My Doninant Boss

Chapter2:One Night Stand

The transition from the restaurant to the private elevator was a blur of heavy silence and suffocating heat. Malcom’s hand remained anchored to the small of her back, his broad palm radiating a violent warmth through the silk of her emerald dress.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his presence cut off the world around them, guiding her past the bowed heads of the late-night hotel staff straight into the keycard-secured executive lift.

The moment the polished brass doors slid shut, sealing them in the mirrored car, Malcom didn’t waste a second.

He turned her, pressed her back against the cool glass, and claimed her mouth again—harder, deeper, completely unforgiving. Emma’s clutch slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud. Her hands found his hair on instinct, gripping tight as his tongue swept into her mouth like he had every right to it.

The mirrors reflected them from every angle: her emerald dress already hiked high on her thighs, his large hands sliding underneath the silk to grip the bare skin of her hips.

“Malcom…” she whispered against his lips, the sound half warning, half plea.

“Mine,” he growled into her mouth. “From the second you walked into my office two years ago, you were mine.”

The elevator rose in slow, deliberate silence. Every floor that passed only tightened the air between them. Emma’s heart slammed against her ribs. She could feel how hard he was, pressed firmly against her through the thin barrier of their clothes.

Two years of careful distance, of professional smiles and late-night restraint, were collapsing in the space of a single ride. His hands flexed on her hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive crease where thigh met body, and the simple touch made her knees weaken.

The car chimed at the top floor.

Malcom didn’t set her down. He carried her out into the dimly lit hallway, her heels dangling off the floor, his mouth never leaving her throat. He dragged his keycard across the penthouse lock, kicked the heavy wooden door open, and slammed it shut behind them, locking out the entire world.

The suite was vast, bathed in the dark blue glow of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. Neither of them looked at the view.

He carried her straight into the master bedroom and set her on her feet at the edge of the massive bed. For a moment they only stared at each other, both breathing hard. Emma’s pulse thundered in her ears. She should have been terrified.

Instead she felt a reckless, shaking hunger that refused to let her step back.

Malcom shrugged out of his charcoal jacket and let it fall. His tie followed. Then his fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, slow and deliberate, revealing the broad, sculpted chest beneath. He watched her the entire time, eyes never leaving her face.

“You’re looking at me like you still might run,” he said, voice low and rough.

“I’m not running,” Emma answered, the truth raw in her throat. Her hands lifted of their own accord, sliding the last buttons free, pushing the open shirt off his shoulders. The heat of his skin under her palms made her breath catch.

She let her fingers trail down the hard lines of his chest, over the ridges of his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tightened under her touch.

A dark, satisfied sound left him. “Good.”

He turned her around, found the zipper of her dress, and drew it down with agonizing patience. The emerald silk loosened and slid from her body, pooling at her feet. Malcom’s hands traced the newly exposed line of her spine, then moved lower, over the curve of her hips, until she stood in nothing but lace.

He turned her to face him again. His gaze moved over her slowly, thoroughly, as if he were committing every inch to memory.

“I’ve imagined this,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Every night I sat across from you. Every time you leaned over my desk. Every time you looked at me like you were afraid of what I’d do if I ever got you alone.” His fingers hooked into the sides of her panties. “I am done imagining.”

He lowered himself to his knees.

Emma’s breath stuttered as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin just above the lace, then lower, dragging the fabric down her legs with deliberate care. When the last barrier was gone, he looked up at her, dark eyes burning. He didn’t rush.

He simply studied her, one hand sliding up the inside of her thigh until his thumb brushed the place where she was already aching for him.

“Tell me you want this,” he said. Not a request. A demand for her voice.

“I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

Malcom rose, guided her back onto the bed, and settled between her thighs. He kissed her deeply while one hand slid down, stroking her with slow, devastating precision. His fingers circled, pressed, dipped inside just enough to make her hips lift helplessly against him.

He watched every reaction—the way her breath hitched, the way her thighs trembled, the soft, broken sounds she tried and failed to hold back. Only when she was trembling and wet and openly gasping his name did he finally free himself and position his body over hers.

He held her gaze as he pushed into her in one long, controlled stroke.

Emma’s head tipped back into the pillows, a broken sound torn from her throat. The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming—he was thick, unyielding, filling her so completely that for a moment she could only cling to his shoulders and try to breathe

The pleasure that followed was sharper still, rolling through her in heavy waves. Malcom groaned low against her neck, his entire body rigid with the effort of restraint.

“f**k,” he muttered, voice rough. “You feel… perfect.”

He began to move—deep, measured thrusts that forced her to feel every inch. Emma’s hands gripped his shoulders, then slid down his back, nails digging in as the rhythm built. He pinned one of her wrists above her head, the other hand sliding beneath her hips to lift her higher, driving himself deeper.

The angle made her cry out. Every stroke dragged against the place inside her that made her vision blur.

The room filled with the sound of skin against skin, ragged breathing, the soft, helpless noises she couldn’t hold back. Every time she tightened around him he cursed under his breath and thrust harder, as if he could somehow claim more of her.

His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the upper curve of her breast, leaving heat and faint marks in its wake.

“Malcom—please—”

“I know,” he rasped against her ear. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

The command, the angle, the relentless depth—everything crashed together. Emma’s body locked tight, pleasure ripping through her in a long, shattering wave. Her cry of his name was the only sound she could make.

Her inner muscles clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, pulling him even deeper.

The feel of her coming dragged Malcom over the edge with her. He drove deep one final time and held there, a harsh, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he spilled into her, his forehead pressed to hers, both of them shaking.

For a long moment neither of them moved. The only sounds in the penthouse were their uneven breathing and the distant hum of the city far below.

Malcom eventually shifted, pulling her against his chest, one strong arm locked around her waist.

His thumb stroked slow circles over her bare hip in the dark. Emma’s body was still trembling, her mind struggling to catch up with what they had just done. Two years of restraint had burned to ash in a single night. There was no professional distance left to hide behind.

She felt him press a slow kiss to the top of her head. Then his voice, low and rough with something that was clearly not finished, brushed against her ear.

“That was only the first time, Emma.”

His hand slid lower, possessive and intentional, already mapping her body again. His fingers found her still-sensitive flesh and stroked with deliberate care, drawing a soft, startled sound from her throat.

“I’m nowhere near done with you tonight.”

He turned her onto her stomach, settled over her from behind, and pushed into her again in one slow, deep thrust. Emma’s fingers twisted into the sheets as the second round began—slower this time, heavier, his weight pinning her to the mattress while he took her with a control that felt almost cruel in its patience.

One of his hands slid beneath her to stroke her in time with his thrusts; the other fisted gently in her hair, turning her face so he could watch every expression as he drove her toward another climax.

“You’re going to come again,” he told her, voice dark against her ear. “And this time you’re going to say my name when you do.”

She did.

When the second orgasm finally broke over her, Malcom followed with a low, broken groan, burying himself to the hilt as he came. He stayed inside her afterward, breathing hard against the back of her neck, one arm locked tightly around her waist as if he had no intention of letting go.

The city lights glowed beyond the glass. The night was far from over.

And neither of them was finished.