Forbidden Office Hours: Intern's Silver Boss

I remember the first time Marcus Hale looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole. It was my third week as an intern at Hale Capital, and I was twenty-two, fresh out of my junior year, wearing a charcoal pencil skirt that hugged my ass a little too tightly for office standards. He was forty-eight, silver-haired, broad-shouldered, with the kind of deep, commanding voice that made my thighs clench every time he spoke my name. Sophie.

The office emptied out by seven most nights, but Marcus worked late, and so did I. I told myself it was dedication. Really, it was the way his eyes followed me when I bent over the filing cabinet or crossed my legs at my desk just outside his glass-walled office. The tension had been building for weeks—charged glances, his hand brushing the small of my back when he leaned over my screen to point something out, the way his cologne lingered on my skin long after he walked away. I was soaked by the time I got home every night, fucking myself with my fingers while imagining his thick cock stretching me open.

That night, the rest of the floor had gone dark. I was organizing quarterly reports at my desk when his voice cut through the silence.

“Sophie. My office. Now.”

My pulse spiked. I smoothed my skirt, checked the top button of my cream silk blouse, and walked in on shaky legs. Marcus sat behind his massive oak desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms dusted with silver hair. The city lights glittered behind him like a crown.

“Close the door,” he said.

I did. The click sounded final.

He didn’t speak right away. Those piercing gray eyes dragged over me—lingering on the swell of my breasts, the curve of my hips, the way the pencil skirt clung to my thighs. My nipples tightened against my bra.

“You’ve been an exceptional intern,” he began, voice low and rough. “Top of your class. Sharp. Hungry. But I’ve noticed something else.” He leaned back in his leather chair. “You watch me as much as I watch you. Those tight little skirts aren’t an accident, are they?”

Heat flooded my face and between my legs. I could have played innocent. Instead, the words tumbled out before I could stop them.

“I fantasize about you, Mr. Hale.”

The air changed instantly. His jaw flexed. For one terrifying second I thought I’d just ended my internship and possibly my entire career. Then he pushed his chair back.

“Come here.”

I walked around the desk on trembling heels. When I was close enough, he caught my wrist and pulled me down onto his lap. My skirt rode up my thighs as I straddled him, and the thick, hard ridge of his cock pressed against my soaked panties. His mouth claimed mine without hesitation—hot, demanding, nothing like the polite older man I’d imagined. This was raw hunger. His tongue pushed past my lips while one large hand gripped the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wanted me. I moaned into his mouth, grinding down on that impressive bulge like a slut in heat.

“Naughty little intern,” he growled against my lips. “You have any idea how many nights I’ve sat here stroking my cock thinking about bending you over this desk?”

“Please,” I whimpered. “I need it. I need you.”

Marcus didn’t ask twice. He stood, lifting me like I weighed nothing, and set me on the edge of his desk. Papers scattered. His hands were everywhere—yanking my blouse open so buttons pinged across the floor, shoving my bra down to free my tits. He sucked one aching nipple into his mouth while his fingers yanked my skirt up to my waist. The sound of my panties tearing made me gasp.