🔥 Bonus Chapter: The Chairman’s Desk 🔥

MF Contemporary Romance
by Isla Wilde

Thank You for Reading! 💜

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve lived through Wren and Dominic’s story of locked doors, overtime, and a love that refused to stay in the dark. Thank you for giving their story a chance. This exclusive chapter is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

The Chairman’s Desk

Dominic’s POV — One Year Later

The text came at 4:55 PM on a Friday, because some traditions were sacred.

Overtime tonight?

I sent it from the fortieth floor, leaning against the window of an office that no longer said CEO on the door but still had the best view in the building. Chairman suited me. Less operational noise, more strategic latitude, and — critically — zero organizational connection to the woman on the thirty-eighth floor who was, at this moment, probably smiling at her phone the way she did when she thought no one was watching.

I was always watching.

Her reply came in twelve seconds.

Your office. 8 PM. Don’t eat dinner. Don’t loosen the tie.

I stared at the text. In a year of Friday rituals — the question, the answer, the variations that ranged from soft-family-night to the kind that made Diane pretend she hadn’t seen me leave — this was new. She’d never specified the tie before. The tie was my move. My weapon. My claim.

Wren Calloway was planning something.

The hours between 5 and 8 PM were the longest of my professional career, and I’d once negotiated a seventy-two-hour deal with the Chinese government.

At 7:58, the fortieth floor was empty. The cleaning crew had come and gone. The lights were on their automated evening setting — half-power, amber, the kind of light that turned glass walls into mirrors and mahogany desks into altars.

I was at my desk. Not working. Sitting. Tie on — navy silk, the original, the one that had lived in my closet since the first time I’d wound it around her wrists in this office and watched her eyes go dark. I’d worn it all day because she’d told me to, and the obedience — the quiet, willing surrender of a man who’d spent his entire life giving orders — was its own kind of foreplay.

The elevator dinged.

Heels on marble. The specific rhythm I could identify in my sleep — click, pause, click.

She appeared in my doorway.

Black skirt. The black skirt. White blouse, tucked in, top button undone. Hair down. Heels that made her legs an argument against rational thought.

She was carrying a paper bag from the Thai place on 53rd — our order, from the night her hand landed on mine and neither of us pulled away.

“Happy anniversary,” she said.

We ate at the conference table. Same food. Same woman. Bare feet tucked beneath her in the chair within two minutes.

“One year. And you still can’t cook.”

“I made eggs this morning.”

“You made charcoal. Rosie used them as a science exhibit.”

I reached across the table. Took her hand. “I love you. Every day. More each time.”

“And I have something—”

“Not yet.” She squeezed my hand. “I saw the box outline three weeks ago. The answer is yes. But you don’t get to do it during my anniversary plan.”

“You’ve known for three weeks?”

“I found it in your sock drawer. The answer is yes. Your plan can happen tomorrow.”

At 9 PM, the food was gone. The room was golden. And she stood up with that expression — the shift from warm to hot, from tender to predatory.

“Stand up,” she said.

I stood.

“Chair.” She pointed to my desk chair.

I sat down.

She stopped in front of me. Between my knees. Looking down at me with the quiet authority of a woman who’d spent a year learning that surrender wasn’t weakness and power wasn’t just his to wield.

“One year ago,” she said, “you sat in this chair and I sat in your lap and you held me while I shook. You’d just called me good girl for the first time. I’d just called you Daddy for the first time. And I was so scared — not of you, not of the sex, but of how much I wanted it. How much I wanted you.”

Her fingers found the tie. The navy silk. She ran it through her hand, slow.

“I’m not scared anymore.”

She pulled the tie. Not off — toward her. Using it like a leash, drawing my face up to hers. The reversal — her standing, me seated, her hand on my tie — sent a bolt of heat through my body that I felt in my scalp and my cock and everywhere between.

“Tonight,” she said, her mouth an inch from mine, “I take care of you.”

“Yes, Wren.”

She kissed me. Deep, thorough. Her tongue stroked mine and I groaned into her mouth and my hands came up to grip her waist—

She caught my wrists. Pressed them back against the armrests.

“No touching,” she said against my mouth. “Not until I say.”

She pulled back. Held up the tie.

“Hands,” she said.

I held out my wrists.

She bound them. Carefully, precisely, the same focused attention I’d given her the first time. She’d learned from me. She’d learned everything from me, and then she’d made it hers, and the student had become the teacher and the teacher was trembling in a desk chair.

“Too tight?”

“No.”

“Good.” She kissed my forehead. Tender. The tenderness before the filth. Our signature.

She stepped back. Her hands went to the zipper at the back of her skirt. She held my gaze while she pulled it down — slow, deliberate, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade.

The skirt fell.

Black lace. A scrap of fabric that barely qualified as underwear, hugging the curve of her hips, dark against her skin.

She unbuttoned the blouse. One button at a time. The fabric parted to reveal a matching bra — black lace, barely there, her nipples visible through the pattern, already hard. The blouse joined the skirt on the floor.

She was standing in my office in black lace and heels and nothing else, and the city was glittering behind her, and I was bound in a chair with a cock so hard it ached, and I couldn’t touch her.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“I’m dying.”

“Not yet.” She smiled. The brat smile. “We haven’t even started.”

She straddled me in the chair. Her weight settling into my lap, her thighs bracketing mine, the heat of her pressed against the rigid length of me through my trousers. Her hips began to move. Slow, deliberate rolls that ground her center against me. I could feel the damp heat of her through the lace, through my trousers, and the friction was maddening and insufficient and exactly what she wanted.

“Tell me what you want,” she murmured against my neck.

“You. Always you.”

“Be specific, Daddy.”

My cock twitched against her. She felt it — and she ground down harder, dragging the wet lace along the bulge straining beneath my fly.

“I want your hands on me. I want your mouth on me. I want to be inside you in this chair in this office where everything started, and I want to hear you say my name when you come.”

She reached between us. Worked my belt — the sound of leather through metal — then my zipper, and then her hand was inside my trousers, wrapping around my cock through the thin fabric, and the contact made my head slam back against the chair.

She freed me. Her hand closed around the bare shaft and I made a sound that wasn’t a word. More guttural than that. More animal.

She stroked me slowly. Her grip firm and sure, her thumb sweeping across the head where I was already leaking, spreading the slickness. She knew exactly what made me lose language — the twist at the top, the squeeze at the base, the pace that said I have all night and you have no say in when this ends.

She slid off my lap. Knelt between my knees.

I looked down at her — this brilliant, fierce, mouthy woman — kneeling on the floor of an office she’d once answered phones in, looking up at me with dark eyes and parted lips and the absolute certainty of a woman who was doing this because she wanted to, because watching a man she’d brought to his knees now literally brought her pleasure.

Her lips closed around the head first — soft, wet, the pressure gentle and exploratory. Then deeper. Her mouth slid down the shaft, warm and tight, her tongue pressing flat against the underside, and the sensation erased every thought I’d ever had.

She worked me with devastating patience. Long, slow strokes that took me deep and then pulled back to the tip, her tongue swirling, her hand working what her mouth couldn’t reach. She hummed around me — the vibration traveled through my cock, up my spine, detonated behind my eyes — and my bound hands strained against the silk.

“I can’t — if you keep—”

She pulled off. Lips swollen, wet, a thread of spit connecting her lower lip to the head of my cock. The most obscene, beautiful image I’d ever seen.

“Not yet,” she said. My words. From every edging session.

She stood. Unclasped the bra. It fell. Her breasts — full, the nipples tight and dark — were bare. She hooked her thumbs in the lace underwear and slid them down. Naked now except for the heels, standing in the amber light of the fortieth floor.

She climbed back into my lap. Reached between us. Guided me to her entrance. I could feel the wet heat of her against my cock — slick, swollen — and when she sank onto me, I stopped breathing.

She took me inch by inch, her eyes locked on mine, her mouth falling open as she stretched around me. When she was fully seated — every inch buried, her hips flush against mine — she held still. Both of us breathing. The chair creaking.

She rode me with a rhythm that was entirely hers — deep, rolling movements that drew me nearly out and then pulled me back to the hilt. Her hands braced on my shoulders, her back arching, her breasts swaying with each stroke. The wet sound of our bodies meeting filled the office.

“You feel so good,” she breathed. “So deep — God, you’re so deep—”

“You’re mine,” I said. Because bound or free, Daddy said what Daddy meant.

“Yours.” She ground down hard, circling her hips. “And you’re mine.”

“Since the wrong chair.”

“Since the wrong fucking chair.”

She reached between us. Her fingers found her clit — touching herself, riding me, chasing her own orgasm with the confidence of a woman who’d spent a year learning that wanting wasn’t weakness. I watched her fingers circle and press, watched her face contort with focused pleasure, and the sight of Wren Calloway coming undone on my cock while I couldn’t touch her was the most erotic thing I’d experienced in three hundred and sixty-five days of extraordinary things.

“Come for me,” I growled. “Come for me, good girl.”

She came. Her body arched backward, her walls clenching around me in rhythmic, violent pulses, and the sound she made — my name, the other name, tangled together — filled the fortieth floor.

“Daddy — oh God — Dominic —”

She collapsed against my chest. Shaking. My cock still buried inside her, still hard, still aching.

“Untie me,” I whispered.

Her shaking hands found the silk. Pulled the knot. The tie slithered free.

My hands were on her instantly. Hips. Waist. The curve of her ass. I gripped her and stood — she gasped, her legs wrapping around me, still connected — and I carried her to the desk.

My desk. Our desk. The desk where she’d bent over in a black skirt a year ago and whispered Daddy and changed everything.

I laid her across the mahogany. Pulled out slowly — she whimpered at the loss — and looked at her. Spread across my desk, flushed from her chest to her forehead, legs open, slick with her own orgasm and glistening in the amber light. The most beautiful thing I’d ever had on this desk, and this desk had held eight-hundred-million-dollar deals.

“My turn,” I said.

“Yes, Daddy.”

I dropped to my knees. Her legs went over my shoulders. My mouth found her — swollen, sensitized, still pulsing — and the first touch of my tongue made her cry out so loud it rang off the glass.

I ate her like a man making a point. Slow, thorough, no mercy. My tongue traced every fold, circled her clit, then pushed inside her. She tasted like sex and salt and the specific flavor that was only hers. I replaced my tongue with two fingers, curling upward, pressing against the spot I’d mapped a year ago. My mouth sealed over her clit. Sucked.

She screamed. Not the controlled sounds of the chair — a raw, guttural scream that had no artifice in it.

I worked her through the second orgasm. Didn’t stop. Kept my mouth on her, fingers inside her, drawing it out until she was gripping my hair with both hands and her thighs were shaking against my ears and she was saying please in a voice I barely recognized.

I stood. Gripped her hips. Pulled her to the edge of the desk.

“Look at me,” I said.

She opened her eyes. Glazed. Wrecked. The most beautiful version of ruined.

I pushed into her. One stroke. Deep. All the way. Her back arched off the desk and her mouth opened in a silent scream and my hands tightened on her hips hard enough to mark.

I fucked her on the desk the way the desk was built for. Hard, deep, relentless — the year’s worth of love and want compressed into each thrust. The mahogany shuddered. Her breasts bounced. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the office like percussion, and between each impact I told her:

“You’re beautiful. You’re mine. You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known. You’re so good — so good, my good girl — you’re everything—”

She wrapped her legs around me and pulled me deeper and cried out with each thrust, and her hands gripped the edge of the desk the way they’d gripped it the first time, and the symmetry — the closing of a circle that had started right here — was overwhelming.

“I love you,” she gasped. “I love you, I love you—”

“Come with me,” I said. “One more. With me. Now.”

I drove deep. Held. Circled my hips against hers, grinding my pelvis against her clit while I was buried to the root. She clenched around me — impossibly tight — and I felt her orgasm start, the first contraction pulling mine from me like a tide.

We came together. The world went white. I came inside her with a groan that I felt in my bones. She came around me with a cry that was my name — all of my names, every version — and I held her hips and she held the desk and we shattered together on the mahogany surface forty stories above a city that contained us and couldn’t begin to hold what we were.

After.

The desk. The office. The city outside, turning Friday into the rest of our lives.

“Happy anniversary,” she murmured, lying on the mahogany.

“The desk was a good investment.”

“Best return I’ve ever seen.”

“You can do the proposal thing tomorrow. At home. With Rosie.”

“She already knows. She helped me pick out the tie.”

“She picked the tie?”

“She said it was ‘the important one.’ She doesn’t know why. She just knows it matters.”

The important one. The tie that had bound and freed and connected. The tie that meant I trust you and I’m yours and everything in between.

“She wants to sign the contract.”

“What contract?”

“The marriage one. She says if she signed the first one, she should sign this one too. Star-dotted I.”

I pressed my face into her neck. “I love you. Every version. Every name. Every Friday.”

“I love you too. Now take me home. Our daughter’s at Jenna’s and I want to fall asleep in our bed.”

Our daughter.

She’d never said that before. Not about Rosie and me. Our.

“Our daughter. Our bed. Our life.” She sat up on the desk. Took my face in her hands. “Ours, Dominic. All of it. It’s been ours for a long time.”

I kissed her. Slow. The kind that seals things.

Then I took her home. To our penthouse, with its glow-in-the-dark stars and its paper cranes on the ceiling. To the life we’d built from a wrong chair and a coffee probe and a word whispered in the dark that meant I trust you more than any contract ever could.

Tomorrow, I’d kneel. She’d say yes — she’d already said yes. Rosie would sign the contract.

But tonight, in the car, with her hand in mine across the console and the city streaming past in light and color and the infinite, ordinary beauty of a Friday night—

Tonight was enough.

Tonight was everything.

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