The silence in the study was thick, broken only by the sound of our breathing slowly returning to normal. He shifted, his weight leaving my back, and the sudden emptiness where he had been was a profound, aching chill. I stayed bent over the polished mahogany, my cheek resting on the cool wood, my senses overloaded with the smell of him, of us, of leather and sex.

His hands were deft, almost clinical, as he tucked himself back into his trousers and fastened his belt with a sharp, metallic click that echoed in the quiet room. The sound sent a fresh shiver through me, a reminder of the instrument of my correction. He smoothed my skirt down over my throbbing backside, the fabric a whisper against sensitized skin.

“Detention is over,” he had whispered. But as I slowly, carefully, pushed myself upright, my muscles protesting, I saw the look in his eyes. It wasn’t over. It was merely… intermission.

He walked back to his high-backed leather chair, the throne from which he ruled his corporate empire, and sat down. He didn’t look at me as he picked up a pen and made a notation on a file—my file, I was sure of it. The casual dismissal was its own form of power play.

“The Henderson proposal,” he said, his voice low and even, all business once more. “It was a catastrophic error, Ms. Vance. One that required immediate and severe correction.” He finally lifted his gaze, and it pinned me to the spot. “But correction is not a singular event. It requires reinforcement. Understanding.”

I straightened my blouse, my fingers trembling slightly. I knew this game. I had initiated it, and he was now playing to win. God, how I wanted him to win.

“Sir?” I asked, layering my voice with a contrition I didn’t feel.

“You will stay after hours tonight,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. My office. We will be having a private lesson. Your… oral presentation skills need significant refinement.” A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips. “You will use that clever mouth of yours to properly apologize. To demonstrate, without a shadow of a doubt, that you understand the gravity of your mistake.”

A bolt of pure, undiluted lust shot through me, tightening my nipples and pooling heat low in my belly. Yes. This was the thrill I craved, the dangerous dance of power and submission, where I could pretend to yield while secretly pulling all the strings.

I dipped my head. “Of course, sir. Whatever you deem necessary.”

The hours until seven o’clock dragged and flew all at once. Every tick of the clock was a countdown. When the last of the office staff had left and the floor fell into an eerie silence, I walked back to his door, my heels clicking a defiant rhythm on the tile. I didn’t knock.

He was waiting, the office lit only by the green-shaded lamp on his desk, casting the room in pools of light and deep shadow. He’d removed his suit jacket and tie, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms. He looked powerful, relaxed, and completely in command.

“Close the door, Ms. Vance,” he said, without looking up from the document he was pretentiously examining. “And lock it.”

I did, the thunk of the deadbolt engaging sounding impossibly loud. It was just us now. No interruptions. No pretenses.

“Come here.”

I approached the desk. He didn’t gesture to the chair opposite him. He simply leaned back in his own, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine. It was dark, hungry, and held the same terrifying intensity it had hours before.

“Your lesson begins now. Get on your knees.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The command, the sheer audacity of it, sent a fresh wave of wetness between my legs. I lowered myself to the plush carpet, the position making me feel deliciously small and vulnerable before him.

He unbuckled his belt, the sound making me jump this time, and unzipped his trousers. He freed his erection, which was already thick and hard, jutting out from his body with an arrogant confidence that was entirely his. The lamplight glowed against his flushed skin.

“This,” he said, wrapping a firm hand around the base, “is the focus of your lesson. You will apply yourself until your apology is accepted. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I breathed, my own voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t guide me. He didn’t force me. He simply waited, watching me, a king awaiting his tribute. The power was all his, and the choice to submit, truly submit, was all mine.

I leaned forward, closing the small distance. The first intimate scent of him, musky and male, filled my head, intoxicating me. I opened my mouth, my lips sliding over the broad head of his cock. The taste of him, a faint saltiness, exploded on my tongue.

I heard his sharp intake of breath above me, a tiny crack in his composure. It was all the encouragement I needed.

I took him deeper, relaxing my throat, my tongue flattening against the velvety-hard underside. I set a slow, deliberate rhythm, one hand braced on his muscular thigh, the other curling around what my mouth couldn’t yet take. Up… and down. Each movement was a stroke, a plea, an act of contrition that was the furthest thing from an apology. It was a claiming.

His hand came down, not to force me, but to cradle my head, his fingers tangling in my long hair. His grip was firm, possessive, but he let me set the pace, let me work. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, undisguised pleasure.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Use that mouth. Show me how sorry you are.”

I moaned around him, the vibration earning me another shattered breath from above. I lost myself in the rhythm, in the sensation of him sliding over my tongue, stretching my lips, the faint hint of his release beginning to coat my throat. My own pleasure was a secondary, humming thing, a direct wire from my mouth to my clit, which throbbed in time with my movements. I was doing this. I was reducing this powerful, controlled man to a series of ragged breaths and guttural sounds.

His grip in my hair tightened, just a fraction, a silent warning. “Look at me.”

I fluttered my eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. His jaw was clenched, his features a mask of strained ecstasy. To see his composure unravel while I was on my knees, serving him, was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known.

“You’re being very thorough,” he gritted out, his hips giving a slight, involuntary thrust.

I took him deeper, gagging slightly before relaxing into it, taking him all, my nose buried in the coarse hair at his base. I held him there for a moment, letting him feel the constricting heat of my throat, before pulling back with a wet, obscene pop.

“I want to be sure I’ve learned my lesson, sir,” I whispered, my voice hoarse, before diving back down, taking him with a new, desperate hunger.

His control was fraying. I could feel it in the tension of his thighs, hear it in the ragged pull of his breath. He was close. The lesson was nearing its conclusion.

“Don’t stop,” he commanded, his voice a raw scrape of sound. “Take it. Take every last drop of your… correction.”

And as I redoubled my efforts, his head fell back against the chair, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat as his release flooded my mouth, hot and salty and his. I drank him down, my own body trembling with a vicarious climax, until he was spent and softening.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of our harsh breathing. His hand gently loosened its grip in my hair, stroking it almost absently. I rested my forehead against his thigh, spent.

He shifted forward, his finger tilting my chin up. My lips were swollen, my eyes probably glazed. He looked down at me, a predator satisfied with his hunt.

“An… adequate start,” he said, his voice regaining some of its steel, though it was still laced with satiation. “But your education is far from over. Tomorrow, we’ll address your formatting.” A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “On the conference room table. Now, clean me up.”