My Burning Desire by RK

PROLOGUE The official company handbook for Reed Global Logistics dedicated precisely forty-two pages to protocol, seventy pages to compliance, and one brief, heavily underlined paragraph to office fraternization. “Discretion is the cornerstone of corporate integrity,” section nine read. Janelle Winters could recite it in her sleep. After three years of serving as Oliver Reed’s personal assistant—surviving his notoriously unforgiving schedule, three corporate mergers, and a revolving door of predecessors who lasted barely a month—she understood discretion better than anyone. She was the ghost in the machine. To the rest of the thirty-floor glass tower, she was the quiet girl in the sensible charcoal skirts and oversized tortoiseshell glasses, blending seamlessly into the background noise of ringing phones and clacking keyboards. Plain Jane. Efficient, invisible, and utterly untouchable. At least, that was the illusion they maintained. Except it all traced back to one specific night. Exactly one year ago, at the annual corporate Christmas party, when the heavy summer rain against the glass windows of the ballroom had mirrored the cold, untouchable wall Oliver projected to the world. She had accidentally spilled a glass of champagne on his sleeve, apologized with trembling quietness, and looked up to find his gaze stripping away every single defense she had spent years building. That night unlocked a door they had never managed to shut again. The digital clock on her desk glowed 11:42 PM. The rest of the executive floor was pitch-black, swallowed by the midnight shadows of Johannesburg stretching out past the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside the private inner office, the heavy mahogany door was locked—a precaution against the night cleaning crew. Janelle stood by the minimalist oak desk, her fingers neatly smoothing down the lapels of her stiff blazer. Her breathing was entirely too shallow. Across the room, leaning casually against the edge of his executive desk, was Oliver Reed. At thirty, the billionaire CEO was a masterclass in controlled chaos and lethal precision. Stripped of his bespoke Brioni suit jacket, his crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms dusted with dark hair. He looked less like a corporate titan and more like a predator waiting out a storm. His dark eyes tracked her every movement with an intensity that had nothing to do with tomorrow's board meeting. "You're shaking, Janelle," Oliver murmured, his deep voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room. He didn't raise his voice, but the command in it wrapped around her like a physical grip. Janelle looked at him through her thick glasses, her eyes widening as he approached her, wondering why he was looking at her like he wanted to devour her. A slow, dangerous smile touched the corner of Oliver's mouth. He pushed off the desk, closing the distance between them with unnerving speed. When he stopped just inches away, she had to tilt her head back to look at him, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his frame and the subtle, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and expensive scotch. His thumb traced her lower lip, his gaze dropping to her mouth before snapping back to her eyes, burning with a hunger that defied every rule they had ever written. "Now," he murmured, his breath ghosting over her skin as his hands slid down to grip her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. "Let's review the late-night agenda."