Tamed On His Desk

Episode3

Tamed on His Desk

I was already hard the moment she walked into my office.

She tried to hide it—how her chest rose a little faster when she saw me. How her hands fidgeted against the hem of her skirt, like she hadn’t spent the entire week reliving the taste of my tongue between her thighs.

But I saw it.

I always see it.

Alina Vale may be many things—brilliant, resilient, maddening—but subtle?

Not when it comes to me.

She thinks she’s playing a game.

She has no idea I built the board.

When she looked me in the eye and told me she wouldn’t break?

I knew I’d already won.

The unbroken ones always fall the hardest.

Because they have more to lose.

And I want to watch her lose everything.

“Close the door.”

She obeyed, slower than usual. And then—she locked it.

Interesting.

She was never reckless without reason.

The moment she turned, I read it all on her face.

She was angry.

Hungry.

Dangerous.

Good.

That’s exactly how I liked them.

She walked toward me like temptation dressed in control, and when she whispered that she wasn’t broken—that she was still dangerous—I nearly groaned aloud.

Because she didn’t realize what that did to me.

I didn’t want compliance.

I wanted submission.

Earned. Fought for. Dragged out of her inch by inch, scream by scream.

So when she laid down her own rules—no lies, no games—I did the only thing a man like me could do.

I lied anyway.

She said, “Earn me.”

I said, “Good.”

And then I kissed her like I wanted to ruin her.

Because I do.

Because she makes me feel unhinged.

And I don’t lose control.

Ever.

The elevator was empty the next morning when she walked in.

I was already in the corner.

I hadn’t planned it. I never do.

But when she stepped inside and realized she’d have to stand next to me for thirty-six floors, something inside her shifted.

She tried to stay silent.

But the tension crackled between us.

She was wearing pale blue—conservative, high-necked, like she thought hiding would save her. But I remembered what she looked like naked.

Bent over my desk.

Crying out my name.

I leaned down. Close enough to make her body flinch.

“I didn’t forget your little performance last night,” I whispered.

Her breath caught.

I smiled.

“Next time you challenge me, sweetheart, you’d better be ready to lose.”

She faced forward, spine straight, mouth pressed into a defiant line.

But I saw her hands tremble.

Good.

Let her try to outlast me.

Let her try to tame me.

Because this isn’t about s*x anymore.

This is about ownership.

And I want to own every inch of her.

I called her into my office twice that day. For no reason.

The first time, I handed her a blank folder.

The second time, I had her adjust the blinds.

Neither task required her. That wasn’t the point.

The point was to keep her on edge. To make her wonder what was coming next.

It worked.

By noon, she was flushed.

By three, she couldn’t look me in the eyes.

By five, she was gone.

Running again.

I let her.

But not for long.

That night, I sent a car to her apartment.

No message.

Just the black car.

Driver instructed not to answer questions.

She didn’t climb in right away.

But after ten minutes, she folded.

That was her first mistake.

The second?

Thinking she had a say in how the night would go.

She stepped into my penthouse in silence.

I watched from the kitchen, whiskey in hand, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled.

She looked around like she’d stepped into a den of sin.

She wasn’t wrong.

Because everything in this space was designed with control in mind.

The lighting—dim enough to unsettle.

The air—fragrant with something faintly floral and dangerous.

And the mirrors—strategically placed.

So I could watch her break from every angle.

“You sent a car,” she said.

“You got in.”

“Is this how you work? You make them feel special, then turn the screws?”

I sipped my drink.

“I don’t make anyone feel anything. I give them the opportunity to want me. What they do with that want is up to them.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re not a god, Nicholas.”

“No,” I said softly. “I’m worse. I’m a man who always gets what he wants.”

“And if I don’t want to be yours?”

I smiled.

“You already are.”

I watched the fury rise in her eyes.

She was about to spit something back—another line, another wall.

But I didn’t let her.

I crossed the room in three strides, cupped the back of her neck, and slammed my mouth over hers.

Not gentle.

Not sweet.

Possessive.

Punishing.

She moaned into my mouth and clawed at my chest like she hated herself for responding.

I pushed her backward until she hit the mirror.

“Look,” I growled, turning her head so she had no choice but to face herself.

She gasped when she saw our reflection.

Me—towering behind her. Her—disheveled, pupils blown wide.

“See how quickly you fall?” I whispered, lips grazing her jaw. “You don’t want to be mine, and yet you’re wet just from my voice.”

She tried to turn away.

I didn’t let her.

I caught her wrists, pinned them above her head with one hand, and slipped the other between her thighs.

She whimpered.

Slick. Ready. Desperate.

“I could f**k you right here, against your own reflection,” I murmured. “And you’d thank me.”

“No,” she said breathlessly. “I wouldn’t.”

But when I pressed my fingers inside her?

She arched into me.

Liar.

I didn’t take her right away.

I teased her.

I stripped her slowly, unbuttoning each piece like I was unwrapping something priceless.

She tried to maintain control—to act unaffected.

But the moment I tied her wrists with my silk tie and bent her over the black marble counter, she shattered.

Her moans echoed off the stone.

Her back arched.

Her legs trembled.

And I didn’t stop.

I used her.

Owned her.

Marked her.

And when she came—hard and furious—I didn’t let her rest.

Because this wasn’t just about pleasure.

This was submission through exhaustion.

I took her again in the mirror.

Again on the velvet chaise.

And again against the glass window overlooking the city.

Only when she was spent and gasping did I untie her wrists and drag her into my bed.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

Because in that moment, we both knew something had shifted.

This wasn’t a game anymore.

It was an addiction.

And we were both in too deep.

She tried to leave the next morning.

Of course she did.

She pulled on her dress from the floor and tiptoed toward the door, thinking I was asleep.

I wasn’t.

“Don’t bother sneaking out,” I said, voice rough.

She froze.

Then turned.

Naked beneath my sheets, I leaned back on one elbow and let my eyes rake over her one last time.

“You’re not done with me,” I said.

She lifted her chin.

“I’m not yours to keep.”

“No,” I agreed. “But you’re mine to use. And you like being used.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You arrogant bastard.”

“Maybe. But you’re coming back.”

“And if I don’t?”

I smiled, slow and dark.

“I’ll make sure you wish you had.”

She left anyway.

But I knew better.

Because Alina Vale doesn’t run away from fire.

She runs toward it.

And I’m the one flame she’ll never outrun.