My fingers flex against the desk.
“The point of today’s exercise,” he continues, his tone calm and almost… instructional, “was to teach you the art of conversation. How to read a client. Engage. Anticipate. Not flirt. Not pout. Not compete for attention like it’s some game.”
“They all failed today.” Lucian says, his voice a murmur near the base of my neck.
His hand glides over my spine again, slow and deliberate.
“But so did you.”
My breath catches, my cheek pressed to the cool wood of his desk. The contrast of temperature sends a chill through my body—one that’s chased away the moment his warmth crowds in behind me again.
I should be ashamed.
But I’m not.
Because I like the way he touches me. The way his hands smooth down my hips, firm and sure. The way he molds me into position without resistance. I could fight it—but I don’t want to.
I want to know what happens next.
His foot nudges mine, gently spreading my stance even wider. The movement feels functional, calculated… but it’s also intimate in a way that steals the air from my lungs.
He’s preparing me.
For what, I don’t know.
One of his hands settles on my hip, grounding me. The other slides up the line of my spine, his palm wide, warm, and unhurried. When he reaches the space between my shoulder blades, he applies the slightest pressure—pressing me forward until my chest brushes the polished desk.
“Good girl, Sienna.” he says softly, like the words are just for him. “Just like this. Every time.”
My breath stutters. My heart is thundering so loud I’m certain he can hear it.
“You act like you want control,” he murmurs, his voice low and sharp and devastating, “but what you really want is to give it up.”
Both of his hands slide down then, leisurely, like he has all the time in the world. He palms the curve of my ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing the tension beneath my skin.
“You want someone to take it from you,” he continues. “To know what you need… before you ever say the words.”
My eyes flutter shut. My body feels molten. Wrecked without even being touched properly.
I hear the sound of fabric shifting—and then feel the cool air kiss my thighs as he pushes my dress up.
My breath hitches, my thighs clenching involuntarily as I’m fully exposed—my lacy black panties stretched over the curve of my ass, the black garters and stirrups hugging the tops of my sheer stockings.
A low rumble sounds in his throat.
It’s not a growl. Not quite.
But it’s dangerous . Deep. Primal.
His fingers slide reverently back down the globes of my ass, slow and steady.
“You wore these for me,” he says darkly. “Don’t lie.”
I swallow hard, my cheek still pressed to the desk, my fingers curled into the wood.
“You’ve been begging for this. Every bratty look. Every smart little comment. Every time you opened that mouth, you were asking for this.”
I can’t speak.
I don’t want to.
Because he’s right.
And I don’t want him to stop.
“Now, answer me, Sienna.”
His voice is low—coiled restraint stretched thin and fraying.
I feel him press forward and moan , deep and unguarded, as the thick line of his erection grinds against the swell of my ass. My cunt clenches involuntarily, the air punched from my lungs at the sound he makes.
That fucking sound.
His hand finds my hip again, squeezing hard enough to make me whimper. The other drifts up—palming my ass, sliding slowly along the curve of my lower back, then up my spine.
When he reaches my shoulder, he doesn’t grip—he massages. Deep, slow, tender. His fingers dig into the tension I’m holding like he knows every tight, anxious place inside me.
“Answer me, Sienna,” he repeats, his breath warm at my ear. “You wore these for me. Didn’t you, Angel ?”
My name on his lips is sinful. But Angel ? It melts me.
I push back into him—pressing my ass into the thick ridge of his cock, wordless and needy, desperate for more than the teasing brush he keeps giving.
But the moment I do, he pulls away.
A strangled sound slips from my throat. When I relax in disappointment, he presses forward again—grinding into me just enough to make my knees weak.
He’s toying with me.
Ruining me.
Making me desperate for him.
“Yes,” I breathe. It’s a moan. A confession. A beg .
And then?—
A rush of cool air.
SMACK.
I cry out, startled, the sharp sting lighting across my ass as my body jerks in shock. I try to lift up, instinctively, but his hand presses firmly to the center of my back, keeping me down with terrifying ease.
“Yes, what?” he asks.
His tone is lethal. Quiet and cold.
I stammer, still dazed. “I—I?—”
SMACK.
Another slap. Harder this time. The sound echoes off the walls, heat blooming beneath my skin as I gasp.
“Yes, sir !” I blurt, trembling. “Yes, sir—I wore them for you!”
The silence that follows is thick. Tense. Electric.
And Lucian?
He finally smiles.
I can feel it in the air between us.
“I knew you could be a good girl,” he murmurs, the words curling down my spine like silk laced with smoke.
And then his hand lifts.
Crack.
I suck in a gasp as the slap lands harder this time. Sharp. Stinging. My body jolts, a whimper escaping before I can catch it.
His palm glides over the spot he just struck—slow, cruel, teasing . He massages the sting like he’s soothing a wound and branding me all at once. The friction lights up my skin, making my core throb with need.
“You want to act like a brat, Sienna?” His voice is so calm. Deep. Patient, like he’s explaining math.
Another hit.
“Then you’ll be treated like one.”
My eyes burn. I’m humiliated—laid out across his desk like a disobedient schoolgirl. My ass bare, dress bunched at my waist.
But worse than the shame?
Is the heat .
The pleasure-pain that pulses from every spank, ricocheting straight to my clit. It buzzes there—taunting. Torturing. Every hit hurts , but somehow, it makes me wetter. Makes me ache harder.
Smack.
My fingers grip the edge of the desk.
“You don’t misbehave because you want to disobey, Angel ,” Lucian says, his tone still maddeningly level. “You do it because you want me to take control, don’t you?”
Another hit, again.
“Yes, sir.” A choked moan slips from me. I hate him. I hate how much I want this.
His hand glides over my ass again—slow and deliberate, like he’s studying the shape of his sin.
“You play the brat so well,” he murmurs. “All mouth and no discipline.”
Smack.
“Every time you talk back, you’re begging for this. Every time you roll your eyes, you’re asking me to put you in your place.”
I’m trembling now. My breath hitching. My thighs slick and quivering, my core pulsing like I’m seconds from an orgasm I know I won’t get.
That’s the worst part.
He won’t give me that.
Lucian’s been edging me since the moment I stepped into The Ledger.
Every lingering look.
Every command spoken in that low, lethal voice.
Every brush of his body so close to me that says mine —only to pull away before I can have anything .
Smack.
“Pathetic,” he mutters under his breath. “Dripping all over my desk like a needy little slut, aren’t you?”
My breath catches—part humiliation, part helpless arousal that pulses low in my belly. My eyes burn. My skin stings. My thighs try to rub together for friction, but he notices and spreads them wider.
“You think this gets you what you want?” he asks, voice curling hot against my spine. “You think being desperate makes you deserving?”
He reaches around my hip, to the front of my panties. I suck in a breath and hold it. Begging him to slide his fingers beneath the waistband.
He doesn’t. He only allows his fingertips to barely slide between my legs. The faintest touch, stopping just as he feels how truly wet he’s made me.
Fuck him.
He bends lower, his palm rubbing over the sting of my ass, soothing and cruel all at once.
“You’re soaking,” he says, almost to himself, but I hear the satisfaction in it. “So fucking wet for me and I haven’t even touched your pretty little cunt.”
Smack.
“I know that is what you really want, Angel.” His whisper is more growl.
A whimper breaks free before I can stop it.
Not just from shame.
But from fury.
I want to come. I want to scream. I want to claw at him for starting this and leaving me wrecked.
But all I can do is stay there.
Ass high.
Face flushed against the polished desk.
Legs trembling. Clit throbbing.
When the last smack comes—sharp, final—it leaves me breathless.
Then silence.
His hand glides over the tender flesh of my ass again, slower now. Almost gentle. Like he’s proud of his work. Like I’m some lesson taught, punishment delivered.
“Beautiful.” He murmurs.
And I hate how much I liked it.
How much I wanted more .
Lucian leans down, his breath warm at my ear. His cock presses against me—hard, restrained, untouched .
“Watch your smart mouth, angel.” He takes in a deep breath, inhaling me, his nose pressed into my hair. “I do enjoy shutting it.”
That’s the end of it. He doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t finger me. Doesn’t even look at me like I’m worthy of the release I need so badly.
He just steps back, leaving my red ass exposed, my legs spread wide. The cold rush of air stings as he removes his heat from me, and I bolt up.
I’m crying, my nose is running and as I sit up to pull my dress down, he stops me.
“Who gave you permission to get up?”
I want to turn around and slap him, then pull him into me and devour his mouth. Spread my legs and feel him slam his hard cock into me.
Instead, I stay here. My red ass cheeks burning as I stay still, just how he posed me.
He walks around his desk to his chair, unrolling his sleeves and reaching for his first cufflink.
“Go clean yourself up, then you’re dismissed.”
Without a word or a look back at him, I work my tight dress back down and leave. Slamming his door behind me.
Dismissed. Asshole.
Like it was nothing.
Like I’m nothing.
Like I didn’t feel his dick throbbing against me, wanting me too.
I know he did. I know he wanted to pull himself out and sink fully into me.
Because I fucking wanted it too.
And when my clit throbs from just imagining it, I think I might actually scream.