Page 9 of Bossh*le Daddy
I couldn't meet his gaze. Couldn't process the way those words settled into my bones like they'd always been there, waiting. My eyes fixed on the contract between us, watching as he picked it up and, without breaking eye contact, put it into his desk drawer.
"Get back to work, little one." Softer now, but no less commanding. "We have the Morrison situation to fix. And you're going to help me fix it."
*
The sixtieth floor emptied in waves, productivity bleeding out through closing elevator doors until only the ghosts of the dayremained. Six o'clock became seven, seven became eight, and still I sat hunched over my keyboard, trying to type my way back to competence.
The Morrison email chain had grown into a hydra—every response spawning three more, each more carefully worded than the last. Legal wanted clarifications. HR wanted documentation. Morrison himself wanted blood, preferably mine.
I drafted response after response, channeling Damian's voice but softening the edges, turning his steel into something more like stern diplomacy.
The office fell into that particular quiet that only came after hours. The constant hum of printers and conversation faded to nothing, leaving only the whisper of climate control and the distant ping of elevators carrying the last stragglers home. Security would do rounds at nine, I'd learned. Until then, the executive floor was mine.
Or ours. Because his office door stood slightly ajar, spilling a blade of light across the carpet. He'd left an hour ago, sweeping past my desk without acknowledgment, but that cracked door felt like an invitation. Or a test. Or maybe just an oversight from a man who never made oversights.
I saved my draft—the seventeenth version—and stood on legs that protested the sudden movement. Everything ached. The kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from holding yourself rigid for hours, waiting for the next blow to fall.
But it hadn't fallen. After shredding my resignation, he'd simply returned to work as if the whole interaction hadn't happened. As if he hadn't just claimed ownership of me with the casual certainty of someone buying a newspaper. The memory of those words—you belong to me—sent fresh heat through my chest.
My feet carried me to his door without conscious decision. Just to look. Just to see the space without him fillingit, dominating it, making everything else seem small by comparison.
I pushed the door wider. No alarm sounded, no security descended. Just me and this cavern of marble and leather that smelled like him—cedar and cologne and pure masculinity.
The city spread below the floor-to-ceiling windows, lights beginning to twinkle as full darkness fell. His desk dominated the space, that black marble surface now clear of everything but a single pen, aligned precisely parallel to the edge. The perfection of it, the control, made something twist in my chest.
But it was the chair that drew me. High-backed leather that probably cost more than my annual rent, positioned to survey both the office and the city beyond. I'd seen him in it dozens of times already, leaning back with that casual arrogance that made everything look effortless. Now it sat empty, waiting.
I shouldn't. The thought was immediate and absolute. But my fingers were already trailing along the leather, feeling the butter-soft texture that might still hold warmth from his body. Before I could talk myself out of it, I sank into the seat.
The chair swallowed me. Built for his tall frame, it made me feel even smaller than usual, a child playing in adult furniture. But it smelled like him here, concentrated and overwhelming. I tucked my legs up, knees to chest, letting the leather embrace me from all sides.
For long minutes I just sat, letting the silence wash over me. This morning felt like a lifetime ago. The humiliation, the tears, the absolute certainty that I couldn't do this. But I was still here. Still his, apparently, whether I understood what that meant or not.
My bag sat by my feet where I'd dropped it. Without thinking, I reached down and pulled out my rabbit, needing that familiar comfort in this unfamiliar space. She looked even more wornin the sophisticated office, her pink fur shabby against all this luxury.
"You belong to me." I whispered the words, testing them out in the safety of solitude. They felt different here, in his chair, surrounded by his scent. Less like a threat and more like a promise. Less like ownership and more like . . . protection? Purpose? Something I didn't have words for yet.
My fingers found her ear, stroking the worn spot automatically. The city lights blurred as exhaustion pulled at me, making everything soft around the edges. When was the last time I'd eaten? This morning? Yesterday? The days had started bleeding together, distinguished only by different flavors of inadequacy.
"Why does it feel like you see me when no one else does?" The question slipped out, directed at the empty office or maybe at him, wherever he was. Probably at some sophisticated restaurant, eating things I couldn't pronounce with people who belonged in his world.
But he'd seen me. This morning, when I'd stood there drowning in humiliation, he'd looked at me. Not through me, not past me, but at me. Like I was real. Like I mattered, even if only as something to possess.
My voice cracked on the next words. "I don't understand what you want from me."
I didn't hear the door open. Didn't hear his footsteps on that plush carpet designed to muffle sound. But suddenly the air changed, charged with that particular electricity that meant Damian Stone had entered his domain.
My eyes flew open to find him in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light. His jacket was gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that had no business looking that good. He leaned against the doorframe with deceptivecasualness, but his eyes—those storm-gray eyes—were anything but casual as they took in the scene.
Me. In his chair. Legs tucked up like a child. Rabbit clutched to my chest.
Heat flooded my face as I scrambled to untangle myself, to stand, to apologize, to disappear through the floor if possible. But my legs had gone numb from sitting folded too long, and I only managed an awkward flail that somehow made me smaller in his massive chair.
"Mr. Stone, I—"
"Little one."
The endearment stopped my panicked explanations before they could start. He pushed off from the doorframe, moving into the office with that predator's grace that made everything else seem clumsy by comparison. The door clicked shut behind him, a soft sound that felt louder than thunder.
