The summons came just as I knew it would.

A single, sharp buzz from the intercom on my desk, followed by his voice, deep and imperious, devoid of all warmth. “Ms. Vance. My study. Now.” The line went dead. A thrill, hot and sharp, lanced straight down my spine, settling low in my belly with a familiar, aching throb.

I took my time. I smoothed my already immaculate pencil skirt, reapplied a faint gloss to my lips, and made the walk from my small office to his large, oak-paneled one at a deliberately slow pace. I knew exactly what I had done. Sending that proposal to the wrong client—the one with the highly suggestive notes I’d doodled in the margins about the chairman’s… rigorous attention to detail. It was no accident. It was an invitation.

I pushed the heavy door open. He was standing by the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the city skyline. The room smelled of old leather, fine whiskey, and him—that clean, sharp scent of sandalwood and authority.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked, my voice the picture of polite, clueless efficiency.

He didn’t turn around. “Close the door, Ms. Vance.”

I pushed it shut with a soft click that echoed in the quiet room. The latch engaging sounded unnaturally loud, like the sealing of a trap. My trap.

Finally, he turned. His eyes, a cool, assessing gray, swept over me, missing nothing. He held up a single sheet of paper. My proposal. My doodles.

“Care to explain this?”

I widened my eyes, injecting a little tremor into my voice. “Oh, my goodness. Sir, I am so sorry. That was a terrible mistake. It must have gotten mixed in with the final draft. It won’t happen again.”

He placed the paper on his desk with deliberate slowness. “No,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “It won’t.”

He took a step toward me, then another, until he was standing far too close, his height and breadth blocking out the light from the window. I had to tilt my head back to maintain my feigned, innocent expression. The air crackled between us.

“I think you knew exactly what you were doing,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “I think you’re a very naughty little thing who requires correction.”

My breath hitched. Yes.

“Sir, I—I don’t know what you mean.”

A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Turn around. Bend over the desk. Now.”

A shiver of pure, undiluted anticipation racked my body. I obeyed, turning my back to him and leaning forward, placing my palms flat on the cool, polished wood of his massive desk. I heard the soft rustle of my skirt as he gathered the fabric in one hand, flipping it up and over my back, exposing me completely. The cold air of the study kissed the bare skin of my thighs, the thin lace of my panties doing nothing to hide the heat that was radiating from my core.

I heard the unmistakable sound of his belt buckle clinking, the rasp of leather sliding through denim loops. My heart hammered against my ribs. This is it. This is what you wanted.

He placed a warm, heavy hand on the small of my back, pressing me down further, arching my spine. I let out a shaky breath, my cheeks flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

“Detention,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper right by my ear, “is going to be very… thorough.”

The first touch wasn’t his hand. It was the smooth, cool leather of his belt, folded in half. He traced it over the curve of my bottom, a slow, teasing caress that made me jump. Then he lifted it away.

The first smack was a sharp, stinging promise. It wasn’t meant to truly hurt; it was meant to awaken. A gasp tore from my lips, followed immediately by a wave of pooling heat between my legs. The slight burn spread, melting into a deep, throbbing warmth.

Smack. Another, on the other side. Perfectly symmetrical. My fingers curled against the desk, gripping the edge.

“Count them,” he commanded, his voice rough.

“One,” I breathed out.

Smack. “Two.”

Each stroke was measured, controlled. The sting was a bright, sharp highlight to the overwhelming ache of need building inside me. He was painting my skin with heat, each impact making me more aware of my own body, of my own dripping wetness, of the empty, desperate clench deep inside me.

After the fifth stroke, he stopped. The leather belt landed on the desk beside my hand with a soft thud. His hands, bare now, replaced it. They were warm and slightly rough as they cupped my punished flesh, kneading gently, making me moan at the contrast of the soothing touch against the sensitized skin.

“Such a responsive pupil,” he mused, his thumbs dipping lower, tracing the edge of my panties. “But I think we’re just getting to the core curriculum.”

With one swift movement, he hooked his fingers in the lace and peeled my panties down my thighs, letting them fall to my knees. I was completely bare to him, exposed and trembling. The air felt electric on my wetness.

I heard him unzip his fly. The sound was obscene and perfect. Then he was there, the thick, hard length of him pressing against my core, sliding through my slickness, not entering, just teasing, painting himself with my desire.

“Please,” I whimpered, the façade of innocence finally crumbling. I pushed back against him, a silent, desperate plea.

“Please, what?” he growled, gripping my hips, holding me still.

“Please, sir. I need you to… correct me.”

He gave a low, dark chuckle that vibrated through me. “Good girl.”

With one powerful, relentless thrust, he filled me completely. I cried out, a sharp, guttural sound as he stretched me, burying himself to the hilt. The sensation was overwhelming—the fullness, the slight, delicious burn, the perfect friction. He held himself there for a long moment, letting me feel every inch of him, letting me adjust to the breathtaking invasion.

Then he began to move.

His pace was punishing and perfect, each deep thrust punctuated by the solid slap of his body against my tender skin, reigniting the sting with every movement. I was bent over his desk, a mess of gasping pleas and shattered moans, my professional world reduced to the feel of him pistoning into me, the scent of our coupling, the sound of our bodies meeting.

“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his rhythm never faltering, one hand braced on the desk beside mine, the other tangling in my hair, pulling my head back. “When you sent me that little note? You wanted my rigorous attention?”

“Yes! God, yes, sir!” The words were torn from me. I was close, so close, the coil tightening unbearably low in my abdomen. The desk shuddered with our force. Papers slid to the floor. We were wrecking his ordered world, and it was the most erotic thing I had ever experienced.

His thrusts became more erratic, harder, deeper. “Then come for me,” he commanded, his voice thick with his own impending release. “Come on my cock like a good girl and show me you’ve learned your lesson.”

The command, the possession in his tone, shattered my last thread of control. My orgasm crashed over me, a silent, screaming wave of pure sensation that clenched around him, milking his own release from him. I felt him pulse deep inside me, a hot, claiming rush, his own groan a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure as he collapsed over my back, still buried to the hilt.

We stayed like that for a long moment, panting, connected, the only sound our ragged breaths mixing in the quiet room. He shifted, and I winced at the delicious tenderness between my legs and across my backside.

He smoothed my skirt down, his touch surprisingly gentle now. “Detention is over,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear.