Isabella woke slowly, her eyes moving softly. She was exhausted; her body ached all over. The events of last night floated through her memory. She gasped quietly—between her thighs, she still hurt.
Alex never took it easy with her. She was his childhood friend—close, almost like family—but she had always wanted him to be her lover. She knew better than anyone that Alex couldn't stay faithful to one woman, yet she needed to believe she was different from all his other whores. That thought made her quietly happy.
Getting up, she took a bath in his shower. Afterward, she slipped into his clothes—specifically, a white pair of holding pants and his sneakers. She inhaled the scent of him on the fabric and wondered how far she would go for him to touch her again. She could swear she almost got wet just thinking about it. She was never tired of having him; he was the only man who could satisfy this particular need.
Not wanting to bother him, she quietly slipped out of the room. The mansion was as beautiful as it had always been—she had been saying so since she was a little girl—but she couldn't help marveling at its splendor. She wasn't from a poor home, but this place was heaven on Earth. She wanted to be part of this family, to feel like she truly belonged. Alexander was her gateway in.
After dinner, Alexander rode with his father and younger brother in a sleek blue Mercedes to the family office—the headquarters of the biggest company in the city. Alexander was the CEO. His younger brother served as managing director, while their father, though officially retired, still oversaw major affairs.
***
Samuel Collins Roth was a young man in his early twenties, the youngest child of the family. He had an elder sister and an elder brother. Unlike Alexander, he was of average height, with brown hair, a pointed nose, and brown eyes. He couldn't match the striking beauty of his siblings—it was as if they had taken it all and left him with scraps. Still, he was quite good-looking compared to most men his age.
Samuel was driving. Alexander and their father sat in the back, reviewing files.
Parking in the company's underground garage—surrounded by rows of other assorted luxury cars—they stepped out, Samuel first, followed by his brother and father.
"It looks like someone has sued the company," Samuel said quietly. Sometimes he wondered why people were so foolish. A company like theirs—untouchable—was being sued by an individual, not even another major corporation. No other company came close in size or influence to their father's empire—or rather, his brother's, now that their father had retired and Alexander was the legal CEO. Yet their father still acted like the true owner.
Most times, Samuel felt his brother and father were hiding something from him. Conversations would flow, then suddenly stop—as if they were discussing matters he wasn't meant to hear.
"Who the hell did this?" his father demanded as they entered Alexander's office.
Alexander dropped the files on the desk, shrugged off his suit jacket, hung it on a nearby chair, and collapsed into his seat. His father stood towering over him.
"I don't really know," Alexander replied after a long breath. "It looks like some invisible, barely recognized lawyer."
"I need them found and brought before me right now," his father added, anger flashing in his voice.
Alexander understood his father's plight. The man was retired but couldn't sit idly by while something threatened the company—even though Alexander had assured him he could handle it. His father could be stubbornly insistent.
"Okay," Alexander said simply, not wanting to argue over what he considered a minor matter.
His father left. Alexander breathed out, walked to his window, took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and puffed away. The newspaper that had published the story had put them in deep trouble. He suspected a stubborn employee had leaked it behind the owners' backs—the paper was small, barely recognized. Taking a long drag, he wondered who this lawyer—a woman, according to the article—was. She claimed the company had something to do with her father's death. The article had already been taken down and hadn't caused real damage, but they would find her. Teach her a lesson she'd never forget. The same for the reporter who published it, and the outlet that allowed it.
He stubbed out the cigarette and sat down to begin the day's work when the door creaked open. His secretary walked in—a tall brunette with black round eyes, full pink lips, a generous chest, and curving hips. The clothes she wore fit her body perfectly, accentuating every shape. He knew she was trying to seduce him. They always did. This wasn't the first time she'd tried.
She walked up to his desk, gave him a slow, sexy smile, dropped the files she was holding on the table, and bit her lower lip. Then she moved around to where he sat. He turned to look at her. No question—she was turning him on. It felt as though he hadn't had any since the night before. A smirk curled his lips.
***
He had her pinned against the edge of his desk, her back to the polished wood, both of them still fully dressed. His arms caged her in, forearms pressing the soft, heavy swell of her breasts together through her cream blouse and black blazer. The fabric stretched taut over her generous chest; he could feel her nipples already stiff against his skin even through layers.
Her brunette hair spilled loose over her shoulders, a few strands clinging to the sheen of sweat already gathering at her temples. Those round black eyes—wide, glassy, pupils blown—stared up at him like she was drowning and begging to go under. Full pink lips parted on shallow breaths.
"You've been teasing me for months," he said, voice low, controlled. His thumbs brushed slow circles over the peaks of her breasts, feeling them harden further.
"Bending over my desk in those tight skirts. Crossing your legs so I catch a glimpse of lace. You think I didn't notice?"
She swallowed. "I—I didn't mean—"
"Bullshit." He squeezed, not gently. She gasped, arching into his grip. "Say it. Tell me what you want."
Her voice came out small, trembling. "You. Please."
"Louder."
"You, sir. I want you."
He smirked, released her breasts, and stepped back just enough to let her feel the sudden absence. "Strip. Slowly. I want to see every fucking inch I've been imagining."
Her hands shook as she shrugged off the blazer, let it fall. Buttons next—each one undone revealed more pale skin, the black lace bra that barely contained her. When the blouse joined the blazer on the floor he growled low in his throat. She unhooked the bra, let it drop. Her breasts spilled free—full, soft, nipples dark pink and aching.
Skirt next. She shimmied it down curving hips, stepped out of it. Black lace panties, already damp at the crotch. She hooked thumbs in the waistband.
"Leave them," he ordered. "Turn around. Hands on the desk."
She obeyed, bending at the waist, palms flat on the mahogany. He stepped up behind her, pressed the hard ridge of his cock against her ass through his trousers. One hand fisted her hair, tugged her head back so she had to arch.
"Look at me in the reflection," he said, nodding toward the glass wall.
She did. Saw herself—flushed, half-naked, trembling—saw him behind her, still dressed except for the tie he'd already loosened.
He slid a hand between her thighs, cupped her through the lace. "Soaked already. Pathetic."
She whimpered.
He rubbed slow, firm circles over her clit through the fabric until her hips rocked back involuntarily. Then he yanked the panties aside and plunged two fingers into her dripping cunt without warning.
She cried out.
"Quiet," he snapped, smacking her ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. "You don't get to be loud yet."
He finger-fucked her roughly, curling to hit that spot that made her knees buckle. When she started to shake he pulled out, licked his fingers clean, then shoved her panties down her thighs.
"On your knees."
She dropped instantly.
He unbuckled his belt, unzipped, pulled his cock free—thick, veined, already leaking. He rolled a condom on with practiced movements, then fisted her hair again.
"Open."
Her full lips parted. He fed her the head, let her taste him through latex, then pushed deeper until she gagged softly. He held her there a second—long enough for tears to prick those round black eyes—then started fucking her mouth in shallow thrusts.
"Good girl," he muttered. "Suck it like you've been dreaming about."
She did—hollowed cheeks, tongue swirling, one hand braced on his thigh. He let her work until his balls tightened, then pulled out with a wet pop.
"Up. On the desk. Legs spread."
She scrambled onto the mahogany, thighs wide, pussy glistening. He knelt between them, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and buried his face in her.
He licked broad, greedy stripes from her entrance to her clit, sucked the swollen bud hard, plunged his tongue inside her while his thumbs spread her open. She moaned his name—first time since she became his secretary.
"Say it again," he growled against her folds.
"Alex—please—"
He sucked harder. Her hips bucked. He pinned her thighs down, ate her like a man starved, until she was writhing, begging.
"Alex—fuck me—please—I need your cock—"
He stood, lined up, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust.
She screamed his name.
He fucked her hard—deep, punishing strokes that rocked the desk, rattled the framed awards on the wall. Every time she got loud he smacked her ass—sharp, stinging slaps that made her clench around him.
"Beg for it," he snarled.
"More—Alex—harder—please—fuck me harder—"
He obliged. Flipped her onto her stomach, yanked her hips back, drove into her from behind. One hand fisted her hair, the other cracked across her ass again and again until both cheeks glowed red.
She came like a broken dam—squirting hard around his cock, soaking his thighs, the condom, the desk. Her whole body convulsed, sobs tearing from her throat as she chanted his name.
He didn't stop.
Pulled out, flipped her again, shoved back into her dripping cunt for a few more brutal thrusts—then pulled free, ripped the condom off, and fisted himself over her face.
"Open your mouth. Look at me."
Those round black eyes locked on his. Lips parted, tongue out.
He came with a low groan—thick ropes painting her tongue, her lips, dripping down her chin. She swallowed what landed in her mouth, licked her lips clean while he milked the last drops onto her tongue.
When he finished he stepped back, breathing hard.
She stayed sprawled on the desk—legs trembling, chest heaving, face flushed and streaked with him, pussy still twitching with aftershocks.
He reached down, brushed a thumb across her swollen lower lip.
"Clean yourself up," he said quietly. "Then get back to work."
She nodded, dazed, wrecked, already aching for the next time.
He adjusted his tie, smoothed his shirt, and walked out—leaving her trembling in the morning light, the taste of him still on her tongue.