SUMMONED BY THE CEO
ANNABELLE WINTERS
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Copyright © 2020 by Annabelle Winters
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www.annabellewinters.com
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Cover Design by S. Lee
SUMMONED BY THE CEO
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
ANGIE
I’m scared.
For the first time in my perfectly safe and organized little life, I’m scared.
CEO Aran Archer just called me into his office, and I’m shaking like a schoolgirl, shivering like a kitten, feeling chills all over my body as I sit here on this cold leather chair and stare into the darkness all around me.
“Why is it so dark and cold in here when it’s bright and sunny outside?” I say out loud—to myself, of course, since there’s no one else in this massive, sparsely furnished, weirdly cold office on the top floor of Archer Tower. I say weirdly cold because the rest of the office is like a freakin’ sauna—thanks to me, mostly, since I secretly turn up the heat whenever I can get my paws on the thermostat. Can’t help it. I get cold easily, even though I’ve got enough um, “baby fat” to keep me warm through a freakin’ ice-age.
“Because Aran Archer is the devil, which means this is hell, and contrary to what people think, hell is a cold, dark place, not a hot, steamy, underground spa,” I reply, also to myself.
Or maybe not quite to myself.
OMFG.
“The devil himself? That’s a new one,” comes his voice from the bowels of hell. Or maybe just a dark corner of the office, which is so large that I think the far walls are obscured by clouds. “Oh wait,” he drawls in a bloodcurdling whisper that sends a different sort of chill through my curves, a chill that makes me feel hot and uncomfortable. “That’s not new at all. My employees have been calling me the devil for decades. I encourage it. Nothing like fear to get people working their asses off.”
“Yes, sir,” I say quickly, not sure why I’m calling him sir, not sure what the hell I’m saying yes to, either. “I mean no, sir. Ohmygod, I’m gonna just shut up.”
“That would be wise,” he says, stepping into the sliver of light that’s cutting in through the black curtains that are billowing in a breeze I can’t feel. He stands there for a moment, tall and broad and magnificent, tailored black trousers hugging his tight hips and muscular thighs. He’s wearing a black silk shirt that’s fitted to the deadly V of his physique, and a black tie knotted thick and hanging loose around his massive neck that makes him look like a freakin’ beast of myth. “Talking to yourself is either a sign of madness or loneliness,” he says, lowering his voice and his gaze as he takes a step towards me, those green eyes of his blazing a path through the darkness like iridescent orbs from another dimension. “Which is it, Ms. Angela? Madness or loneliness?”
I stare into his eyes like I’m hypnotized, and then I blink and clear my throat. “Um, is that a serious question, Mister Archer? I mean sir. I mean—”
“I’m always serious, Ms. Angela. But you don’t need to answer the question. I already know the answer.”
My mouth hangs slightly open as I sit like a statue on the cool leather, my eyes locked into his green gaze. Did he just decide that I’m either crazy or lonely?!
“Let’s see here . . .” he mutters, breaking the killer eye-contact and striding over to his desk. I try not to look at his perfectly designed ass in those tailored pants. Oh, right. If I’m trying not to look at his butt, it means I’m looking at it. Shit, maybe I am lonely.
Or crazy, if I think Aran Archer is ever gonna be interested in . . . wait, why am I even here?!
“You’re here because I summoned you,” he says, casually bending his long, hard body over his broad desk. He elegantly taps a key on the sleek black keyboard. Then he looks up at me suddenly, totally catching me staring at his muscular ass. “Call me Archer, by the way. No need for Mister. No need for Sir.” He narrows his eyes and then winks. “Just make sure you never call me Aran.”
“Aran,” I stammer, wincing as I realize I just did what he told me not to do. Am I an idiot? “I mean, OK. Sure.” I swallow, not sure why I’m still talking. “What’s wrong with Aran?”
Archer straightens up and stares like he’s surprised I’m even daring to ask him a question that’s bordering on personal. “I didn’t realize I needed to explain my likes and dislikes to you, Ms. Angela.”
I swallow hard, and now I know I’m either gonna get fired or simply tossed out of the top floor window of Archer Tower by the devil dressed in tailored black. I wonder how fast I’ll drop. Will I bounce when I hit the ground?
“Angie,” I say hoarsely. “Everyone calls me Angie.”
“That they do,” Archer says, taking a long look at me, his eyes darting to my heavy bosom for just a fraction of a second like he couldn’t help it.
He blinks and clenches his jaw, immediately looking away from my boobs. His dark face goes even darker with color, and I can see that he’s not just pissed at himself but he’s also . . . surprised?
And now I’m pissed off. Is big-shot CEO Aran Archer surprised that he just checked out my boobs, that heaven forbid, he might be attracted to a big girl like me?!
I take a long breath and blink away my anger even as I feel an uncomfortable heat pass through my body. My nipples stiffen under my bra, and I have to acknowledge that the way he looked at me did something to me, to my body.
I shift on the smooth leather, feeling the wetness between my legs as I fight away the image of Aran Archer bending me over his desk, ripping my panties off, and showing me that he’s in charge, that he’s the CEO, the goddamn boss.
“Wait, how do you know that everyone calls me Angie?” I say quickly, forcing myself to talk just to push away the filthy images that are shockingly clear, awfully crisp, disturbingly real. I’m no saint, but I’m no wild thing either. My sexual experiences have been woefully ordinary and mundane thus far, to the point where I’d come to the firm conclusion that I’m not a very sexual person at all. But being in Archer’s presence is casting that long-held belief in serious doubt, and I swallow hard and touch my neck as I fight the temptation to look down to make sure the outline of my nipples can’t be seen through my black top.
Again I think about what the women in the office whisper about Aran Archer, about how he’s the devil in black. Viciously handsome, with a temper to match. Sole owner of the Archer empire—an empire he actually built himself. Famously single, and even more famously alone. Surprisingly alone, in fact. Not a rumor in existence about his sexual exploits. Not a whisper to be heard about inappropriate behavior towards female employees at Archer Industries. No scandals. No lawsuits. No ex-wives, secret babies, private prostitutes. In fact, Aran Archer is so damned clean it drives the women in the office crazy with curiosity! How can a man who oozes sexuality and darkness be so . . . so . . .
“It’s in your file,” Archer says, breaking me from my daydream as he glances back to his computer screen. “Goes by Angie,” he says like he’s reading. Then he raises an eyebrow and rubs his square, perfectly stubbled jaw. “Huh. That’s interesting.”
“What?” I say, somewhat disturbed that there’s a “file” on me. And that Aran Archer is reading that file and raising an eyebrow.
Ohmygod, what’s in my file?!
“So you have a college degree and you even went to graduate school for a year,” he says. “Why are you working as an administrative assistant when you could be climbing the corporate ladder?”
“What’s wrong with being an administrative assistant?” I say.
“Well, nothing. It’s just that you’re overqualified for the job. I don’t like to see my employees selling themselves short. At Archer Industries we value ambition. Drive. Reaching beyond yourself.”
I clench my jaw and my fists at the same time. “I like my job. And I’m really good at it. Also, I resent the implication that I’m not ambitious or driven. You don’t know anything about me, all right? Aran.”
I almost spit out his name, and when I see his expression change I swallow hard and almost bite my tongue off. What the hell is wrong with me?! Do I have a death wish or something?! Why am I even here, anyway?! Archer Industries has like a thousand employees just in this building. There are like ten supervisors between me and CEO Aran Archer. This certainly isn’t a damned performance review. So what is this?! What in God’s name is this?
“I know enough about you, Angie,” he says slowly, standing to full height and focusing every ounce of his attention on me. “Enough about you to know . . .” he says, trailing off like he’s not sure if he should finish that sentence, like the rest of that sentence will change everything.
“Enough to know what?” I say, blinking like a hundred times as I feel that wave of indescribable heat pass through me.
“Enough to know that . . .” he says, swallowing hard and closing his eyes. He shakes his head, smiles slowly, and when he opens his eyes I see that he’s made a decision. “Enough to know that you’re mine. You’re mine, Angie. I knew you were mine when I saw you in the hallways. I knew you were mine when I watched you on the security cameras. And I know you’re mine as I see you sitting in front of me. You’re mine, Angie. You’re fucking mine.”
2
ARAN
I stand in utter silence as my words hover in the air like solid objects. I just did what I swore to myself I wouldn’t. I just said what I know just proved I’m a deranged, unhinged beast from the middle ages or something. What next? Do I just take her face-down on my desk, grunting and growling like an animal of the wild jungle?!
“I’m . . . I’m what?” she says, blinking like a bewildered schoolgirl even though she’s a perfectly poised vision of beauty, with curves that make me want to roar out loud, hips that make my fists clench as I yearn to dig my claws in and drive deep and hard, claim now and forever what I know is mine.
I scratch the back of my head and wonder how the fuck I’m gonna get out of this. It took me a month just to prepare myself to call her in here, but clearly I wasn’t prepared for the ferocity of my feelings, the rawness of my need, the primal attraction that’s all-consuming, all-encompassing, instant and pure, unimaginably strong, undeniably real.
“Who’s that girl?” I’d asked one of my top-level assistants (whose name escapes me—doesn’t matter, since my assistants don’t last that long). This was a month ago, when Angie had caught my eye. Actually she’d caught my everything. My eyes, my ears, my swollen cock, my aching balls, my heart, my soul, my imagination, my ambition. Everything.
The attraction had been instant, an explosion of need that was so deep and raw I knew it was more than just me lusting for that magnificent ass. Lust has never had much of a hold on me—mostly because I know that it’s a sucker’s game, that many a mighty king (or CEO) has fallen from his heights just because he plunged his cock between the sweet asscheeks of a smart and ambitious woman who knew exactly what doors could open for her if she bent over and spread wide. I learned my lessons from the mistakes of my father, and I learned them early in life, from watching my mom turn her back on Pops and me and just walk away:
Lesson One: Never trust a woman.
Lesson Two: Never trust your cock.
Lesson Three: Never say “I love you.”
“I love you,” I blurt out like a fucking idiot, my cock hardening in my tailored trousers that I don’t think were designed to contain my full erection. My head is throbbing as hard as my balls, and I rub my temples when I realize I just violated rule Number Three for a woman I don’t even know. Clearly I’ve lost it. All these years I thought I was practicing supreme self-control, ultimate mastery of my needs, complete dominance of my body and mind. Yeah, well, clearly all I did was turn into an unhinged psycho who just declared he loves a woman he doesn’t know. Great job, Archer. Now turn off your cock and use your fucking brain to get yourself out of this hot mess.
“OK, this is one of those corporate gags, isn’t it?” she says finally, forcing a smile and touching her hair as she shifts in her chair. “Where’s the camera?”
“Right there,” I say, gesturing with my head towards one of the three cameras in my office. I had them installed years ago, mostly to protect myself from any accusations of inappropriate behavior when I’m alone in my office with a woman. But now my own paranoia has put me in a position where there’s conclusive proof that I’m a predator, another powerful man using his position to take what he wants, using his authority to satisfy his basest needs.
And this woman, this curvy goddess perched before me like an angel, is my only need right now.
A need so powerful and raw it’s freaking the fuck out of me.
A need so desperate and dark it’s all I can do to not simply say to hell with years of good behavior, Archer. Take what you want. Take what you need.
Take what’s yours.
Angie glances at the cameras and then looks at me with a puzzled frown. “What . . . what is this, Mister Archer? What’s happening here? Why are you . . . why did you . . .”
Why indeed, I think as I rub my stubbled jaw and almost laugh at the absurdity of the mess I’ve created with the potent mixture of my big cock and my even bigger mouth. But when I saw Angie in my hallways a month ago, I knew she was mine. I knew I had to have her. I knew I’d burn everything down to make her mine, sacrifice it all to claim her from the inside and outside, her heart and soul, her mind and body, her sex and her love. I’d watched her like a stalker in the dark, turning on my security camera feeds and staring like a pervert as she went about her day, that big, beautiful ass moving like poetry beneath her skirts and dresses, that heavy bosom tempting me like Ulysses under the spell of the sirens, her soft, pretty face hardening me and melting me at the same time like magic. I was a man obsessed. I am a man obsessed. Depraved and dark. Flooded with lust for a woman I don’t know. Overwhelmed with what feels like love even though it’s totally illogical, maybe even impossible.
I swallow hard and blink three times as I take stock of the situation. I haven’t touched this woman. Haven’t threatened her. Haven’t propositioned her. Maybe I can still talk my way out of this, I think as I glance at the cameras and blink again. Talk my way out of this, or maybe . . .
Just maybe . . .
Talk my way into it.
My mind snaps into focus as I remember the reason I called Angie in here. I’d decided to promote her, to give her a job on the executive floor, down the hall from my dark, isolated office. It was a lame-ass, half-baked idea, driven by my uncontrollable need to be near this woman, to win her over slowly and carefully. But that plan is out the window now. I don’t want to do this slowly and carefully. I want this now. I want it all now. I want her now. I want my future now. My forever now. All of it now!
I take a slow breath, my eyes narrowing as I see Angie’s face go flush with color. It isn’t just fear or shock, I realize as a wild idea starts to take form in my swirling head. No, there's something more going on here.
The way she’s touching her hair without realizing it.
Stroking her neck like she can’t help it.
Shifting in her seat like she’s wet and sticky between those thunderous thighs
. . .
Yeah, her body is telling me things that her lips aren’t. Things she might not even know yet. Things she might not even understand yet.
She feels it too, doesn’t she . . .
She feels it too.
This raw attraction.
This need to be with each other.
This need to be mine.
“You ever read those romance novels where the boss calls his secretary into the office and asks her to pretend to be his fiancée to save his reputation or close a big deal or whatever?” I say as that crazy idea forms into words and pushes its way out my mouth.
Her brown eyes open wide and her red lips open wider. She blinks like she’s trying to wake herself up from a dream or something. Then she takes a breath and smiles hesitantly. “I stopped reading romance novels years ago. But I think you’ve got two different romance tropes mixed up here. The fake-fiancée and boss-secretary themes are totally different. The boss-secretary dynamic is about the forbidden, the inappropriate, the power differential between a man in authority and a woman who’s put in a vulnerable position where her livelihood and career might be in jeopardy if she doesn’t submit.”
“Submit to him?” I whisper. “Or to her own desire?”
There’s a moment of sexual tension so thick that I almost explode in my pants, and I swear Angie gasps and tightens her thighs like she’s as wet as I am hard.
“Well,” she says softly. “That’s the conflict. In the story the woman is torn between her desire to submit and her sense of independence, her ambition, her need to make her way in the world on her own, to build a career on the merits of her intelligence and not her neckline.”
I steal a glance at her neckline like I can’t help it, and when I look back into her eyes I can see the sparkle, the spirit, the blazing intelligence.
But I also see something else.
Summoned by the CEO Page 1
