Chapter 11 The CEO of Your Pvssy
June
Shit.
I didn’t ask for this.
All I wanted was a little lunch break — a full hamburger with a cold iced Americano, under the blazing sun in the forgotten garden behind the company.
Sipping and munching while I dump every chaotic detail to Leila.
But alas, here I am. In a fancy restaurant, staring at an overpriced menu and not knowing what the hell to order.
They don’t even have hamburgers?
Confused? I’ll explain.
The lunch meeting? That lunch meeting? The “I-don’t-even-know-if-they-exist” clients bailed.
Was Mr. Grande angry?
Surprisingly, no.
What does he do instead? He says we shouldn’t waste the reservation, and that we should eat here anyway.
Can I complain?
No. Of course not. I like being employed.
"What is taking you so long?"
His voice slices through my inner monologue like a cold scalpel dipped in condescension.
I jump.
He’s watching me. His elbows on the table, and fingers steepled like a mob boss.
I blink at the menu like it’s in Latin. It might as well be in Latin.
I squint harder. What in God’s green earth is a veal medallion?
Is "duck confit"... duck that confessed something?
I panic.
"I'll have what he’s having," I blurt, gesturing vaguely to Mr. Grande like we're on some twisted dinner date and not… whatever this hellscape is.
The waiter gives me a nod like I’ve just passed some kind of rich people etiquette test and glides away.
I exhale. Hermes says nothing. He goes back to his tablet like I didn’t just use the oldest trick in the “I-don’t-belong-here” handbook.
Fast-forward, five minutes and the food arrives.
And by food, I mean:
A square slab of meat so pink it might still have feelings, some green things arranged like a designer’s apology, and a sauce I swear to God looks like melted lipstick.
Oh, and it comes with this dainty little knife that’s not cutting jack.
I stare at it, and it stares back.
Is this… raw? Why is it looking at me like it knows what I'm thinking.
I shift the plate slightly, poke at the meat like it might bark, then glance across the table.
Hermes is cutting into his effortlessly smoothly and polished. Fork in one hand, knife in the other. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t wince, doesn’t even glance up.
He’s good at this. Yes, he is.
I, on the other hand, look like I’m trying to dissect an alien.
This is why I wanted a hamburger.
I try to copy him.
Fork in one hand, knife in the other, elbows steady with my chin lifted. The Classic, except my knife keeps sliding like the meat is Teflon and I’m using a butterknife from a Barbie set.
I press harder, and the sauce squirts.
Shit.
"What are you doing?" he snaps, eyes darting to my plate with pure judgment.
I freeze. "Uhm—"
Before I can finish, he leans forward and pulls my plate toward him, like I’m some kid who got caught finger-painting with soup.
"If you didn’t know what to do, why didn’t you just say something?"
His tone is sharp, not loud — worse. It’s that cold, disapproving tone that makes your organs shrink.
I should be embarrassed, hell no, this should annoy me. I mean he brought me here and for the fact that he humiliated me in a conference room full of professionals.
He ruined my precious lunch plans, my dream hamburger and iced americano under the sun.
He barked orders, glared like I set his office on fire, and now he’s cutting my food like I’m five.
But the weirdest part?
I’m not mad.
Instead… I’m amused. I’m genuinely amused.
Maybe because this is the first time since the hotel incident that he feels soft. They seemed to be a glitch in his perfect guarded exterior.
Or maybe because the only thing more ridiculous than having a rude, emotionally stunted boss… is having one this good-looking.
"Thank you, Sir," I mutter, picking up my fork, while he push the plate back toward me without a word.
Girl, I think, chewing slowly, if you’re ever going to get a rude boss, make sure he’s handsome and sexy.
Because apparently, that makes all the difference.
As I enter the house, the wall clock clicks — a little different from usual — because it's already six.
"Ugh," I groan, throwing myself face-first onto the bed.
A little recap: Halfway through the meal, Mr. Grande gets a call and dashes out, saying one sentence to me — "Don't wait for me."
And he meant it.
Because he didn’t come back to the office. I had to cancel all his schedules like a ghost assistant for a ghost boss.
Some secretaries would kill to have what I have —
Apart from the fucking my boss without knowing his identity part —
A boss who isn’t available.
No late working at nights, no heavy lifting.
He's always out.
I should feel lucky sometimes.
“Brrrrzzzz. You killin’ girl!”
My phone rings loud and dramatic. I scramble for it, squinting at the screen.
Leila. Video call.
Just what I need.
"Hey girl!!!" I scream with the last ounce of energy in me.
"Juneeeee" I hear Kayla's voice in the background.
Wait — how is she there?
"She did a detour and came to see my mom," Leila answers, like she read my mind.
"Oh, I should be there with you guys." I pout.
Leila chuckles. "You’ve got work now. You can come when you’re given a holiday."
Kayla suddenly pops onto the screen, taking the phone from Leila with chaotic flair.
"How’s the CEO of Apex, AKA CEO of your pus—" she begins, giggling.
"Kayla!" Leila cuts in. "Don’t say that."
I just smile lightly, watching their banter.
CEO of my pussy?
Oh, I love that.
"You know Kayla, I think our relationship is going on pretty well." I joke.
"I trust you’ll take it to the next level," Kayla snorts.
That’s when I realize — she’s drunk.
I glance at Leila. She nods knowingly.
"She found out her boyfriend’s cheating on her. She went to surprise him for his birthday."
"Again?" My lips part.
"I’ll tell you everything when we come back next week."
"Alright. I’ll call you guys later — my phone’s about to die."
Before Leila can say goodbye, the phone takes its cue.
I plug it in, roll to my side, and close my eyes.
And just like that, I’m in that dream again, like a routine—
Except this time, it isn’t silly like the last one.
It’s freaking real.
(SONG RECOMMENDATION: Street by Doja cat)
The restaurant is quiet, dimly lit, warmer than before. The light softens everything except him.
Mr. Grande sits across from me, his arms folded, and gaze sharp. I'm not sure what I’m wearing. It’s not important. What matters is how his stare pins me like a blade.
"Eat," he says with a voice so low and dangerous.
I look at the untouched plate in front of me. I don’t even recognize the food. And I’m not hungry—not for that.
"I’m not—"
"Then get under the table."
My heart jumps and my body stills.
He tilts his head, just slightly. "You heard me."
I blink, but I’m already moving. Sliding down, pressing my knees into the carpet. My cheeks flush as I kneel between his legs. His hand slips into my hair like it belongs there.
"Look at me."
I do.
He's leaned back, watching with the calm of a man in complete control. One hand on the table. The other unbuckling his belt slowly, like he has all the time in the world to wreck me.
"You know what to do."
And I do.
My lips part. I wrap them around him, slow and soft at first, just the tip. He exhales sharply through his nose, and tightens his hands.
"Good," he murmurs, breath rough. "Take more."
I hollow my cheeks and sink deeper, and he groans. A low, gritty sound that makes something clench deep in me.
"That’s it. Just like that."
He watches everything. Like he’s memorizing it. My lips, the way I move, the little sounds I make as I suck him deeper.
"You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?" he mutters. "Laying in your bed. Getting wet for your boss. Dirty little intern."
I moan around him. He twitches in my mouth.
"Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop."
I don’t. My tongue swirls, my jaw aches, and my heart pounds.
"You feel so fucking good," he groans. "I should keep you under my desk. Keep you quiet and all filled up so good."
His hand slides down, thumb brushing my cheek. His voice lowers to something raw and real.
"I’ve been trying to forget you."
Thrust.
"Couldn’t."
Thrust.
"Do you know how hard it was not to drag you into the restroom and fuck you over the sink?"
His grip tightens. He’s close. I can tell. Every muscle in his body feels like overfilled tank waiting to burst out.
"You’re mine. Say it."
I try. I want to. But I’m too full and, too dizzy.
He growls, one last thrust—
I jolt awake. Breathless and sweaty and aching.
My sheets are tangled, my thighs slick. My lips feel… wrong. Like I’ve been kissing a ghost.
"Oh my God."
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling like it might explain what just happened. My legs won’t stay still. I keep clenching. He won’t leave my head.
That wasn’t a dream. That was a crisis.
His voice still echoes in my ears — "You know what to do."
The weight of him. The taste. The way his thighs flexed when I suckled.
And that final request — "You’re mine. Say it."
Raw, Rough and Possessive.
"Jesus," I whisper, palms dragging down my flushed face. "What the hell is wrong with me?"
I shouldn’t feel this good. This wired. This…owned.
From a dream?
Worse — a-blow job-under-the-table dream. At that restaurant.
I shove a pillow over my face and scream into it.
This is not okay.
I groan again, squeezing my thighs together. The ache is maddening. Like the dream left something unfinished inside me.
I consider touching myself — just for release — but I already feel too exposed, like he’d know somehow. Like he’d be watching from a corner of my brain, arms crossed, half-smirking while I fall apart thinking of him.
"Do you know how hard it was not to drag you into the restroom and fuck you over the sink?"
"Ughhh!"
I roll over violently and bury myself under the sheets. I’m losing it.
At this rate, I’ll start blushing just hearing his voice. I’ll combust if he so much as looks at me tomorrow.
Which he probably won’t.
Unless it’s to scold me again. Or say something cold and devastating like: "Interns aren’t meant to speak."
Great. I’m horny and humiliated.
And now I have to walk into the same office tomorrow, and pretend like I didn’t just deep-throat a fantasy version of him under a Michelin-star table.
God help me.