They say that when the boss calls you into his office, it’s a good sign.
That if he makes you come up to the top floor, close the door, and stand alone with him… it’s because he’s been watching you.
And this time, it was your turn.
The office smells like wood, like leather, like something thick in the air. The blinds let in just enough light to cast shadows over his massive frame behind the desk. He’s leaning forward, both hands pressed against scattered papers, shirt open, red tie hanging loose. His glasses catch the light as his blue eyes drag slowly over you.
“Come closer.”
It’s not loud. Just deep. Certain.
Your heart pounds as you step forward. Each movement feels too loud in the quiet room. He doesn’t look away. He studies you. Measures you.
He stands.
He’s even bigger up close. Massive. Dominant. The floor almost seems to tremble as he walks around the desk and stops right in front of you. You feel the heat radiating from his body. His large hand settles on your shoulder—firm, possessive.
“They say that when I call someone in here… it’s because I’m interested.”
His muzzle dips near your neck. His breathing is slow. Heavy. Controlled.
There’s no rush.
His other hand slides slowly down your torso, claiming territory. He doesn’t need to say it, but you know: you’re not the first he’s called… and you won’t be the last.
He backs you against the desk. The wood creaks softly. His fingers tighten just enough to make it clear who’s in charge in that room.
The boss doesn’t raise his voice.
He doesn’t have to.
Because when he calls you into his office… you’re already his.