Claimed By Desire

I'll Stay.

Amara.

I can't concentrate.

It's been three hours since I fled his office, and I've accomplished nothing.

The spreadsheet on my screen might as well be written in ancient Greek and I wouldn't notice.

Every number blurs together, every alphabet looks the same, and my hands are still shaking too badly to type with any accuracy.

I've reread the same email four times and still have no idea what it says.

Every sound from his office makes me jump. The soft murmur of phone calls, the click of his keyboard, the whisper of his chair as he moves—I'm tuned to his frequency like a radio that can't change stations.

This is insane. I'm a grown woman with a master's degree and five years of professional experience. I should not be falling apart because my super hot boss almost touched my throat and spoke to me like...

Like what? Like he owned me?

The thought sends heat spiraling through my core, and I press my thighs together under my desk, horrified by my body's betrayal.

My computer chimes with a new email, and my heart stops when I see the sender.

L. Thorne

Subject: Files needed

Miss Williams,

Please bring me the Morrison contract files from the cabinet in Conference Room B. I need them within the next ten minutes.

L. Thorne

It's perfectly professional. Completely normal. The kind of request he makes dozens of times per week.

So why does it feel like a command from a general to his subordinate?

I stare at the email for a full minute, my pulse hammering against my wrists. It's just files. A simple task that should take five minutes, maximum.

But I know—with the same certainty I know my own name—that this isn't about files.

My legs feel unsteady as I walk to Conference Room B. The Morrison files are exactly where they should be, organized and labeled with my usual precision. But as I lift the folder, I notice my hands are trembling again.

Ten minutes, he said. I've used eight just getting here and back.

I knock on his office door, and his voice cuts through the wood like a blade.

"Come in."

He doesn't look up when I enter, doesn't acknowledge my presence at all. He's reading something on his computer screen, fingers steepled, completely absorbed in whatever's captured his attention.

I stand there like an i***t, holding the files, waiting for him to notice me.

One minute passes. Then two.

"Sir?" I finally venture.

"Set them on the table and wait."

The command is delivered without even a glance in my direction. I do as he says, placing the folder on the coffee table near the window, then stand there feeling increasingly foolish.

He continues reading. Or pretending to read. I can't tell which, but the silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut.

Finally—after what feels like an eternity but is probably only five minutes—he turns his attention to me.

"Thank you." His eyes do that thing where they seem to strip away every defense I have. "That will be all."

I turn to leave, confused and somehow disappointed, when his voice stops me.

"Actually, Miss Williams."

I freeze with my hand on the door handle.

"I noticed some errors in the quarterly report you submitted yesterday. Rather significant ones, I'm afraid."

My blood turns to ice. I spent hours on that report. Checked it three times. There were no errors.

"Errors, sir?"

"Several." He stands, moving to his computer with that predatory grace that makes my skin feel too tight. "Come here. I'll show you."

Every instinct I have screams danger, but I find myself walking toward him anyway. He gestures to his chair—his chair, behind his desk, in his space.

"Sit."

"I can see from here—"

"Sit." The repetition carries just enough edge to make it clear this isn't a suggestion.

I lower myself into his chair, and immediately I'm surrounded by him. The leather still holds his warmth, his scent clings to the air around me, and when he leans over to point at the screen, his body cages me in completely.

"Here." His finger hovers over a line of text, and I lean forward to read it. "This figure is incorrect."

I study the number he's indicating, my mind racing. It's not incorrect. I triple-checked it against the source documents.

"Sir, I believe that's—"

"Are you arguing with me, Miss Williams?"

His voice is soft, but there's something underneath it that makes my mouth go dry.

"No, sir. I just—"

"Good." His hand settles on the back of my chair, and I swear I can feel the heat of it through the leather. "Because I would hate to think you're questioning my judgment after this morning's... conversation."

The reference to our earlier encounter hits like a physical blow. He's reminding me exactly where we stand, exactly who holds the power here.

"Of course not," I whisper.

"Excellent." He reaches around me to scroll down the document, and his arm brushes against my shoulder. The contact is brief, probably accidental, but it sends electricity shooting through my entire nervous system. "Now, this section here also needs revision."

For the next twenty minutes, he finds fault with nearly every page of my report. Some of the "errors" are so minor they're barely worth noting. Others are matters of opinion rather than fact. But I sit there and take notes, agreeing with every criticism, promising to fix every perceived flaw.

Because what choice do I have?

When he finally declares the review complete, I'm wound so tight I'm vibrating like a tuning fork.

"I'll need the corrections by end of day," he says, returning to his own chair like nothing unusual has happened.

"Of course." I stand on unsteady legs, clutching my notepad like a lifeline. "Is there anything else?"

"Not at the moment." He's already turning his attention back to his computer, dismissing me with the casual indifference of someone who knows I'll comply with whatever he asks. "Oh, and Miss Williams?"

I pause at the door.

"In the future, I expect your work to meet a higher standard. I'd hate for us to have another conversation about attention to detail."

The threat is subtle but unmistakable. I nod mutely and escape to my desk, my heart pounding so hard I'm surprised it doesn't burst.

It takes me four hours to make the "corrections" to my report. Four hours of obsessing over every word, every number, every comma. By the time I'm finished, it's past seven, and the office is nearly empty.

I email the revised document and start packing up my things, desperate to get home and try to make sense of what's happening to me.

My computer chimes.

Another email from L. Thorne.

Miss Williams,

Thank you for the revisions. However, I've noticed an issue with the formatting that needs immediate attention. Please see me before you leave.

L. Thorne

I stare at the message until the words blur together. Formatting. He wants to discuss formatting at seven-thirty in the evening.

My hands are shaking as I walk to his office. The building is tomb-quiet, the cleaning crew having finished their rounds hours ago. When I knock, his voice carries clearly through the silence.

"It's open."

He's standing at the window when I enter, silhouetted against the city lights, hands clasped behind his back. He doesn't turn around when I close the door behind me.

"You wanted to see me about formatting?" I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will.

"I did." He turns slowly, and in the dim light of his office, he looks like something carved from shadow and intent. "Come here."

This time, I don't pretend to misunderstand. This time, I know exactly what game we're playing.

"Mr. Thorne—"

"Don't make me ask twice."

The command stops my protest dead. My feet move without conscious direction, carrying me across the office until I'm standing directly in front of him.

"Do you know what I think, Miss Williams?"

I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stare up at him while he studies me like I'm a problem he's finally figured out how to solve.

"I think you've been testing me all day. Making me work for your compliance, making me find reasons to call you in here, making me prove that I meant what I said this morning."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" He takes a step closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You could have refused any of my requests today. You could have stood up for yourself, argued about those nonexistent errors, questioned why I needed you to stay late for formatting issues that don't exist."

My breath catches. "They don't exist?"

"Of course they don't exist." His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "Your work is flawless, Amara. It always is. But you sat in my chair anyway. You took my criticism anyway. You stayed late anyway."

"Because you're my boss."

"No." He reaches out and traces one finger along my collarbone, just above the neckline of my blouse. "Because you wanted to see how far I'd push. Because you wanted to see what would happen if you said yes instead of running away."

The honest truth of it hits me like a physical blow. He's right. God help me, he's absolutely right.

"Well?" His finger continues its maddening path along my throat. "What's your answer going to be this time? Are you going to run away again, or are you finally ready to stop pretending this thing between us is beyond just us been boss and employee?"

I should say no. Walk away. Quit, if I have to. But my legs aren’t moving. My mouth isn’t forming words. Because some small, shameful part of me wants to know what happens next.

"I’ll stay"