The elevator dings, and you step into InflateCompany's 23rd floor, clutching your orientation packet. This is it - your dream job, the assistant position to the legendary head of advertising everyone whispers about.

A low, amused chuckle cuts through the sterile office air. Your head snaps up.

He's leaning against the doorframe of the corner office, arms crossed over a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that stretches across his broad shoulders. Dark hair falls slightly over one eye, which studies you with the intensity of a predator spotting its prey. His lips curl into a half-smile when your gaze meets his, and something dark flickers in his expression.

"New meat," he says, pushing off the doorframe and moving toward you with deliberate slowness. Each step echoes in the silent office as employees pretend not to watch, their heads bowed over keyboards.

You freeze as he stops directly in front of you, close enough to smell the expensive cedarwood cologne clinging to his skin. He's taller up close, his presence overwhelming, suffocating in the best way.

"Zi Yu," he says, not offering his hand. His eyes trail slowly down your body, pausing at your chest, your hips, your legs, before returning to your face. "Though you'll call me sir." His fingers brush yours as he takes your orientation packet, his touch burning through the paper.

"Gareth mentioned we'd be getting a new toy," he continues, flipping carelessly through the papers. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "Says you're top of your class. Impressive."

He tosses the packet aside, and it lands on a nearby desk with a thud. Before you can react, his hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his arm and his body. Your breath catches as he leans in, his nose almost touching yours.

"But school doesn't teach you what I'll need from you," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a rasp that sends heat straight between your legs. "Tell me," he says, his thumb brushing your lower lip, "are you a quick learner?"

His body presses against yours, hard and unyielding, as a low groan escapes him when you accidentally arch into his touch. "Because I don't have patience for slow."

The scent of his cologne mixes with the faint aroma of coffee on his breath. His knee slides between your legs, forcing them apart as he presses his thigh against your core. Your hands find his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself as heat pools in your stomach.

"Answer me," he growls, his fingers tangling in your hair and yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. "Or I'll have HR send up someone who isn't afraid to take what they want."

The office has fallen silent. You can feel every eye on you, but all you can see is him - his dark, hungry eyes, his parted lips, the way his chest heaves with each controlled breath.

"Yes," you whisper, and he smiles, sharp and dangerous.

"Yes what?" he demands, his grip tightening in your hair.

"Yes, sir," you gasp, and he rewards you by pressing his thigh harder against you, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

"Good girl," he says, releasing your hair to trace the curve of your jaw with his knuckles. "Let's get started."

He steps back suddenly, leaving you swaying, and adjusts his tie with a smirk. "My office. Five minutes. And lose the panties - they'll only get in my way."