5: Treating Bosses Like Prostitutes

RHEA

Christian’s grin is downright wicked as he lounges back, elbow hooked over the chair arm, chin resting on his hand.

“Well?”

The female board member clears her throat. It takes effort to tear my eyes away from his — but when I do, I see her and the rest of the board actually trembling.

Is Christian really that terrifying?

“O-Of course, sir,” she stammers. “We were just interviewing Miss Ashford. Please… sit.”

I arch a brow, ignoring the way my skin prickles under Christian’s stare. “There’s no need. You’ve already made a deci—”

She grabs my wrist. Reflex has me ready to snap it free, but the panic in her eyes stops me. I need this job. And honestly? I almost feel sorry for her.

“Please sit, Miss Ashford.”

I nod. “Sure.”

I take a seat. Christian chuckles then casually picks up the files on the desk. The room goes so silent you could hear the paper shift as he flips through each page.

Then he stops.

“What is this?” His voice is cold in a way that makes my stomach tighten — not for me, but for them.

One of the board members speaks quickly. “It’s the evaluation of the applicants, sir. The position of Creative Director is crucial to Voss Atelier. The applicants were chosen by Mr. Voss — the other Mr. Voss — including Miss Ashford here.”

The other Mr. Voss?

My brows knit. His father, maybe? But Christian is the only—

“Yes, I can see that,” Christian cuts in, voice deceptively lazy. “I’m asking why the applicants you prioritised have portfolios full of eyesores. And more importantly… since when did Christian add nepotism to his hiring criteria?”

My heart stops. Christian? What?

He continues, “Rejecting perfect fits for the job because they didn’t attend overpriced fashion schools or have personal connections? That doesn’t sound like my brother at all.”

Brother?

My head spins. Christian has a brother? He is Christian’s brother?

Christian — no, Christian’s brother, who both I and the entire world didn’t realise exists — finally lifts his gaze to mine. The coldness disappears instantly, replaced by something warm, amused, and far too familiar.

“But of course,” he says, lips curving, “that’s only an assumption. What do I know?”

The room tilts.

I don’t get tongue-tied. Not after Victor. Not after Elara. Not after prison. But this—this hits me so hard that every memory from last night flashes through my mind like a bad episode of one of those prison telenovelas we used to scream at.

“I expected more from the great Christian Voss.”

And…

He pushes me back onto the hotel bed, lifting my leg over his hip, his mouth hot against my throat. My hands are in his hair before I can think, tugging, feeling the low groan vibrate against my collarbone.

He pins my wrists above my head — not forceful, just firm enough to make my pulse lurch.

“Say my name,” he whispers.

I try.

“C—Christi—”

He cuts me off with a kiss that swallows the rest of the word.

I gasp when he pushes inside me — deep, sure, like he knows exactly how to break me open.

My moan fills the room.

My back arches without permission.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips:

“If you’re going to moan,” a thrust—“call me Dame.”

Then he really moves.

Rhythmic. Controlled. Each thrust hitting something sharp and perfect that makes my vision blur. The hotel headboard knocks the wall, my nails drag down his back, and I swear he laughs — low, breathless — when my legs start shaking.

My climax hits fast, too fast.

He doesn’t let me hide it.

“That’s it,” he breathes, sliding a hand down my spine as he pushes me onto my stomach, lifting my hips easily. “Already? That’s your third, Dot. And I haven’t even come once.”

“That’s it,” he breathes, sliding a hand down my spine as he pushes me onto my stomach, lifting my hips like I weigh nothing. “Already? That’s your third, Dot. And I haven’t even come once.”

I’m still shaking, still riding the aftershocks, everything inside me tender and overstimulated. I feel the brush of rope before I register it—soft, deliberate—as he ties my hands loosely behind me, giving me just enough slack to pull away if I want to.

I don’t.

“You’re even more gorgeous with your hands tied,” he murmurs, fingertips skimming my waist.

I’m still catching my breath when he lines himself up again. I’m sore, too sore, still throbbing from the last orgasm… and he’s so big it makes my eyes squeeze shut before he’s even halfway in.

“Dame—wait—” It comes out a broken whisper.

He doesn’t.

He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, claiming every overstimmed nerve, forcing my body to stretch around him. The pressure builds, unbearable and perfect, until his hips finally press flush against mine.

I’m gone.

The fullness, the slow grind, the way he bottoms out without giving me a second to recover—my legs tremble, my breath catches, and that white-hot wave hits me again, fast and helpless.

When he pulls back to thrust, I break.

Not quietly.

Not neatly.

Not with any control left at all.

And just like that—

I’m back in the boardroom, knees weak, stomach twisting with embarrassment, anger and…

I look at him now, unable to hide the absolute horror spreading across my face.

And he notices. Of course he does. He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out the one thing that makes my soul leave my body.

The note I left him.

Folded. Creased. Recognisable.

He lifts it to his lips, eyes locked on mine with the same hunger he had when he was coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of me last night.

Oh.

Oh, no.

This is worse than treating my future boss like a prostitute.

I did all that — all of it — while mistaking his brother for him.