Tempting the Boss: His Forbidden Desire
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B. E. Harmel
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431K
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30
Sabrina tries to keep her head down at work, but one night with Oliver—her commanding, impossible-to-read director—changes everything. Their spark is hot, forbidden, and meant to stay buried… until he suddenly returns to lead her team for a full week. Now every meeting feels like a dare, every glance a slip toward danger. The rules are strict, temptation is louder, and the heat between them refuses to stay in the dark. As boardrooms blur into hotel rooms, Sabrina must decide how long she can ignore a pull that feels impossible to resist.
Chapter 1
The email had been short, almost dismissive.
Dinner with Mr. Reginalds and the client. 8 p.m. Hotel Langston. Don’t be late.
No “congratulations.” No “good luck.” Just another reminder that I worked for a company that valued numbers over people.
And yet, my name being attached to a deal this big meant I was doing something right. This wasn’t just any contract—it was the deal that could secure the company’s stability for the next five years. Winning it would cement my position as a powerhouse in sales. Losing it…wasn’t an option.
Still, none of that explained why my pulse had been hammering against my ribs since I read the email. And it had nothing to do with the client.
Oliver Reginalds.
The man was a legend at headquarters. Cold. Ruthless. A perfectionist to the point of obsession. People either feared him or wanted to impress him. Some, like me, fell into a more dangerous category—I was both intimidated and intrigued.
I’d only seen him in meetings before, a distant figure at the head of the table, always in control. His voice, deep and commanding, could silence a room in seconds. And now, I would be sitting across from him, working side by side to close the most important deal of my career.
I stepped in front of my mirror, smoothing my hands over the sleek black dress I’d chosen for tonight. Professional but sharp. A dress that said I meant business but wouldn’t blend into the background.
The fitted fabric hugged my curves just enough to be flattering, stopping mid-thigh, perfectly paired with my black stilettos.
My dark hair fell in soft waves past my shoulders, and my blue eyes, lined with a touch of kohl, looked back at me with determination. I would own this night.
The restaurant was as lavish as expected—dim lighting, polished mahogany, the quiet hum of wealth. And then I saw him.
Oliver Reginalds.
Sitting at the bar, whiskey in hand, dark-blond hair slightly tousled, the tailored charcoal suit fitting his powerful frame like a second skin. He looked up as I approached, and our eyes locked.
I felt it. That spark, that awareness that sizzled through my veins.
He didn’t smile. Oliver Reginalds wasn’t the kind of man who smiled. But his gaze traveled over me, slow and assessing, before settling back on my eyes.
“You’re early,” he noted, his voice as smooth as the whiskey in his glass.
“So are you,” I countered.
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering me for the first time. “I like preparation.”
“So do I.”
A flicker of something passed through his brown eyes. Approval? Interest? It was gone too fast to be sure.
“Good,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Then don’t disappoint me. Shall we take our seats?”
And just like that, the game had begun.
A host seated us at our reserved table. Oliver’s gaze didn’t waver, his brown eyes steady and unreadable. He exuded control, the kind of man who expected nothing less than perfection.
“This client isn’t just another deal, Schmidt,” he said, setting his glass down with a deliberate motion. “It’s the future of the company. If we don’t win this, our competitors will. There’s no second chance.”
I tilted my head, barely suppressing a smirk. “I’m aware.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Are you?”
A flicker of irritation flared in my chest. He thought I’d walked into this blind? That I hadn’t spent the past two weeks dissecting every piece of information available on our client? I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice just enough that only he could hear me over the quiet hum of the restaurant.
“Franklin Wexler, CEO of Wexler Developments,” I murmured. “Old money, but he likes to act like he built his empire from scratch. Divorced three times, currently engaged to a woman twenty years younger. Loves exclusivity, hates restrictions. Collects expensive wine but prefers whiskey. Has a soft spot for people who treat him like a genius but can see through blatant flattery. And”—I let a small smile play at my lips—“he enjoys doing business over a long, boozy dinner.”
Oliver’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his posture. A fraction of a second where his body stilled, as if I’d surprised him.
Then he leaned back in his chair, his gaze running over me once again, slower this time.
“Interesting,” he said, his voice unreadable.
I arched a brow. “What is?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were just good at numbers or if you actually understood people.” He studied me like I was an equation he hadn’t quite solved yet. “Turns out, it’s both.”
That should have felt like a win. Instead, it sent heat curling low in my stomach.
“Try to keep up, Reginalds,” I murmured just as the host approached our table.
“Mr. Reginalds, Ms. Schmidt,” the host said with a polished smile. “Mr. Wexler has arrived.”
I smoothed my hands over my dress and stood, my pulse steady despite the anticipation coiling inside me. Oliver rose as well, his presence commanding, his suit sharp, his body solid and imposing next to mine. He didn’t say another word, but as we stepped toward the approaching client, I felt him beside me—too close, too intense.
And I felt the way my body reacted to him.
Wexler was exactly what I expected—expensive watch, the scent of cigars lingering on his suit, a booming voice that carried across the restaurant. He shook Oliver’s hand with firm confidence, then turned to me, his sharp blue eyes appraising.
“And you must be the Schmidt I’ve heard about,” he said, taking my hand in a firm grip. “Breaking records, are you?”
I smiled, the kind of smile that invited trust but didn’t beg for approval. “I like to keep things interesting.”
He laughed, and just like that, I knew I had him.
Oliver led the conversation at first, his approach direct, methodical, every word calculated. It was impressive, the way he commanded a room with nothing but his tone. But Wexler wasn’t responding the way Oliver wanted. His answers were clipped, his attention drifting. He liked power, but he didn’t like being dictated to.
So I shifted the approach. Leaned in a little closer. Let my tone soften, more conversational. Asked about his latest real estate venture, played into his love for exclusivity. Oliver shot me a glance, but he didn’t interrupt.
And then, just as I predicted, Wexler ordered drinks. Whiskey for him, scotch for Oliver, a dirty martini for me.
Then another round. Then champagne.
The conversation flowed, business interwoven with personal anecdotes, laughter blending with the rich scent of alcohol. My skin felt warm, my pulse a steady thrum.
And then, beneath the table, I felt it. A brush of fabric. The slightest pressure against my thigh.
Oliver.
I didn’t move, didn’t look at him, but awareness flooded my body, my breath hitching. It could have been an accident. But I knew better.
When I finally dared to glance at him, his brown eyes met mine, dark and steady. And I knew this night was far from over.
