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“You’ve surprised me,” Damien says at last. His voice is smooth, but there’s something behind it I can’t quite read. Interest. Calculation. Maybe both. “How so?” I ask. “You’re younger than I expected.” He leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s almost solved. “Most of the candidates for this position were in their thirties. You’re what, early twenties?” “Twenty-one,” I say quietly. He nods slowly. “And already this capable.” “And that surprises you?” I ask before I can stop myself. It comes out sharper than I intended. His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “A little. But more than anything, you’ve impressed me.” My pulse stumbles. The air feels thicker somehow, charged. He doesn’t mean just my résumé. I can tell by the way his gaze lingers. Steady, deliberate, and much too intimate for a man I met hours ago. He stands, unhurried, and perches on the edge of his desk, the movement controlled, graceful. The distance between us shrinks until I can feel his heat, even though he’s not touching me. “And you handle pressure well,” he says. “Not everyone could’ve calmed that crowd earlier. You did it flawlessly.” “Someone had to,” I manage. My voice sounds smaller than I’d like. He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne, which is clean, expensive, and threaded with something darker. I can feel his presence as a physical weight, steady and impossible to ignore. “Your generation doesn’t get enough credit,” he says suddenly. “For what?” “For knowing what you want.” His gaze flicks down, then up again. “And taking it.” The words land heavy. I try to laugh, but it catches in my throat. “You think I know what I want?” “I do.” His tone is absolute. I should stand up. Step back. Draw a line before the ground between us turns into quicksand. I know all the reasons why this can’t happen. He’s my boss, he’s older, and he’s dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with his title. But I don’t move. Because he’s looking at me like I’m something rare. Like he hasn’t been this intrigued in a long, long time. And I like it. God help me, I like it. “I don’t normally do this,” he says. “Do what?” “Invite new employees into my office. Alone. Talk when we should be working.” “I don’t think this is wasting time,” I whisper. He smiles faintly, a curve that shouldn’t make my knees feel weak, but does. “Then maybe it’s not.” He steps forward. Slowly. Intentionally. The kind of slow that gives you every chance to stop him, if you want to. I don’t. My breath stutters. My palms are damp. Every nerve in my body is waiting for something I shouldn’t want. His eyes drop to my mouth. “I’m not going to touch you,” he says softly. My voice comes out like air. “Why not?” “Because I wouldn’t stop.” The words are low and quiet, but they steal every thought from my head. I believe him. Completely. “And you work for me,” he adds. His voice is rougher now. “Which complicates things.” “It does,” I whisper. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” My breath catches. There’s nothing flirtatious in the way he says it. Just raw honesty that makes my pulse trip over itself. “It also doesn’t mean I won’t eventually.” My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he can hear it. I can see the thought flicker behind his eyes of me, this desk, and everything that would follow if we gave in. I can’t do this. He’s my boss. He’s too powerful, too calm, too dangerous. But when his gaze holds mine, my body forgets every rule I know. I lean in without meaning to. My eyes fall to his mouth. And I want it. Just once. He must see and feel it too, because his next words are low enough to melt my bones. “Have dinner with me.” I blink. “What?” “This weekend,” he says, stepping back just enough for me to breathe again. “I’ll send a car.” “You don’t think that’s a little risky?” He smiles with a hint of calculated mischief. “What’s life without a little risk, Ms. Taylor?” I should say no. I should laugh, make a joke, and end this before it becomes something I can’t escape. But there’s a part of me already giving in, already picturing what that dinner looks like, how it ends, and the kind of man he’ll be when no one’s watching. “Okay,” I whisper. “Dinner.” His smile deepens. “Saturday. Seven.” He opens the door for me, polite and composed again, as if none of this just happened. I walk past him, trying to breathe evenly, trying not to look back. I fail. Because even as I step into the hallway, I can still feel his gaze on me. It’s possessive, unreadable, and promising everything I know I shouldn’t want. And maybe that’s exactly why I want it. ❤️Read Claimed by the Boss for FREE with Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FW1DDMG4