Uncle’s Desire

I slipped under my uncle's desk and listened as he ran his staff meeting.

Then, without warning, his zipper burst open.

I'd loved Uncle Grayson for eight years—how could I possibly pass up an opportunity like this?

"Uncle," I whispered, "let me help you zip it back up…"

My name is Bella Rivera. I turned eighteen this year.

I grew up in the Sunshine Coast Orphanage near Orlando until Grayson Mitchell adopted me. Ever since, he's treated me like a princess.

Right now, I was crouched beneath his massive executive desk in downtown Miami, eavesdropping on his quarterly board review. Grayson was just past thirty—right at that age when men radiated confidence and command. He wore polished custom loafers, and beneath his tailored gray slacks, his powerful thighs stretched long and taut.

I couldn't resist poking one with my fingertip. His muscles were rock-hard.

"Mr. Mitchell, here's the financial report for this quarter," a voice said above me.

A few seconds later, Grayson's sharp reprimand cut through the air. I loved it when he got angry. There was something intoxicating about his fury—the way his voice dropped, the tension coiling off him like heat from asphalt in July.

I often fantasized about him scolding me the same way—berating me, humiliating me…

But Grayson was always gentle with me. No matter how much I pushed or pouted, he never raised his voice.

It disappointed me.

So today, while he wasn't looking, I'd crawled under his desk. What kind of mischief could I stir up to finally make him discipline me properly?

I was still pondering when a loud pop echoed from above.

Grayson's temper had flared hotter, his voice rising with every sentence, and then, I saw it. His zipper had split open right at the worst possible moment.

My cheeks burned. The space under the desk was plenty wide, but suddenly it felt suffocating. Sweat prickled my skin, my breath coming faster, shallower.

He was furious. If I played a little trick on him now… would he redirect all that anger toward me?

No time to hesitate.

I reached up and brushed my fingers against him.

His voice cut off mid-sentence. He looked down, stunned.

"What are you—"

I pressed a finger to my lips. "Shh… Uncle," I murmured, "let me help you zip it back up, okay?"

He blinked, confused, then realization hit. His eyes widened.

"Mr. Mitchell? Sir?" an employee called again.

Grayson cleared his throat, yanking his gaze away from me. He straightened his posture and tried to resume the meeting like nothing had happened.

I thought he'd refuse my help. My heart sank—until I noticed his legs part just slightly.

Yes.

He did want me.

My hands trembled as I reached for him, excitement surging through my chest. The voices overhead blurred into white noise. All I could see, all I could feel, was Grayson.

Time dissolved.

Then—silence.

The room emptied.

Grayson leaned down and lifted me out from under the desk in one smooth motion. His face was flushed, but his voice carried only weary affection.

"You little troublemaker," he sighed. "What were you thinking?"