Unshakable Fixation

~Dorian ~

~ Dorian ~

"Fuck!"

The vicious curse echoes off the pristine glass walls of my private office, the sharp sound bouncing right back at me. It hangs in the sterile, air-conditioned space, heavy and unforgiving. I just coldly fired a mid-level employee less than a minute ago. She made a single, inexcusably sloppy mistake on a critical board presentation. In my ruthless world, a single wrong date printed on a slide deck costs millions in revenue. It costs crucial leverage. It costs power. I do not tolerate incompetence, especially not when the stakes are this astronomical.

It is barely eight in the morning, but the crushing, suffocating pressure of bleaching clean my father Alistair’s rotting, corrupt corporate empire already has the blood boiling in my veins. My jaw aches endlessly from the constant tension. I walk over to the sprawling mahogany bar in the corner of the expansive room. I grab a heavy crystal glass, pour a double shot of scalding black espresso, and swallow it whole. I ignore the bitter burn tearing down my throat, desperately hoping the jolt of caffeine will shock my system back into line.

It does not work.

I walk back to my custom desk and drop heavily into my leather chair. I forcefully open the thick, leather-bound shareholder reports, dragging my finger down the crisp pages. I desperately try to focus on the financial metrics, the upcoming quarterly pivots, and the endless columns of data that demand my immediate attention. But my fractured mind refuses to cooperate today.

I cannot stop thinking about her.

That mouthy, defiant, tequila-soaked girl from the dimly lit hotel bar. I told myself that night it meant nothing at all. I convinced my rational brain that she was just a warm body, a necessary physical release to quiet the screaming static in my head. A way to purge the relentless, mounting pressure of my new position.

But now, she is quite literally all I can think about.

The phantom memory of her tan, impossibly smooth skin beneath my palms tortures my waking hours. The searing heat of her body feels permanently burned into my fingertips. I am haunted by the exact way her lips curved into a smug, breathless grin as she looked up at me in the dark. She panted, her chest heaving against mine, her eyes gleaming with a wild defiance.

"Maybe you’re just huge."

I made her say it again. I demanded she repeat those exact words while I was buried so deep inside her tight, wet pussy that I felt it in my very soul. The friction, the heat, the way she gripped my broad shoulders and took every single inch of me—it is a memory that stubbornly refuses to fade into the background.

I broke my own cardinal rule that night. Normally, I maintain sterile, unwavering control over my private life. I always leave a faceless, untraceable envelope of cash on the nightstand before slipping out the hotel door. It ensures no emotional attachments. It guarantees no messy misunderstandings. A clean financial transaction to feed my clinical hunger without leaving a trace of myself behind.

But with her, I could not do it. Putting cold cash next to her sleeping form felt profoundly wrong. So, like a weak, pathetic amateur, I found a pen on the desk. I left her a handwritten note instead.

*Thank you.*

A confession of gratitude I never give to anyone.

Desperate to regain control over my fractured routine and drown out the sexual noise deafening my brain, I lean forward and slam my hand down on the assistant line intercom.

I bark the name into the speaker, keeping my tone razor-sharp. "Hughes, get someone in here. Temporary secretary. I don’t care who it is. I just need pure competence and dead silence."

"Right away, sir."

I abandon the desk. The cuffs of my tailored dress shirt feel too restrictive, suffocating my wrists. I unbutton them and roll the expensive fabric up to my elbows, letting my tense forearms breathe. I walk over to the massive floor-to-ceiling window and stare out at the sprawling, sun-baked strip of Las Vegas. From up here in the executive suite, the city looks glittering and pathetic. A neon playground running on cheap illusions and endless greed. And now, this massive, corrupt mess belongs to me.

I press one palm flat against the cold window pane. I have fucked my own hand far too many times over the last forty-eight hours just thinking about her. I close my eyes and I can still taste her sweet skin on my tongue. I can still hear the ragged, desperate sounds she made when I pushed her over the edge into ruin. But the pathetic physical release of doing it myself only pours gasoline on my unspeakable, obsessive thoughts. It does not satisfy the gnawing hunger. It only makes the beast roar louder.

Then, the heavy office door clicks open behind me.

Before I even hear the soft sound of footsteps sinking into the carpet, the scent hits me. The faint, delicate fragrance of peony, bright citrus, and warm, clean skin drifts into the sprawling room. It cuts straight through the sterile smell of expensive cologne and roasted coffee. The scent hits my senses like a physical blow to the chest.

My entire body abruptly stills. The air in my lungs solidifies into ice.

I know that smell.

I turn around slowly, bracing myself for a hallucination. My sleep-deprived brain must be playing a cruel trick on my sanity.

But it is not a hallucination. There she is.

She is standing on my plush carpet, wearing a modest blouse she is clearly using to armor herself. She clutches a cheap leather folder against her chest like a desperate shield. Her wild, chestnut-brown hair is pulled back, but a few loose strands frame her face. Her wide, beautiful hazel eyes are blown wide with sheer terror. I watch her gaze drop, locking onto the heavy golden nameplate sitting perfectly centered on my mahogany desk.

*Dorian Blackwood.*

Then, her eyes snap up to meet my gaze.

My heart drops into the pit of my stomach like a heavy lead weight.

She freezes in place. I watch the chaotic storm of shock, raw fear, and a lingering, traitorous heat swirling in her hazel eyes. She recognizes the slope of my shoulders. She recognizes the harsh lines of my face.

She knows exactly what I know. We share the dirty, explicit secret of tangled sheets and bruised skin. The memory of my teeth grazing her delicate neck hangs thickly in the space between us.

Panic flares in my chest, but I immediately school my face into an impenetrable, stony mask. I drain every ounce of warmth from my features, locking my jaw and straightening my spine. I make my eyes as cold as zero degrees. I stare at her with chilling indifference, pretending I do not feel the hot blood rushing straight south.

I watch her shift nervously on her heels. Her breathing turns shallow and erratic, rapidly lifting and dropping the leather folder clutched against her chest.

"Close the door," I instruct her, my voice carrying the frost-bitten edge of a man who feels nothing at all.

She jumps at the harshness of my tone. Then, she quickly obeys, stepping backward to push the heavy door shut. The loud click of the lock seals us inside the cavernous room.

Staring at the beautiful girl I swore to myself I would never see again, my psychological condition kicks into relentless overdrive. Being hypersexual isn't just a matter of having a high libido or simple, manageable hunger. It is a suffocating, obsessive mental noise that hijacks my nervous system. It takes over my brain and refuses to let go.

Fast, brutally dirty images flood my mind like a malicious virus I cannot debug. The memories crash over me in vivid, high-definition flashes. Her parted, swollen lips begging for me in the dark. Her flushed, sweat-slicked skin pinned beneath my gripping palms. The unbearable heat of her tight pussy clenching around my cock as I drove into her repeatedly.

She is an itch buried deep in my psyche that I can no longer simply scratch in private. She is standing right in front of me, breathing my air, existing in my territory.

"Sit," I command, the word coming out far harsher and more punishing than I intended, echoing like a whip crack in the silent room.

She lowers herself slowly, almost trembling, into the sleek guest chair across from my desk. She presses her knees tightly together in defense.

My traitorous gaze drops immediately to her thighs. Even hidden beneath the fabric of her skirt, the sight instantly derails my fragile train of thought. It drags me straight back to the slick, trembling core I gripped so possessively two nights ago. I remember the exact sound she made when I bit the soft skin just above her knee. I remember how beautifully she shattered around me.

I blink hard, digging my nails deep into my palms. I force the explicit images down into the dark, punishing myself for the dangerous slip in control.

She does not speak a single word. She just sits there, her eyes wide with terrifying recognition. Her silence is heavy and suffocating, hanging in the air like thick fog. But her silence isn't the fucking issue here.

The catastrophic issue is that I physically and mentally ruined her before I even bothered to learn her fucking name. I ravaged her in a hotel bed and walked away.

And now, by some sick, twisted joke of the universe, she has been assigned as my temporary secretary.

My current, raging obsession is now trapped within my immediate proximity. She is confined to the very office where I spend my days. She will be answering my calls, organizing my files, and standing mere inches away from me for hours on end. And my clinical condition does not come with an off switch. It never has.

What the actual fuck am I supposed to do with her now?