Chapter 5. - Clara
1083 Words
He gave me rules. I planned to break every one.
If confidence had a taste, it was the coffee I bought that morning—bold, dark, and just a little too bitter. I didn’t even flinch at the price. Not when I was heading to the thirty-eighth floor of BrownTech Headquarters to start a job I had no business landing, working for a man I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The one I danced on.
The one who got hard.
The one who touched me like his hand had been starving.
Jason Brown.
I walked into that glass building like I owned it. Tight pencil skirt. White blouse unbuttoned just enough to hint without outright inviting. Heels I could barely walk in but wore anyway. I wasn’t the shy student or broke stripper anymore. At least not today. Today I was Clara Asbet, Executive Assistant.
And I was going to make his life hell, one subtle, teasing, toe-curling moment at a time.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt like a countdown. Each ding a heartbeat. My reflection stared back at me in the chrome. Confident. Glossy lips. Sharp liner. But my heart thudded behind it all, wild and loud. My n*****s were tight under my bra. My thighs clenched every time his name echoed in my head.
Jason Brown.
I stepped off the elevator at exactly 9:00 a.m. The top floor was quiet. Too quiet. The receptionist barely looked up as she pointed me to the last door at the end of the corridor.
I knocked once, then pushed the door open.
His office was… cold. Immaculate. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline like a backdrop for a movie villain. The walls were a soft, textured charcoal. Minimalist furniture. Everything expensive. Everything sharp.
And then there was him.
Jason. Standing with his back to me, hands in his pockets, staring out at the city like he owned every inch of it.
I stepped in. Shut the door behind me.
He turned.
And f**k me—he looked even more dangerous in the daylight.
The suit was navy this time, tailored within an inch of its life. No tie again. First two buttons undone, like always. Like a tease. His dark hair was still slightly damp, like he hadn’t even waited for it to dry before dominating the morning.
His eyes found me. Dragged from my face to my heels and back again. No smile. No greeting. Just a long, measured silence that said he saw everything. Every curve. Every breath.
“You’re on time,” he said.
“I’m always on time,” I replied, standing taller even though my knees threatened to give.
He stepped toward me. Slow. Steady. A man who didn’t rush for anything because the world bent to his pace.
“This isn’t the club, Clara. You work for me now. That means structure. Rules.”
Rules.
My pulse ticked up.
He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I could smell him. Clean, expensive, intoxicating. Close enough that if I leaned forward just an inch, my chest would brush his.
“What kind of rules?” I asked, voice lower than I meant it.
His jaw flexed once.
“One. You don’t touch me unless instructed.”
“Two. You don’t flirt with me during work hours.”
“Three…” He leaned in slightly. “You don’t lie to me. Ever.”
I swallowed. His voice had that dangerous calm again, like a storm you couldn’t see but felt in your bones.
“And if I break them?”
His eyes darkened. He didn’t blink.
“Then you’ll find out what I do to rule-breakers.”
I should’ve been afraid. Or cautious. Or at least respectful.
Instead, I smiled.
“Understood.”
He walked past me to his desk, voice returning to its businesslike chill. “Your desk is right outside this door. You'll answer my calls, manage my schedule, and screen every person who thinks they’re important enough to step into this office.”
“No problem,” I said, letting my fingers trail along the inside of the glass wall on my way out.
I reached the door and paused, waiting.
He didn’t disappoint.
“Oh—one more thing.”
I turned.
He wasn’t even looking at me. He was flipping through a folder, posture all business. But his voice dropped just enough.
“You’re not allowed to wear perfume in this office.”
I blinked. “Why not?”
He finally glanced up.
“Because the way you smell… it’s distracting.”
My lips parted, but no words came.
I walked out without answering, but I let my hips sway, just a little more than necessary. I could feel his eyes on my ass the whole way.
I sat at my desk and exhaled like I’d been holding my breath since 9:00.
The rest of the morning was a blur of carefully filtered calls, calendar juggling, and watching his door like it might open again. It didn’t.
Not until nearly noon, when a low chime signaled an internal message on my monitor:
Lunch. Bring your tablet. Meeting room B.
That was it. No signature. No smiley face.
I grabbed the tablet and touched up my lipstick in the reflection of the screen.
When I opened the conference room door, he was already there, tie-less again, jacket off this time. Sleeves rolled.
And that was so much worse.
He looked relaxed. Dangerous. Like he didn’t need a boardroom to dominate someone — just a chair and five seconds of silence.
We talked shop. Project deadlines. Vendor complaints. Calendar blocks.
I answered everything clearly. Efficiently.
Professionally.
Until he looked up from his laptop and asked, “Is that my pen?”
I paused, glanced down. It was. Heavy. Black. Clearly expensive. I’d grabbed it from the stack on his desk.
“It’s smooth,” I said, clicking it once, then again.
His gaze pinned mine. “Don’t fidget.”
I clicked it again anyway.
Something in his jaw twitched. He stood, walked slowly toward me, and took the pen from my fingers. Not roughly. Not fast. Just… deliberately.
“You like playing with fire, Clara?”
“I like testing boundaries,” I said softly.
“You’ll burn.”
“Maybe I want to.”
Silence. Heavy. Loaded.
Then he turned, walking away like I hadn’t just said something insane.
"You're dismissed."
I left without looking back.
But I knew.
He was watching.
- Writer
