His Demands: An Age Gap, Billionaire Boss Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)

Oh fuck. What have I done?

The moment I stepped outside Stepanov Holdings, the fiery anger starts to dissipate, replaced by a creeping sense of regret.

Do better Julie.

This job is supposed to be my golden ticket.

The paycheck is the stuff of daydreams, capable of turning visions into reality.

In just two more years of playing assistant, I could save enough to launch Goodacre Cares, the nonprofit I’ve been dreaming of since forever. Named in honor of my mother.

She didn’t die in vain.

I’d make damn sure of that.

As I trudge through Manhattan’s maze, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve just torpedoed my dream.

What if Ivan decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth?

What if I get the dreaded pink slip?

After how I drew the line today there’s no way I can assume otherwise.

New plan—march into the office tomorrow, head held high, and act like nothing happened. I’ll do my job, exceed his expectations, and with any luck, Ivan will chalk up today’s episode to a bad day and move on.

It’s not like we haven’t had our share of rough patches. He isn’t the kind of boss you can have a heart-to-heart with over coffee. He’s all about results, the bottom line.

Maybe he’ll appreciate my drive, even if it did come out in a less-than-ideal manner.

As I navigate the city streets, my mind races with possibilities. Will he confront me? Will he pretend nothing happened? Or, worst of all, will he have security escort me out the moment I step through the door?

My aunt Barb would have a field day about this. She’s one of the few people who knows the ins and outs of my job and my struggles with Ivan. I take my phone out of my purse and send her a text.

Today was the worst day ever!!!

I hate my boss!!

Why does he have to be so frickin’ HOT???, my message says.

Just as I’m poised to flesh out my message with more details, the rumble of my approaching subway cuts through my thoughts, signaling an imminent loss of connection. I swiftly press Send and slide my phone back into my pocket, seamlessly melding with the flow of commuters as I step aboard.

Tomorrow, it’s back to the grind. Julie Goodacre, the unflappable, the unstoppable. I’ll tackle those spreadsheets, charm those clients, and keep Ivan’s empire running without a hitch.

And who knows? Maybe this little blip will be the wake-up call we both needed.

Maybe it’ll be the start of something new.

Either way, bring it on Ivan.

I’m ready for round two.

Stomping into my apartment, I’m still simmering with a mix of anger and regret.

‘Kiki?” I call out to my cat.

The living room window by the emergency fire escape is cracked open. I leave it for my cat to go out if she feels like it. She always comes back, my sweet grey furball. I’m guessing she’s out exploring the neighborhood rooftops again.

My place, nestled in the Upper East Side, is a cozy, charming space—a splash of pastel colors amidst the concrete jungle, filled with soft throws, an overstuffed couch that’s perfect for sinking into after a long day, and bookshelves crammed with everything from classic literature to self-help books that I swear I’ll get around to reading someday.

Frustration gnawing at me, I head to the bathroom, deciding that if I can’t drown my sorrows in a sea of apologies and understanding from Ivan, I’ll do it in a warm bath.

After lighting some candles and filling my tub with warm water and lavender scented bubble bath I strip my clothes off and prepare for bliss.

As the hot water pours over me, I let out a sigh that feels like it’s been building up for ages.

The tension in my muscles is gradually soothed, easing my mind. Soon enough, thoughts of Ivan return, only they’re not the angry thoughts I typically have of him.

Those dark, brooding eyes, that gorgeous olive toned skin, that chiseled jawline that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo himself.

The vision of him persisting in my head like this does things to me.

Things that make my hands travel downward. My fingers slide between slick folds.

“Oh, wow,” I groan softly, realizing how aroused I already am. I might as well do this. It’ll take the edge off. Besides, I’m the mistress of my domain here.

My thoughts are mine and mine alone, no matter how wrong or dirty or decadent they may be.

I turn the water off and pat myself dry with a towel and head to my couch. Once I’m settled, I go back to where I left things off, feeling my clit swollen with unkempt desire.

As my fingers work their magic, my thoughts take an unexpected turn.

Fantasizing about Ivan should be off-limits, a line I don’t cross. But as the warmth of my throw blanket blends with the rhythm of my fingers teasing my clit, the fantasy takes on a life of its own.

I close my eyes, letting my mind wander back to Ivan, his brooding gaze and chiseled features the perfect material for a harmless fantasy.

Ivan’s stern face softens, his eyes revealing a depth I’ve never seen. His voice, usually sharp with demands, whispers kinky little secrets in my ears, and his touch, so often imagined as brusque, becomes tender and exploratory.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my body responding to the fantasy despite my brain’s protests. It’s like I’m on autopilot, caught up in a current too strong to fight against.

Ivan Stepanov, my horrible boss, the man who drives me up the wall, is now the star of my most intimate moment.

As my fingers continue their work of spectacular precision, I think that maybe there’s more to my frustration than meets the eye. Could it be that beneath the layers of professional annoyance and irritation, there’s a flicker of something else? Something more personal?

I shake my head, trying to clear it of such forbidden thoughts. But as I sink deeper into the sofa, the lines between reality and fantasy blur. For now, in the safety of my inner sanctuary, I’ll let the fantasy run its course. Tomorrow, back in the real world, I’ll deal with the consequences.

I imagine him rising from his desk, those coffee-dark eyes on mine. He strides over to me, undoing the Windsor knot of his tie. He knows what he wants, and just like anything else in this world, he’s not afraid to take it.

He places his hands on my hips, squeezing my curves through the fabric of my skirt. Tingles rush through me, starting between my legs and spreading to every corner of my body. He leans in and kisses me, not giving a damn about propriety.

I resist a bit at first, wondering if giving myself over and letting him take me is right. But the longer I kiss him, the more his tongue probes my mouth, his musky taste filling me, the more I know it is.

I pull off his tie as he unfastens the buttons of my work blouse. The office air is cool against my skin, but his hands are soon all over my body, his touch surprisingly rough given his line of work. We continue to kiss, Ivan stripping me down until I’m in nothing but my work heels, bra, and panties.

With one more of his trademark glares, this one smoldering with sexual intensity, he wraps his arm around my waist and guides me over to the desk. He’s just as commanding with intimate matters as he is with work.

Once I’m at the desk, he steps behind me, putting one hand on my upper back and bending me over. Back in the real world, I slip two fingers inside myself, burning with anticipation. What I wouldn’t give to have him stretching me like this.

“Oh, yes!” I hiss as the orgasm blows through me, my pussy clenched and rippling delightedly. “IVAN, YES!” I cry out, moaning as I ride the wave and finger-fuck myself into sheer madness.

I say his name, over and over, as my body bucks and shudders.

It takes a while for me to come down from these clouds of my own making.

My cheeks burn.

I need some wine. This feeling, a mixture of guilt and awkwardness melting into the sweetest afterglow of a particularly intense orgasm—I’ve never experienced it before.

It’s hard to get up. My thighs feel like jelly. I’m just about ready to stand on my own two feet again when the doorbell rings.

“What the…” I’m not expecting anybody. Nevertheless, the second ring has me jumping up and tiptoeing over to the door so I can peek through the peephole.

Holy shit!

Ivan is outside my door.

My heart skips a few beats. My blood freezes and boils at the same time, otherwise I can’t explain this sudden lightheadedness that’s come over me.

Yet my hands react before my brain can stop it. I grab my robe, quickly put it on, then open the door, staring at Ivan in sheer disbelief.

“Um, hello?”

He stills at the sight of me.

My hair is a half-wet mess and my silk lace robe hugs my generous curves in all the right places.

There’s also something wildly different about him.

The dark look in his eyes has me feeling he could eat me alive.

As I study him some more I notice a shamelessly generous bulge protruding from his pants.

Is that a boner?

It makes me lick my lower lip as my gaze travels back up to find him looking at me with that same darkness in his eyes.

Then he finally breaks the silence.

“You know that text you sent about you hating me?”

Dread grabs me by the throat and stiffens my joints as I understand what’s happening. “I… I…” I can’t say anything else.

“You sent that to me.” He takes a deep breath and a step toward me.

Just like that, the distance between us shrinks.

The air thickens.

My lungs fail me.

I’m a deer caught in the headlights, and Ivan is about to destroy me. “In case you were wondering, whatever you imagined in here doesn’t come close to how I can make you feel.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ivan raises his eyebrow at me. Again, I don’t know what to make of it. “I’ve been standing here for a while now, trying to figure out the best way to approach the issue of that text you sent me.”

“It was a mistake,” I mumble.

“What happened in here didn’t sound like a mistake.”

I glance over my shoulder. The sofa. Oh, boy, he heard me. He heard me calling out his name. This can’t be happening!

He heard me pleasuring myself, imagining him in the most decadent way possible and crying out for him, mid-orgasm.

There’s no unringing that bell.

And the bulging erection in his pants only serves to confirm that he’s not here to berate me about a stupid text.

My core tightens. It’s a slippery slope.

But it feels like the universe heard my wish and is granting me the opportunity to take it.

Say something Julie.

Anything.

“Will you show me?”, my voice comes out in a whisper.

“Show you what?” He sounds horny as hell, but also angry.

That turns me on even more.

“How you can make me feel.”

Our gazes lock.

I stop breathing altogether.

I can see him struggling, like he’s doing everything in his power to hold back from letting his inner demons loose.

Finally he takes a deep breath, straightens his posture as he licks his lips.

Then he takes another step forward.

We’re both inside my apartment now.

Slowly, the door closes behind him.

I lose track of time and space, abandoning my senses as I let his heated gaze swallow me whole.

“Take that off.” His voice is heavy and surly.

I obey his command. My resistance is at an all-time low.

With trembling fingers, I peel the robe off my shoulders and let it land on the floor.

He takes his sweet time measuring me from head to toe, like his eyes are memorizing every curve in sight.

My cheeks flush with warmth.

And a shadow of a smile tests his lips.

“Turn around,” he says.

Fuck. I’m putty in his hands.

I do as he says, holding my breath as he comes closer.

Closer, still.

I feel his breath burning into the back of my neck.

“What are you doing?” I foolishly ask, but my nipples perk up with excitement.

“You’re done talking,” he replies, and I almost whimper under his scorching authority.

He’s the dominant type. I had no idea I wanted to be so submissive, but here I am aroused by his very words.

My heart’s racing as I hear him open his pants.

Seconds later, he takes me in his arms, and I tremble like a leaf in his hands. He kisses the side of my neck, one hand grabbing my breast and squeezing it, tighter and tighter, while the other finds its way down to my clit, still tender from earlier.

“Oh…” I moan, tilting my head back. I inhale deeply, drunk on his cologne, while his fingers work my slick pussy into a whole new kind of frenzy.

My fantasy just became a reality, and I cannot stop whatever is about to happen.

Nor do I want to.

Ivan’s breath is ragged as he pinches my nipple until it stings, his warm hardness against my slick pussy. I groan and squirm, yearning for him to be inside of me. But he’s holding back, torturing me in only the way Ivan could.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice so low I can feel it in my bones.

“I want you.” My voice so husky I can barely talk.

“Show me.”

With that, I reach back and take hold of his huge cock, a soft moan escaping me as I wrap my fingers around him, savoring his thickness.

I place him at my entrance, his head spreading my lips. He exhales sharply and pulls back. “Oh, no, not yet,” Ivan says. “I want you to bend over.”

He doesn’t tell me twice. He shows me, instead. Pressing one hand down my back, he pushes me into a bend, my legs spread before him. I can barely stand, but his fingers dig into my flesh as he spreads me open and gets down on his knees behind me.

His tongue reaches me first.

I’m done for.

He licks my pussy, tasting and probing, suckling my clit until I lose my senses altogether. I feel one hand letting go, fingers testing my entrance.

“You taste like fucking heaven, Julie. It’s a dangerous weapon, what you’ve got here,” Ivan growls, then proceeds to savagely finger-fuck me until I whimper in his hold. “Touch yourself for me.”

“Ivan.”

“Do it. Touch yourself like I just touched you.”

He’s got three fingers inside me and his other hand joins in on the action, thumb teasing my swollen nub while I cup my breasts and squeeze and pinch. My nipples sting, all the blood rushing out of my head as Ivan brings me closer and closer to that razor sharp edge.

“Come for me,” he says.

It’s like an automated instinct. I come for him. I come so hard, as he licks my pussy and feverishly rubs my clit, squeezing every last drop as I fall apart. “Oh God!” I gasp when he hoists me off the ground and carries me onto the sofa.

“I’m not done yet,” he says.

I’m a rag doll. He can do whatever he wants with me. My body is still immobile in the aftermath of this devastating orgasm when he dives face first back between my legs.

‘Ivan,’ I whisper, the name rolling off my tongue like a secret I’ve been keeping for too long.

“I like the way my name sounds on your lips” he says, then takes me in his mouth again.

The air thickens, charged with an electric current of forbidden desire. His strong hands trace the contours of my body, exploring every inch with a reverence that’s both surprising and intensely arousing. His touch is a paradox—gentle yet commanding—never-ending waves of pleasure crashing over me.

‘Ivan,’ I say again, louder this time. The walls of my apartment fade away, replaced by an intimate cocoon where only he and I exist. His presence is overwhelming, consuming, guiding me toward a crescendo of ecstasy.

As yet another climax builds, my body tenses, every nerve ending singing with anticipation. ‘Ivan,’ I cry out, the name a talisman that unleashes the final wave of pleasure. It crashes over me, a tsunami of sensation that leaves me breathless and spent.

He shoves three fingers inside me, a deep, animal grunt escaping his lips as he watches me unravel, the pleasure gripping me like a fist. “Fucking hell,” he whispers, unable to take his eyes off me as I writhe in the purest form of existence.

I don’t how long it takes for me to see again. But by the time I register the movement, Ivan is already zipping his pants back up and headed for the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s all he says, and I’ve got nothing. Only my jumbled thoughts.

He might be insufferable, but in the realm of fantasy, he was fair game. I didn’t think anything would ever happen between us in the real world. But it did.

He’s off-limits, a line I can’t cross. But I crossed it.

I might just sink into this couch and die. The embarrassment, the horror, the absolute mortification of it all! What the hell is going to happen tomorrow? How in God’s green earth am I going to walk into the office in the morning?

For a wild second I consider fleeing the country, changing my name, maybe joining a remote convent where phones are banned. But that’s the panic talking. I’m Julie Goodacre, not some damsel in distress who runs at the first sign of trouble.