Tamed On His Desk

Tamed on His Desk The air in Thorne Industries was chilled and sharp, like it had been filtered through steel. Glass walls glittered under the mid-morning sun, and everyone moved with the muted intensity of people who knew they were always being watched. They dressed like they were auditioning for a role in a corporate empire. Probably because they were. And I? I was the new assistant to the man at the top of that empire. Nicholas Thorne. CEO. Billionaire. Arrogant bastard with a jaw carved out of marble and eyes like the edge of a blade. They said he never smiled. Never hired assistants twice. Never gave second chances. And that he liked to destroy women the way he closed deals—slowly, mercilessly, and with zero remorse. And I was ten minutes late on my first day. The elevator opened onto the top floor with a soft chime. I stepped out, heels clacking on imported marble, and clutched the folder of documents I’d spent the last two nights memorizing. My blouse was silk. My skirt was a fraction too tight. And my nerves were a mess of caffeine, adrenaline, and the kind of dread that made your stomach twist. “You’re late.” The voice came from across the cavernous office, so deep and calm it made my bones shiver. He didn’t look up from the screen. Just sat there, like a predator perched behind the wide mahogany desk that dominated the room. My heart knocked in my chest as I stepped forward. “I apologize, Mr. Thorne. The HR briefing ran longer than expected.” “Excuses bore me.” He looked up then, and time stuttered. God. Nicholas Thorne wasn’t just beautiful. He was lethal. Perfectly tailored in a black suit and dark tie, the man radiated a cold kind of control that made everything in me tighten. His face was all edges—sharpened cheekbones, a strong chin, and a mouth made for sin. And those eyes—gray like smoke—didn’t just look at you. They assessed, stripped, possessed. “I don’t tolerate incompetence. Or lateness. And I never repeat myself.” “Understood.” I met his gaze and didn’t flinch. My father taught me how to survive wolves. Nicholas Thorne was the whole damn forest fire. He watched me for one long, heavy second. Then leaned back in his chair, one hand casually resting on his chin. “You’re not what I expected.” “Is that a compliment, Mr. Thorne?” “That depends. Do you take well to obedience?” The air changed. Every molecule in that room tightened. My breath caught—not from fear, but something dangerously close to curiosity. I swallowed. “I take well to mutual respect.” “Is that what you think this is?” His tone was soft. Dangerous. Like he was already amused at how long I thought I’d last. I stepped closer, forcing confidence into every inch of my spine. “I don’t need your approval, Mr. Thorne. Just your schedule.” For a moment, silence reigned. Then something shifted behind his eyes—something slow, dark, and glittering with interest. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a file. Placed it in front of him. “Come get it.” I crossed the room and reached for it—until he placed his hand flat over the folder. His fingers brushed mine, barely, but the spark was volcanic. I froze. He didn’t move his hand. Just tilted his head. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” “No. I just know I’m not afraid of you.” His mouth twitched. The first sign of something like amusement. Or maybe challenge. “Good. Fear is boring. I prefer resistance. It makes the fall so much sweeter.” I tugged the file from beneath his hand and stepped back. His gaze stayed on me like a spotlight. Watching every breath, every blink. Then he said, “You’ll break.” The file nearly slipped from my hands. “Excuse me?” He stood. It was like watching a mountain rise—tall, muscular, commanding. His steps were unhurried as he rounded the desk and stopped in front of me. The scent of him—dark cedar, expensive whiskey, something sinful—curled into my lungs. “Everyone breaks in here, Ms. Vale,” he said softly. “Some just take longer than others.” His fingers grazed a strand of my hair, and I couldn’t help it—my breath hitched. “Do you want to keep this job?” he asked. I met his eyes. “Yes.” “Then you’ll follow my rules.” “And if I don’t?” His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Then I’ll have to teach you.” The heat that pulsed between us was sudden and obscene. I hated how much I felt it. “Is that how you treat all your assistants, Mr. Thorne?” I asked. He smirked. “Only the ones who think they can tame me.” I turned, heels sharp on the marble as I headed for the exit. “Ms. Vale,” he called. I stopped without turning. “You’re in over your head,” he said. “But I hope you keep swimming. Watching you drown will be… memorable.” I told myself I wasn’t going to let a man like him get under my skin. I lied. By the end of week one, I’d memorized his every command, every nuance in his voice, every way he liked his coffee and his meetings and his life to be run. And still, he tested me—stared at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to break apart with his teeth. And God help me, I liked it. The power. The push and pull. The tension that tightened every time we stood too close. He never touched me. Not again. But his eyes did. Every day. Until Friday night. The office was empty. The building silent except for the sound of my heels and the click of his pen. I stayed late to file some urgent contracts. When I passed by his door, it was ajar. He stood behind the desk. Waiting. I should have kept walking. Instead, I stepped in. “You summoned me?” He didn’t speak. Just nodded toward the edge of his desk. “Come here.” I hesitated. And that amused gleam was back in his eyes. “You do want to keep this job, don’t you?” I moved slowly, aware of every breath. Every beat of my heart. He reached behind me and clicked the door shut. Locked it. I inhaled sharply. “You’ve done well this week,” he said. “Followed instructions. Bit that smart little mouth when you wanted to snap.” “Maybe I’m just getting started.” His mouth twitched. “So am I.” In one smooth motion, he reached for me—hands on my waist, pulling me flush against him. His heat seared through my clothes, and before I could stop myself, my hands were gripping his arms, strong and unyielding under the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t get to play innocent,” he whispered against my ear. “Not when you come in here smelling like temptation.” He turned me. Bent me slightly over the desk. I gasped—half in shock, half in pure, raw want. “You can say no,” he said, breath hot at my neck. “One word, and I stop.” I didn’t say it. I didn’t want to. Instead, I looked over my shoulder. “Then don’t keep me waiting, Mr. Thorne.” Something dark and triumphant flickered in his eyes. And then he touched me. Every fantasy, every denial, every long-buried need ignited in that moment as his hands slid over me—possessive, claiming, like he was memorizing the shape of my defiance. He kissed the back of my neck, lips searing into my skin, and I moaned, soft and helpless. I didn’t want slow. I didn’t want sweet. I wanted the storm. And he gave it to me. On his desk. Where everyone feared him. Where he ruled his empire. Where now, he took me like I was already his. My cries echoed off the walls, desperate and unfiltered, and he devoured them like a man who hadn’t tasted hunger in years. Our movements were frantic, rhythm pushed to the edge of frenzy, and I came undone with a violence that stole the breath from my lungs. When it was over, he leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “That was just the beginning.” I turned to face him, pulse still racing. “You think you’ve tamed me?” I whispered. His smirk was wicked. “No, sweetheart. I think I’ve only just begun to break you.” And God help me… …I wanted him to try.