The truth

Diana

What?

My head spun so fast I almost fell off the desk.

I had to have heard that wrong. Again.

No way.

Because if I’d heard him right… Ethan Alencar — my boss, my forbidden crush, the man I fantasized about while filing boring contracts — had just said it was him…

The man from the domination house?

No. No. No.

“That can’t be,” I muttered, blinking fast, trying to shake off the dizziness that hit me.

He was still there, standing in front of me in that flawless suit, with that look on his face like he knew exactly what he’d done — and worse, like he’d enjoyed every second.

Ethan ran a hand across my face and said:

“Saturday night, Diana. At the domination house. When I fucked you so hard you came like an earthquake. I can still taste you in my mouth.”

He said it like he was talking about running out of coffee. So casual. So filthy. So wrong.

I opened and closed my mouth like a fish out of water, no clue what to say.

My feet hit the floor in a reflex. I jumped off the desk like it was on fire.

“You’re insane!” I blurted, laughing nervously and crossing my arms, like that would protect me from the flood of memories hitting me like a truck.

His voice.

The grip.

The smell.

It was all too familiar to be a coincidence.

But my brain — stubborn little shit that it is — refused to accept it.

“This isn’t possible,” I whispered, practically begging for it to be a delusion.

Ethan took a slow step toward me, calm like only someone who knows exactly what they’re doing can be.

“You heard my voice,” he said, locking his eyes on mine. “I came inside you. I bet you still have whip marks on your skin.”

His hand ran slowly down my arm.

I felt my pussy throb.

In the middle of the most wrong conversation of my entire life.

Fuck.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry as the damn Sahara.

“I… I was blindfolded,” I tried to argue, my voice cracking like shit.

He gave that smug little half-smile — the kind that just makes everything worse.

“Exactly,” Ethan said, like that proved his point.

I took a few steps back and hit the door with my spine.

As if that would save me.

My fingers found the doorknob, trembling.

Without thinking, I unlocked the door and stormed out of the office, nearly tripping over my own feet.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t dare.

I walked to my desk on autopilot, grabbed my things, and got the hell out of there, feeling his gaze burning a hole in my back.

In the elevator, alone, I took a deep breath.

“This can’t be happening,” I thought for the thousandth time.

But then the flashbacks hit.

The rough voice in my ear.

The strength of the hands that held me.

The firmness of the whips.

That taste of skin I’d never felt before.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I blamed the blindfold.

The lust.

The alcohol.

Life itself.

Anything — anything — but the possibility that it really was him.

I got home still dazed, throwing my purse on the couch like it had insulted me.

I swear I tried to move on.

Ordered a sandwich. Drank two glasses of water. Turned on the TV.

Nothing worked.

Ethan was stuck in my brain like gum in hair.

I needed a shower.

A cold one.

Or… maybe not.

The hot water ran over my body, trying — and failing — to wash the memories away.

I closed my eyes and saw it all again.

His hands gripping my waist like I belonged to him.

His mouth devouring my skin like he was starving.

That raw, urgent way of being wanted.

My thighs clenched instinctively.

It wasn’t fair.

I should hate him.

I should be pissed.

But what I really was…

Was wet.

And restless.

And craving more.

When I laid in bed, the towel slipping off my body, I knew I was screwed.

I closed my eyes, my hands gliding over my skin, pretending they were his.

Pretending I could feel the weight of his body on mine.

The way he moaned low as he drove into me.

That deep voice whispering filthy things in my ear.

My fingers knew the path by heart.

The first touch was soft, tentative.

But that didn’t last.

Need took over.

I touched myself the way he would.

Hungry. Desperate.

Like the world could explode and I’d still just want to come again — violently.

Low moans escaped my lips.

Pleasure building, hot and filthy.

My back arching.

My body begging.

I came thinking of him.

Of Ethan Alencar.

And I hated myself a little for it.

Lying in bed, still breathless, I stared at the blank ceiling like it held the answers.

What kind of idiot ends up in this mess?

Oh yeah.

Me.

The dumb secretary who fell for her asshole boss, let herself get swept away in a faceless night of lust…

And now she’s here.

Emotionally wrecked, with his imaginary scent still clinging to her skin.

“Bravo, Diana,” I muttered to myself. “You’re a goddamn genius.”

I wrapped myself in the sheet, feeling vulnerable and furious all at once.

I wanted to believe it was all in my head.

That my obsession twisted everything.

But deep down… I knew.

It was him.

That voice.

That touch.

That way he dominated me like he’d studied me for years.

No one else could do that to me.

And I was fucked.

Literally.

I closed my eyes, trying to force my brain to shut up.

But that last sentence kept playing on a loop:

“Saturday night was delicious.”

If I imagined his mouth whispering that in my ear again, I’d end up touching myself again.

And again.

And again.

Until I lost my damn mind and got institutionalized.

Tomorrow, I’d have to face Ethan at the office.

Look him in the eyes and pretend nothing happened.

Pretend I didn’t know the taste of him.

Pretend I didn’t remember how he pounded into me.

Pretend my body didn’t go up in flames every time he walked near me.

And I needed that job.

I still had student loans to pay.

I couldn’t dump that on my mom again.

Not again.