Off Limits: The Billionaire's Forbidden Assistant

I Dare

Sofia

There's something about cheap tequila and the first free Friday I've had in months that makes me think I can get away with anything I do tonight.

"Okay, Sofia, your turn." Camila waves her phone in my face, eyes showing with the kind of joy that only comes after the third round. "Truth or dare?"

I lean back against the red booth, head pleasantly foggy, my heels long abandoned under the table. Four days ago I walked out of Calloway & Reyes for the last time without any warning notice, just a resignation letter.

Tonight isn't just a girls' night. It's a funeral for the version of me that used to stay until nine answering emails that weren't hers to answer, while the people who dumped that work on her clocked out at five.

Monday, I start over in a new company, with new title and rules. This time I will not let anyone treat me like a doormat again.

"Dare," I say, because tonight I'm someone who says dare.

Camila's eyes light up like I've handed her a gift. "See that guy at the bar? Second stool from the end, on dark suit?"

I glance over and immediately regret it.

His jacket unbuttoned, tie gone, collar open just enough to hint at what's underneath. His one hand wrapped around a tumbler of something dark; the other resting on his knee, still except for one restless thumb. Everything about him looks composed though his composure feels rehearsed, like stillness is something he's decided on, not something that comes naturally.

"Are you trying to get me arrested," I ask, "or just widowed?"

Priya snorts into her glass. "He's hot. And clearly older. You said you wanted to be reckless tonight."

"I said I wanted to feel like a person again. Not the same thing Priya."

"One conversation, Sofia. It's not to persuade him for a wedding." Camila grins. "Go say hi. Worst case, he ignores you and we never see him again."

I look at him one more time, sideview, sharp jaw, clearly nothing about him invites conversation, which is exactly why some reckless, tequila-driven part of me wants to have one anyway.

I stand before I can talk myself out of it.

"If he has me arrested with just a look," I tell them, "you're both posting bail."

I walk over slower than I mean to, doing my best impression of a woman who isn't slightly unsteady on her feet. I slide onto the empty stool beside him like I belong there.

He never look up. Just turns his glass a slow quarter-circle on the bar top.

"Hi," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere close enough to his hearing.

A beat of silence. Then: "No." His voice came out flat, immediate and final.

I let out a startled laugh. "You don't even know what I was going to ask."

He turns his head now, and it's worse up close as his pale gray eyes landed on me, unimpressed, like he's already three steps ahead of whatever I say next. "You were going to ask for my number."

He said that not like a question but conclusion.

"And if I was?"

He leans in not much, just enough that his voice drops low, and rough at the edges. "Ask for a night instead."

I don't laugh neither do I walk away either, though some distant, sober fragment of my brain suggests I should do both. There's something about the flatness of his voice, its got no smirk, no line or performance and that makes it land harder than any smooth opinion could have.

"One night," I hear myself say.

Something flickers behind his eyes, of surprise, maybe because I didn't flinch.

"What's your name?"

He finishes his drink instead of answering. "You don't need it." He stands, and somehow I'm already following.

I throw a look back at the table, Camila's jaw is on the floor, Priya's already recording something on her phone I will absolutely need deleted, and then I'm out the door behind a stranger whose name I don't know, walking two blocks to a hotel that feels like a different world from the bar we just left.

He doesn't speak in the elevator. His jaw works like he's biting back irritation, maybe, or the same disbelief I'm currently swimming in, and was like he can't quite decide whether this is a good idea or a mistake he's choosing anyway.

Inside the room, he doesn't turn on the lights. City glow through the windows is enough.

He shrugs out of his jacket, drapes it over a chair, rolls his sleeves up unhurried, like there's no clock running.

"Last chance to leave," he says. No weight behind his voice either way.

"Are you always this dramatic with strangers?"

The corner of his mouth moves but not quite a smile.

"Do you always make jokes when you're nervous?"

"Only when the guy looks like he might ruin my life a little."

"Can I?" His eyes drop, slowly like a scanner

I hold his gaze. "Guess we're about to find out."

His eyes locks on me like he'd already decided what he is going to do to me or maybe worse, like he already had.

So no warning, no buildup, one moment he was standing across from me, the next, he was in front of me. Heat rolling off his body, one hand gripping the side of my throat, his cold thumb tilting my chin up.

He's not choking as I expect, more like claiming.

"Don't regret this," he murmurs on my mouth. "You have no idea who I am."

"That's the point," I whisper, shutting my eyes, as I wait for a kiss, but he didn't kiss me.

Instead, he pushes me backward until I hit the wall with a soft impact, my breath catches anyway. His hands goes to my waist, possessive, tugging me close enough. I feel the heat of him already thick and straining beneath his trousers, pressed against my abdomen.

I inhale sharply. "You're—"

"Don't say it," he growls, and for the first time, I feel something cracked in him.

He grabs the hem of my dress and yanks it up, keeping it around my hips. One hand slide between my thighs, cupping me over my already f*cking damp panties.

"You're soaking wet," he mutters, his voice dark with something between impressed and disbelief.

"Maybe I like the suspense," I breathe, biting my lips.

He smiles before dragging my panties down and off in one rough pull.

He dropped to his knees, his tongue found me like he'd been craving it for days. Long, deep strokes that had me gasping and grabbing at his hair, my thighs shaking from the sheer force of it. He effortlessly wrapped one arm around my hip to keep me from falling and used the other to press two fingers inside me, slow at first, then hard, curling until my back ache on the wall.

I came embarrassingly fast. Too fast. His name wasn't even in my mouth. I had nothing to moan but a broken, breathless “God.”

He stood as I came down from it, still fully dressed, towering over me like I was something he meant to devour.

“Take your dress off,” he says, and I read it as a s*xy order.

I quickly did.

My pink dress slid off my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I stood in just my bra, breathing hard, bare from the waist down, and suddenly shy. That wasn't like me. I wasn't a shy girl. Maybe it was because it was my first official time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no virgin, at least biologically. That, I took care of a long time. But this was going to be my first with someone and, God, I am in the 7th heaven.

He undid his belt intentionally slowly. Pulls his c*ck free and stroked it once. it is thick, hard, flushed with need.

My mouth go dry and my p*ssy sticky wet.

“Still want to find out if I'll ruin your life?” he asks.

“Only if you do it properly,” I say, already reaching for him. He doesn't let me.

He spin me around, bending me over to the bed. Then he gripped my hips, lined himself up, and pushed in with one, brutal thrust.

I cry out, in pain, in shock, in full pleasure the second I felt the fullness and the pressure. He curses under his breath, barely audible. “You're tight.”

I couldn't help it. I grinned, panting. “Maybe you're just huge.”

That got a real laugh from him though surprised, almost boyish, then he growled and deepened inside me.

“Say it again,” he rasped against my neck.

“You're huge.”

“Say my name.” Came another full slam.

“I... don't know...” I moan loudly and unintentional.

He stilled, breathing harsh, forehead against the back of my shoulder. “Exactly.”

He thrusts again. It wasn't sweet or slow but filthy, perfect and everything I hadn't known I needed. The way he fckng fckd me, hard, deep, possessive, like I was the only thing in the world keeping him alive. His hands gripped my hips, his body slamming into mine with primitive, desperate force.

But he never kissed me, didn't even try.

Even when I turned my head to look at him, to maybe see him, he dragged my face back down and pressed it to the mattress.

“Don't,” he murmured. “Just feel.”

So I obey

I came again with a sharp gasp, my fingers fisting the sheets, my whole body going taut and then liquid. He followed seconds later, pulsing inside me with a deep, low groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul.

He collapsed beside me, held me close. I laid there in silence. My chest heaving, heart racing and mind going blank.

And still... no kiss.

When I woke, he was gone.

The sheets were cool. The bathroom door was open. His scent never left on the pillow beside mine, sweet, masculine, expensive fragrance.

My panties were folded on the nightstand.

Beside them was a note, written in elegant handwriting.

“Thank you for tonight. Don't look for me.

I sit there holding it longer than I should, feeling something unfamiliar and a little unwelcome behind my ribs.

I don't know his name. I don't know what he does, why he vanished before sunrise, or why his letter is somehow more unsettling than anything he said all night.

But I know one thing with total certainty: forgetting him is going to be a problem.