Trapped with My Older Boss (Fertile Age Gap Pregnancy Romance Short Stories #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

Virelle

Lucan Wrenford: Coffee. Black. No sugar.

It's ridiculous how my pussy clenches, like someone’s stroking my insides. It's just coffee. He’s not asking me to meet him at a hotel for sex.

Four words from my boss shouldn't be capable of making my stomach flutter, my cheeks warm, and my fingers tighten around my phone like I'm holding something far more intimate than a text message.

Yet there is something about seeing his name on my screen first thing in the morning that makes the air in my bedroom feel different.

Lucan Wrenford is my boss. He’s forty-two, much older than my twenty-two years. I shouldn’t be so damned attracted to a man that old, but I’ve always been deeply seduced by maturity, authority, and a man who can dominate.

I've been secretly obsessed with Lucan since my first week at the company. And every day, I fight a silent war, hoping he’ll notice me, hoping he wants me, too.

I stare at the message for several seconds before typing back.

Me: Good morning to you too.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Lucan: Coffee, Virelle.

I bite my lip. Of course he doesn't say please. He never says please to me. I'm not sure he says it to anyone. He’s famous in the office for being demanding, grumpy, and terrifying.

Me: Yes, Mr. Wrenford.

I stare at my own reply, and the heat in my face gets worse.

There is something embarrassingly thrilling about obeying him, even when the thing he's asking for is nothing more complicated than coffee.

I tell myself it's because he's my boss and I want to make a good impression.

That's the reasonable explanation, even if I know that the truth is darker.

Actually, I love being submissive, sexually speaking. But the way Lucan makes me submit to his orders, even though there’s nothing sexual going on between us, tells me he’s the ultimate kind of dom. One who commands without needing touch to seduce.

The fact that he's forty-two, six-foot-three, intimidating enough to silence a conference room with a glance, and unfairly handsome in the sort of severe way that makes me forget what I'm saying whenever he looks directly at me only adds to his allure.

I'm an intern in one of the most competitive companies in the city, and Lucan Wrenford is the executive whose opinion can make or break a career. Of course I want to impress him.

But more than that, I’ve daydreamed way too many times about him bending me over, whispering, “I’m going to breed you over my desk, Virelle,” as he plows into my wet pussy.

I’m always wet for him at work. It’s inconvenient, but I can’t help it.

I put my phone down and stare at my reflection while I finish getting ready. This is where things become a little harder to explain.

I've spent twenty minutes deciding what to wear, which would be normal if I were choosing an outfit for myself, but I haven't been choosing it for myself for the last several weeks.

Not entirely. Somewhere between my second week at the company and the morning I realized Lucan's eyes followed me when I walked into a room, getting dressed became an exercise in wondering whether he would notice.

Today, I choose a fitted dress. It's not inappropriate.

Not really. The hem falls well above my knees, the waist is fitted, and the neckline is lower than the blouses I usually wear, but still perfectly defensible in an office where women dress professionally.

I know that because I've spent enough time standing in front of my closet trying to find the exact line between appropriate and noticeable to know precisely where that line is.

I want him to notice.

I want the man who barely smiles at anyone to look at me. I want his eyes to linger.

I want to walk into his office and see that tiny change in his expression before he remembers himself and becomes cold again. I want his attention so badly that sometimes I wonder whether there is something wrong with me.

The first time I saw Lucan, I thought he was terrifying. The second time, I thought he was beautiful. By the end of my first week, I knew I was in trouble.

Lucan has never given me any indication that he might be attracted to me.

He doesn't need charming smiles or casual touches or whispered compliments.

His attention is a currency he spends sparingly, and when he gives it to me—even when it's because I've made a mistake—it feels like something I've been waiting for.

Maybe that's why I keep making mistakes around him.

And every time he looks at me with that severe expression and tells me to pay attention, something warm unfurls low in my stomach.

I should probably be concerned about that.

Instead, I think about it while I make his coffee. I know his order because I notice everything about him too.

The way he loosens his tie when he's tired. The way he rubs his thumb against his jaw when he's irritated. The way he becomes completely still when someone says something he doesn't like.

The way he looks at me.

I arrive at the office early enough that the corridors are still quiet, and I take his coffee straight to his office.

His door is open. He's already there, sitting behind his desk in a dark suit, sleeves buttoned, tie perfectly straight, looking exactly like the man everyone in the company is afraid of.

Everyone hates him. At least, that's what people say.

They call him ruthless when they think he can't hear them.

They say he has no patience, no warmth, no mercy for anyone who doesn't meet his standards.

I've heard employees complain about him in the break room, whispering about how impossible he is to please.

I don't understand them.

Or maybe I do.

Lucan isn't nice.

That's different from being cruel.

He's demanding because he expects people to be competent. He doesn't tolerate excuses. He doesn't soften criticism because someone might cry. He doesn't pretend mistakes don't matter.

And for some reason, I like that about him.

I like watching him take control of a room. I like the way people immediately stop talking when he enters. I like the low, measured voice he uses when he's giving instructions.

Most of all, I like hearing that voice directed at me.

"You're late," he growls this morning.

I stop in the doorway. "I'm two minutes early."

His eyes lift from his computer.

The effect is immediate.

The room seems to change when Lucan looks at me. The air becomes heavier, warmer, charged with something I can't explain. It's ridiculous because nothing has happened. He hasn't moved. He hasn't touched me. He's barely even looked at me for more than a few seconds.

Still, my pulse jumps.

His gaze travels over me. Slowly.

My face burns. I know he notices the dress. He doesn't say anything about it. That somehow feels worse.

I walk toward his desk and place the coffee beside his hand. "Your coffee."

He glances at it. Then at me. "Did you make it?"

"Yes."

"Good."

One word. My stomach flips. I hate myself. But I love the warmth that blooms in my core when I’m near him. That warmth makes me feel alive. It makes me feel like a woman who can be soft in the presence of a man who knows how to make a woman feel feminine.

"Thank you," he says.

I blink. Lucan Wrenford just thanked me. I think I’ll cry.

"You're welcome."

He takes the cup, and our fingers almost touch. Almost. The tiny distance between us suddenly feels enormous.

I pull my hand back too quickly. His eyes follow the movement. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then his gaze drops again, this time unmistakably to my dress. My heart stutters.

"Is there something wrong?" I ask.

"No." He says it too quickly.

I know he's lying. I shouldn't enjoy that, but I do.

"You're staring."

His eyes return to mine. "I was looking at your dress."

"Oh." My voice comes out softer than I intend. "Why?"

His expression hardens. "Because it's distracting."

The word settles between us. My cheeks burn.

"I thought it was appropriate."

"It is."

"Then why is it distracting?"

He leans back in his chair, studying me with an expression I can't quite read. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."

I don't know what to say to that.

His jaw tightens.

And suddenly I know I've done something right. The realization sends a delicious shiver through me.

I like getting under his skin, not because I want to challenge him.

The truth is almost the opposite. I want his attention because I like the feeling of being the one person capable of pulling a reaction from him.

I like that this enormous, intimidating man can look at me and lose, if only for a second, the perfect control he seems to have over everything else.

"There's a report on your desk," he says.

"I finished it."

"Bring it to me."

"It's already there."

His eyes narrow.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

"Virelle."

"Yes, Mr. Wrenford?"

"Don't play games with me."

The warmth spreading through me has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

"I'm not."

"Good."

He picks up the report and nods. That’s my cue to leave. But I want to stay. Because being in his office makes my skin feel too tight and my heart beat too quickly, and because every second I spend near him feels like something I'm stealing.

"There's a client meeting at four," I say finally. "Am I going?"

"No."

My smile disappears. "But you said I could sit in."

"I changed my mind."

"Why?"

"Because I need you here."

The words shouldn't make me feel anything. But my stomach trembles with sheer joy. He needs me.

"Come here." The command catches me halfway through gathering my things. His fingers, pwoeful and masculine, are tapping against his oak desk.

I look up, and Lucan is watching me from behind his desk with that unreadable expression he seems to reserve especially for me. My stomach gives a nervous little flutter as I walk back toward him, clutching the folder against my chest.

"Yes, Mr. Wrenford?"

His eyes move over me again, slower this time. I feel the warmth creeping into my cheeks before he even says anything.