The C.E.O and I

She was standing in Jake Stark's office, but something was wrong.

The city lights behind the glass were blurred, almost unreal, and the usual cold, clinical furniture had vanished. In its place, velvet shadows, heat, and him.

He leaned against his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, top buttons open to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His eyes weren't cold like usual. They burned.

"Lock the door," he said.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She obeyed. Turned back.

Jake was already crossing the room.

No hesitation.

His mouth claimed hers, hard and hungry. He kissed like he wanted to erase every other kiss she'd ever known, possessive, punishing, addictive. Her back hit the desk. Her blouse was ripped open in one swift motion.

"You walk into my office every day in those skirts, pretending you don't know what you're doing to me."

"I'm not pretending," she breathed.

He growled low, animal, and pushed her onto the desk.

His hand slid up her thigh, fingers brushing over the thin lace barrier of her underwear. She gasped when he touched her. He was firm and knowing, no teasing.

"You're already wet."

"For you," she whispered. "Always you."

He dragged her panties down her legs, tossing them aside like they offended him.

Then he sank to his knees.

She cried out when his tongue touched her slowly at first, then faster, deliberately. He knew exactly how to undo her, each flick and suck pulling her closer to the edge.

Her hands tangled in his hair. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

Then he stood, unbuckled his belt with one hand, never breaking eye contact.

"Do you want this?"

"Yes. God, yes."

Jake entered her in one deep, punishing thrust. She arched, mouth falling open in a moan. He didn't give her time to adjust. Just started moving deep, slow, hard. Each stroke hitting something devastating inside her.

She clung to him, fingernails digging into his back. He lifted one of her legs, changed the angle, and she shattered loud, helpless, coming apart around him.

"Mine," he growled. "Say it."

"I'm yours," she moaned, body trembling. "Yours, Jake "

He thrust harder, chasing his own release, until he groaned her name against her neck and spilled inside her.

They stayed tangled. Breathing. Sweating. Real.

Too real.

---

Zara jerked upright in bed, heart pounding. Sheets twisted around her legs. Her skin damp with sweat. Her thighs slick.

Her own voice still rang in her ears. Yours, Jake.

She stared at the ceiling, willing her heart to calm down.

Same dream. Again.

But this time, it had gone too far.

She wasn't just dreaming about sex. She was dreaming about belonging to him.

And he had no idea.

---

She was late.

Only thirty-two seconds. But for Jake Stark, that might as well be a crime.

She stepped into the hallway, heels tapping like gunshots across marble. The office was pristine, minimalist, as cold and precise as the man who ran it. STARK Industries didn't hum with life. It moved like a machine, oiled and silent. And she was a cog in it tolerated, necessary, and utterly replaceable.

Jake Stark's office loomed at the far end, a glass cube overlooking the city like a throne room. Through the transparent wall, she could see him. Seated. Still. Watching.

The weight of his gaze hit before the door even opened.

She swallowed hard, turned the knob, and stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

"You're thirty-two seconds late." His voice was calm. Too calm. His fingers never stopped typing.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. The "

"No excuses."

She shut her mouth. Her pulse drummed in her ears.

He finally looked up. Just a flick of those cold, calculating glacier blue eyes. Then back to his screen.

"Patterson file. Now."

She stepped forward, placed the folder on his desk without a sound. His office was all black and steel. No clutter. No warmth. It suited him.

He didn't look at the file. He looked at her.

"New lipstick."

She blinked. "Sir?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Distracting."

It was nude gloss. Barely visible. But the heat that shot up her neck was undeniable.

"I'll remember that."

"Good. We don't mix signals in this office. Or business with pleasure."

You started that game, she wanted to say. Instead, she nodded and turned to go.

"Miss Commbs."

She stopped. "Yes?"

"I need a revised report on the Taiwan projections. On my desk in an hour."

"I thought Finance was"

"You're smarter than them. Prove it."

And just like that, she was dismissed. But not forgotten.

The rest of the office didn't speak to her unless necessary. She was a mystery: the secretary who'd lasted a year with Stark, while others barely made it three months. The others had worn short skirts, laughed too easily, and ended up crying in bathrooms.

Zara didn't flirt. She didn't cry. She survived.

At 10:17 AM, she delivered the revised projections. He didn't compliment her. Just nodded. But she caught the way his jaw flexed. Approval, maybe. Or something else.

By lunch, he was gone. Off to some investor meeting, probably. She ate at her desk. Tuna sandwich, no appetite. Her phone buzzed.

it was Lena, her roommate and best friend.

Lena: Still alive, or has he finally turned you into office ash?

Zara smirked.

Zara: Still breathing. Just barely.

Lena: Girl, just seduce him and put yourself out of misery.

She typed, then deleted.

The truth? She'd thought about it. A lot.

The way he rolled up his sleeves when deep in thought. The way he said her name Miss Commbs like it tasted better than coffee. The way her stomach twisted every time he brushed past her, close enough to touch but never crossing the line.

He was impossible.

And addictive.

The day dragged. A call from Legal. An HR request. She handled everything. Efficient. Invisible.

Then, around 4 PM, she walked into the break room and stopped cold.

Jake Stark was there.

Leaning against the counter, sipping black coffee like a mortal. Alone.

She hesitated. He noticed.

"Didn't peg you as shy, Miss Commbs."

She stepped inside, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. "Didn't peg you as human."

His brow lifted. The corner of his mouth twitched. A hint of a smirk.

"Careful. You're starting to sound like you enjoy working here."

She twisted the cap too hard. It cracked. "I enjoy paying rent."

He stepped closer. Just a step. But she felt it.

"Is that all?" he asked. His voice dropped an octave.

Her breath hitched. "What else would there be?"

His gaze was unreadable. Ice and fire. "I wonder about that every day."

And then he was gone. Just like that. Leaving her heart pounding and her thoughts a mess.

---

Zara stayed late. She always did. Easier to finish her work when the office emptied. No whispers. No stares.

At 7:48 PM, she heard his voice again.

"Still here?"

She looked up. He was standing by her desk, coat in hand.

"Deadlines don't wait."

"Neither do people." He walked closer. "You work like you're trying to outrun something."

She didn't answer.

He studied her for a long moment. Then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black box.

"Here."

She hesitated. "What is it?"

He set it on her desk. "A pen. Montblanc. Consider it a thank you for salvaging the Taiwan mess."

She stared. "You don't do thank-yous."

"Don't make me regret this."

She opened the box. It was sleek and expensive. Beautiful.

She met his eyes. "This doesn't change anything."

"No," he agreed. "But it confirms a few things."

Before she could ask, he walked away.

---

The next morning, she arrived early. Beat him to the office for the first time in months.

She found a cup of black coffee on her desk. No note. No message.

But she knew.

He knew she'd understand.

Jake Stark didn't play games. But with her... he didn't follow the rules either.

Zara sat down, heart thudding.

She didn't know what came next.

But it had already begun.