$\"Owned$

Owned by My Boss — Bonus Chapter

The Interview (Revisited)
by Isla Wilde

An exclusive bonus scene — too hot for Amazon.
Sign up for Isla Wilde’s reader list to unlock this bonus chapter instantly. You’ll also get new release alerts and exclusive content.

The Interview (Revisited)

Set one year after the epilogue of Owned by My Boss. This chapter takes place in Emma’s corner office. Contains explicit MF sexual content. 18+ only.

Emma

The last candidate left at four forty-seven, and I was doing what Alexander had taught me to do best.

Evaluating.

Seven interviews. Seven resumes. Seven people who’d sat in the chair across from my desk — my desk, in my corner office on the twenty-fifth floor, with my name on the door — and tried to prove they deserved a spot on the Client Advocacy Division that I’d built from a framework and a laptop fourteen months ago.

Three of them were promising. One was exceptional. None of them had sat in my lobby for fifty-one minutes because they couldn’t afford to leave, but I was learning not to hold that against people.

I was reviewing the exceptional candidate’s portfolio analysis when I heard the lock.

Not a knock. The lock. The specific, metallic sound of a deadbolt being engaged from the inside — a sound I knew intimately, a sound that had been the overture to every significant moment in the relationship that had started two floors below this one, in an office that wasn’t mine, on a desk that wasn’t mine, in a life that had been completely rearranged by a man who was now standing in my doorway with his tie loosened and an expression I could read from orbit.

“The interviews are over,” Alexander said.

“They are. I have a strong candidate for the senior analyst role —”

“You have one more.”

He crossed the room. Sat in the interview chair — the same chair where seven candidates had sat and sweated and tried to impress me — and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee with the casual authority of a man who owned the building and everything in it, except the woman behind the desk. That woman owned herself, and the distinction was what made what was about to happen possible.

“I’d like to apply for a position,” he said.

I set down my pen. Looked at him. The charcoal suit, the silver temples, the jaw that clenched less these days but was clenching now — not with tension but with the particular restraint of a man who was performing a character and enjoying the performance. His eyes were doing the thing. The gray-going-dark thing. The thing that had preceded every locked door and scattered paper and bitten collarbone for the past fourteen months.

“I don’t recall posting an opening,” I said.

“I’m a speculative applicant. I believe my qualifications speak for themselves.”

“Your qualifications.” I leaned back in my chair. My chair. The leather swivel I’d chosen myself — not the mahogany throne he’d sat in while dismantling my composure for eight weeks, but something sleeker, lower, the kind of chair a woman chose when she knew exactly who she was and didn’t need furniture to communicate it. “And what qualifications would those be?”

“I’m highly motivated. Detail-oriented. I have an excellent track record in sustained, high-intensity performance.” The double meaning sat in the air between us like a live wire. “I’m also told I’m very good with my hands.”

“References?”

“I can provide a personal reference. One. She’s intimately familiar with my work.”

I almost laughed. The game — the role reversal, the deliberate reconstruction of the interview that had started everything — was ridiculous and hot and so specifically us that I felt the warmth of it spread through my chest before it migrated lower.

“I should warn you,” I said, “this position requires complete availability.”

Something shifted in his expression. The game thinned. The real thing beneath it — the memory, the echo of the sentence he’d said to me fourteen months ago in a different office, to a different woman, before either of them knew what was coming — showed through the performance like light through curtains.

“Complete availability,” he repeated. Low. The register that bypassed my rational brain and went directly to the parts of me that responded to him without consultation or consent. “I think I can manage that.”

“Not nine to five. Not standard hours.” I stood. Rounded my desk the way he’d rounded his — slowly, deliberately, every step measured, and the inversion was intoxicating. He was in the chair. I was standing above him. The power was mine — not borrowed, not granted, not the professional leverage of a CEO’s signature on a paycheck. Mine. Earned through fourteen months of building something that existed independently of the man sitting in front of me. “When I need you, Mr. Wolfe — I need you immediately.”

His hands gripped the armrests. The knuckles went white. His jaw worked — the clench, the release, the hinge that I’d claimed as mine the first night I’d traced it in the dark — and his eyes, tracking me as I moved, were no longer playful. They were volcanic.

“Say that again,” he said.

“When I need you —”

“The name. Say my name.”

I stopped in front of him. Leaned down. My hands on the armrests, outside his hands, caging him. My face six inches from his — the same distance from the interview, the same proximity that had started everything, but the angle was inverted. I was above. He was below. And the look on his face — the raw, undisguised need of a man who’d spent twenty years being in control and had learned, through practice and patience and a woman who’d sat on his floor and told him to learn, that giving up control was not weakness but trust.

“Mr. Wolfe.“

He broke.

His hands left the armrests and found my waist and pulled me into his lap in a single motion — strong, decisive, the reflexes of a man whose body knew what it wanted before his brain had finished processing the request. I straddled him in the interview chair, my skirt riding up my thighs, his hands gripping my hips, and the familiar weight of him beneath me — the hardness pressing against me through layers of fabric, immediate and insistent — dragged a sound from my throat that I didn’t bother suppressing.

“You’re in my chair,” I said against his mouth. “In my office. This is a violation of interview protocol.”

“Fire me.”

“You don’t work for me.”

“Then there’s no HR violation.” His hands pushed my skirt higher. His fingers found the edge of today’s underwear — cotton, white, the everyday set, the domestic fabric he’d confessed months ago was more erotic to him than any lace because the cotton meant permanent and permanent was the thing he’d spent his life being afraid of and had chosen anyway. “Which means I can do this —”

His fingers slid beneath the cotton. Found me wet. Found me ready. Found the evidence that seven hours of interviewing candidates in the chair he was now sitting in, thinking about the last interview that had happened in a chair like this, had produced a state of arousal so sustained I’d been managing it since lunch.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he said. Not asking. Observing. The same clinical, devastating precision he’d applied to her body since the first night. “All day. Sitting behind this desk, asking questions, performing the role — and underneath it, thinking about this.”

“I’m a multitasker.”

“You’re extraordinary.” He slid two fingers inside me and the stretch, the fullness, the familiar curl that he’d perfected over fourteen months of dedicated study, made my hips rock forward involuntarily. “You built a division. You interview with the precision of a surgeon. And you’ve been wet for me since noon.”

“Since eleven.” Gasped, not spoken. His thumb had found my clit. “The third candidate reminded me of — ah — of you. The way he sat. The jaw.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Of a twenty-four-year-old with a mid-tier MBA? No.” I gripped his tie. Pulled his face to mine. Kissed him with the specific authority of a woman who’d spent fourteen months learning that Alexander Wolfe responded to being handled with the same devastating intensity he brought to handling others. “You should be naked.”

I stood. His fingers withdrew — slowly, reluctantly, and I watched him bring them to his mouth and taste me with the deliberateness that had never, not once in fourteen months, stopped being the hottest thing I’d ever witnessed.

“Take off your tie,” I said.

He took off his tie.

I held out my hand. He gave it to me. Navy silk, the good one, the tie he’d knotted and unknotted three times the morning he’d met my mother. I wound it around my palm. His eyes tracked the motion. Darkened.

“Hands behind the chair,” I said.

The silence that followed was three seconds long and contained an entire negotiation. His eyes on mine. The question — are you sure? — and the answer — I’ve never been more sure of anything — communicated through the channel we’d built between us, the one that operated below language, in the space where trust lived.

He put his hands behind the chair.

I wound the tie around his wrists. Not tight — never tight. Just present. A suggestion of restraint rather than restraint itself, the silk a symbol rather than a tool, because the real binding was his choice to stay still, and the choice was more erotic than any knot.

“If you want to stop —”

“I know.” His voice was rough. The composed CEO was gone. What remained was the man I’d found on the living room floor fourteen months ago — raw, exposed, willing. “I don’t want to stop.”

I undressed. Standing in front of him, in my office, at four fifty-two on a Tuesday afternoon, while the building hummed with the departing energy of a workday ending around us. I removed my blouse. My skirt. The cotton bra. The cotton underwear he loved. Stood before him in heels and nothing else, and the look on his face — the specific, devastating expression of a man who’d seen this body a thousand times and found it more stunning on the thousand-and-first — was worth every second of the fourteen-month journey that had brought us from his desk to mine.

I climbed back into his lap. Unbuckled his belt. Freed him — hard, straining, the evidence of his need as undeniable as mine had been on his fingers. I positioned myself above him. Held his gaze.

“When do you need me?” I asked.

His eyes. The gray that I’d been looking into since the interview. The color of storm systems and slate and every moment that had led to this one.

“Always,” he whispered. “The answer was always always.”

I sank onto him.

The stretch. The fullness. The specific, devastating sensation of being filled by the man I loved while he sat bound in my interview chair with his hands behind his back and his eyes open and his mouth forming my name like the only prayer he’d ever learned.

I set the pace. Slow at first — the agonizing slowness he’d taught me, the refusal to rush, the discipline that was harder than speed and more rewarding. Rising until only the tip of him remained inside me, then sinking — all the way, hip to hip, the depth of it hitting a spot that made my vision blur and his jaw clench and the chair creak beneath our combined weight.

His arms strained against the tie. Not trying to escape — trying to touch. The instinct was visible in every muscle of his shoulders, every tendon in his neck. He wanted his hands on me. The deprivation — the enforced distance between his palms and my skin, maintained by nothing but silk and choice — was driving him to a place I could see in his eyes. A place beyond control. Beyond strategy. The place where Alexander Wolfe stopped being a system and started being a man.

“Emma.” My name like a breaking point. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Let me touch you. I need — I need my hands on you. Please.”

The word. Please. The word he’d never used with me in the early days — the word that implied uncertainty, the possibility of refusal, the vulnerability of wanting something and placing the fulfillment of that want in another person’s hands. He said it now the way he said everything that mattered — directly, completely, with the full weight of his need behind it and the full acceptance that the need made him human.

I reached behind him. Unwound the tie. His hands came free and went immediately to my body — everywhere, all at once, as though fourteen months of mapping me hadn’t been enough and he needed to confirm every coordinate. My breasts, my waist, my hips. His mouth on my neck, my collarbone, the spot below my ear that still, after all this time, made me gasp.

The pace increased. His hips driving upward to meet mine, his hands pulling me down onto each thrust, the collaborative rhythm we’d perfected — not his pace or mine but ours, the shared frequency that existed only in the space between two people who’d learned each other so thoroughly the learning had become instinct.

“I love you,” he said. Not at the moment of orgasm — before. During. In the sustained middle, the warm plateau, the specific register of their lovemaking where feeling and friction were indistinguishable. “I love you in this office. I love you behind this desk. I love that this desk is yours and this room is yours and the woman riding me right now is the woman who built something I couldn’t have imagined from a chair on the other side of a door I didn’t know how to open.”

I kissed him. Into the words. Tasting the love in his mouth the way I’d tasted it a thousand times and would taste it a thousand more. His hand went between us — the familiar motion, the precise fingers, the thumb that found my clit and circled it with the specific pressure and rhythm he’d memorized and that my body recognized the way it recognized its own heartbeat.

I came first. In his lap, in my chair, in my office, with his name in my mouth and his hand between my legs and the city watching through floor-to-ceiling windows that were — as he’d told me fourteen months ago in a different building, at a different window, in a different life — opaque from the outside.

He followed. Deep inside me, his hands on my face, his eyes on mine, the sustained mutual gaze that was our signature and our covenant and the thing we’d built from nothing — from a lobby, from fifty-one minutes, from the specific and devastating accident of two people paying too much attention to each other and discovering that the attention was not a phase but a permanence.

We sat in the chair. Connected. Breathing. The office quiet around us, the building emptying, the world continuing its indifferent rotation while two people in a corner office on the twenty-fifth floor held each other and refused, as they had refused for fourteen months, to let go.

“So,” I said into his neck. “Do you get the position?”

“That depends. What’s the title?”

“Yours.” I pulled back. Looked at him. The gray eyes. The jaw. The face I’d been studying since the interview and would study for the rest of my life because the study was never complete and the incompleteness was the point. “The title is yours.”

He kissed my forehead. My nose. My mouth.

“I accept,” he said.

The chair creaked. The city glittered. And somewhere in a penthouse thirty-two stories above the street, a toothbrush stood in a cup beside another toothbrush, and the books on the shelves were organized by feeling, and the coffee maker on the counter — the good one, the one that had won the war — was waiting to make two cups in the morning.

Always two cups.

Always.