HEATED PLEASURE (Erotica Collections)

Elara You know that feeling you get when you know you just absolutely f****d up? The kind of mistake that doesn't just haunt you, but actively ruins your entire existence in a matter of seconds? Yeah, I’m in deep s**t. I’m talking career-ending, move-to-another-state-and-change-my-name kind of s**t. I just wish I could evaporate into the floorboards right now, especially after I just dumped a full glass of ice water directly onto the lap of the one man who holds my entire professional future in his hands. But let's rewind, because to understand how I ended up soaking a billionaire, you have to understand the absolute nightmare that led up to this moment. A FEW HOURS AGO “Why in the actual hell is it so hard for you to get a single f*****g interview with the Caruso Group?” My manager, Miller, barked the words. He didn't just speak; he spat them. He threw the file across the mahogany table with a violence that seemed unnecessary for a Tuesday morning. The folder slid across the polished wood, screeching slightly before stopping just inches from my trembling hand. You think it’s that easy? Why don't you get your own arrogant ass out there and try it yourself? I kept those thoughts locked tight, buried under a layer of professional submission. I wasn't getting paid nearly enough to get fired for talking back to a man who genuinely believes that a loud voice and a red face equal leadership. Miller was the kind of boss who thrived on the smell of fear and the sound of his employees apologizing for things that weren't their fault. "Sorry sir, but they kept me waiting in the lobby for six straight hours yesterday," I replied, keeping my voice flat and devoid of the sarcasm that was currently screaming in my head. "I followed every protocol. I checked in with the front desk, I waited in the designated area, and I stayed until security practically escorted me out." "Get out,” he snapped, waving his hand dismissively, like I was some annoying fly he wanted to swat away from his expensive coffee. I didn't argue. I just bowed my head slightly and left the office, letting out a long, shaky sigh of relief the second the heavy door clicked shut behind me. That petty, arrogant prick. He didn't care about the effort; he only cared about the result, and right now, the result was a blank page where a career-making scoop should have been. I walked back to my desk, my heels clicking rhythmically against the sterile office carpet. I started digging through my files, the sheer monotony of the work feeling like a weight on my chest. Since the interview didn't go as planned—or rather, since it didn't happen at all—we’d have to fill the upcoming issue with some other trending gossip. Probably some vapid celebrity breakup or a scandal about a politician's secret love child. Boring, filler s**t that required zero talent and even less passion. I’ve been chasing an interview with the Caruso Group for months. It had become an obsession, a mountain I felt I had to climb just to prove I could. Every time I managed to book a tentative appointment, they either rejected me at the last second or just totally ghosted the request. His secretary is a human brick wall—cold, efficient, and utterly impenetrable. She turns me away before I can even get a coherent sentence out of my mouth, treating me like a nuisance rather than a professional journalist. As I pushed the useless documents aside, the morning newspaper on my desk caught my eye. I picked it up, staring at the front page. There he was. Chase Caruso. The CEO of the Caruso Group. He’s dead drop handsome. Not just "good looking," but the kind of man who looks like he was meticulously designed in a lab to make women lose their train of thought and forget how to breathe. Sharp jawline, eyes that seemed to pierce through the camera lens, and a presence that commanded the room even in a still photograph. I’ve never seen him in real life; he hates the spotlight and avoids TV appearances like they were the plague. He’s a ghost in a three-piece suit, a phantom who runs the city from the shadows of his glass tower. Just as I was about to toss the paper aside, a notification popped up on my computer screen. A new email. I opened it, and my heart didn't just skip—it practically stopped. It was an invitation. A formal, direct invitation for the interview. Just like that. After months of being ignored, blocked, and treated like a ghost, he suddenly decides he has time for me? I frowned, leaning back in my chair. My instinct wasn't joy; it was suspicion. The guy probably takes a perverse pride in playing with people's feelings, dangling a carrot just to see how far they'll jump before he pulls it away. It felt like a game, and I hated being the pawn. Still, I couldn't pass it up. I hurried back into my manager's office to give him the news. Miller didn't even look happy—just surprised, his eyebrows shooting up toward his receding hairline. He didn't ask about the "how" or the "why," and he certainly didn't offer a congratulations. He just told me to get over there immediately, his voice laced with a greedy urgency. He didn't care about the story's integrity; he just wanted the prestige of having the Caruso name in their publication. As I gathered my things, shoving my notebook and recorder into my bag with frantic energy, my desk mate, Sarah, leaned in. She had a look of pity on her face that I found incredibly irritating. "Good luck handling the devil," she whispered, her voice dripping with a mix of caution and curiosity. I gave her a tight, forced smile. "I can handle a CEO, Sarah." But inside, I was a wreck. Today had already been getting on my nerves, and I hadn't even stepped foot in the Caruso building yet. I walked out of the office, clutching my notepad so hard my knuckles were white, completely unaware that in a few hours, I'd be staring at the most powerful man in the city while ice water dripped off his five-thousand-dollar suit and my entire life flashed before my eyes in a blur of sheer, unadulterated panic.