Page 33 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

So I let her go.

But tomorrow… tomorrow, I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength.

So I made my way to bed. What else was I to do?

The house never truly slept. Not even at 3 a.m., when most of the staff had retreated to their alcoves and the heating system rattled like distant artillery. I found myself prowling the corridors, restless, my own skin too tight. The study smelled likeher now, sugar, perfume, something faintly wild, and that was a problem. It made every room in the house feel smaller.

I cut through the kitchen, hoping the walk would clear my head, but stopped short at the swing door when I caught voices inside.

“He’s with her again,” said a woman. Young, nasal, new to the night staff. “Two nights in a row.”

“Not our business,” the other replied, in the clipped hush of someone who’d seen enough people get canned to know better.

“But still,” the first insisted. “He never brings anyone to the study, let alone after hours. She must be something special.”

“Maybe she is.”

A rattle of dishes, the squeak of a fridge. I stood motionless in the shadow of the door, listening to my staff try to figure things out.

“I heard he was smiling at breakfast,” the woman continued. “Like, actually smiling. First time I’ve seen it. Maribel said it’s not normal.”

The other snorted. “Maybe she’s just good at her job.”

“She’s good at something,” the first whispered, and they both broke into snickers.

I almost fired them all on the spot.

Instead, knowing I wouldn’t sleep, I went back to the only place in the house that didn’t feel like a padded cell, the study.

If I were a better man, I’d be working. Instead, I sat in the dark with the ledger open and my thoughts running in tight, filthy circles.

Every other breath I took, she was there. I could smell her on the air, or just the hint of her on my shirtsleeves. I replayed the memory of her laugh, the curve of her ass in the hallway, the way she’d bitten her lip at the door like she didn’t trust herself to say goodnight. I’d spent years training myself to forget womenthe moment they left the room. Now, it was all I could do not to go down the hall and drag her back into mine.

Instead, I pressed my fingertips to my temples and tried to visualize a world in which I didn’t want her. In which I didn’t ache to touch her, to bite her, to leave marks she’d remember for weeks. It was impossible. The harder I fought it, the sharper the need became.

This wasn’t love. I wasn’t naive. It was something older, hungrier, a chemical imperative. A predator pulse in the blood. All I could do was ride it out and pray I didn’t do something stupid. Or more stupid than I already had.

I closed my eyes, let the memory unfold, let myself imagine how it would feel if I stopped holding back. If, instead of being a gentleman, I just took her the way I wanted. The fantasy was simple and brutal.

She’d walk in, file in hand, maybe a little unsure of herself but holding her head up anyway. She’d set the folder on my desk and look at me, waiting for approval. I’d ignore the file, focus only on her, the way her lips parted, the pulse at her throat. I’d tell her to come around the desk, and when she hesitated, I’d make it a command: “Now.” She’d obey, because she always did.

She’d stand in front of me, eyes wide. I’d reach out, hook my fingers at her hips, and pull her in, slow at first, then all at once so her breath left her in a gasp. I’d lift her onto my lap, feel the heat of her through my clothes, and press her down so she could feel exactly what she was doing to me.

She’d blush, maybe try to laugh it off, but I’d catch her wrist and pin it behind her, just to see what she’d do. She’d tense, then melt, the way she always did when someone gave her clear orders. I’d nudge her legs apart and run my hand up the inside of her thigh, so slow it almost hurt. She’d try to squirm away, but there’d be nowhere to go.

I’d hike up her skirt, thumb tracing the edge of her panties, and ask her if she wanted me to stop. She’d say no, or maybe she wouldn’t say anything at all, just bite her lip and rock against me, so desperate she couldn’t hide it. I’d push the fabric aside, slide my fingers inside, find her already soaked and open and begging for it.

I wouldn’t tease her. Not tonight. I’d unzip just enough to free my cock, then guide her onto me, slow enough to make her whimper, hard enough to make her eyes roll back. She’d grab at my shoulders, nails digging through the shirt, and I’d thrust up, filling her so deep she couldn’t breathe.

She’d ride me, back arched, head thrown back, and I’d lean in to bite the soft skin at her throat, just above the pulse. I’d fuck her until she came, shaking and whimpering, clamping down so tight I’d have to fight not to lose control.

But I would lose it, eventually. I’d slam her down, pull her tight to my chest, and come inside her, hard and unforgiving, until she collapsed against me, spent and trembling. I’d hold her there, stroke her hair, pretend for a minute that the world outside this room didn’t exist.

It was a good fantasy. Too good. I snapped back to the present with my cock straining, my nails biting crescents into my palms, and the heavy, inescapable certainty that I was one wrong move away from ruining both our lives.

The worst part was knowing she wanted it, too. She wasn’t subtle, not anymore. She lingered at my office door, let her hand drift across my shoulder when she handed over files, looked up at me through those dark lashes like she knew exactly what she was asking for. She played it off-always professional, always measured, but the hunger was there, vibrating in every word, every glance.

If I had any sense, I’d cut her loose. Fire her, pay her for her time, send her as far from this house as money couldmanage. Instead, I watched her through the day’s security feed in my phone, pausing the frame when she thought no one was looking and let her face go soft, unguarded. I wondered what it would take to break her, to make her admit she wanted more than just a line on her resume.