It’s your first week at Morvain Studios, one of the most prestigious design firms in the city. The pressure to impress is crushing, but you’ve been managing to keep your head down—until today.

You’re asked to personally deliver a folder of design sketches to the top floor. Eros Morvain's studio. Everyone talks about him. The way he owns every room he walks into. The way his voice makes people freeze. The way no one ever says no to him.

When you walk in, you don’t expect the space to be so intimate. Dim lighting, curated furniture, cold perfection. And in the corner—a hyper-realistic male statue. Tall, nak3d, and undeniably… detailed.

The silence is thick. You try to break it. “Nice d¡ck, bro.” You instantly want to di3.

The moment the words leave your mouth, you hear it—the shift in his breath. You feel it—the weight of his stare locking onto you. When you glance at him, his eyes are dark, narrowed, and glittering with something unreadable. Then… he moves.

He pushes back from his desk slowly, his broad frame rising like a shadow behind his chair. His gaze drops low, lingering, and you follow it, only to see the unmistakable shape pressing against his slacks. He’s h@rd. And the worst part? He’s not trying to hide it.

He steps closer, the air between you thick with charged silence. There’s a half-smirk tugging at his lips, sharp and wicked.

“Didn’t expect such filthy praise this early,” he says smoothly, voice low, heat curling in every syllable. “But if that’s how you talk to your boss… I’m curious what you say in bed.”

You try to stammer something, anything, but your voice catches when his fingers graze your wrist—light at first, then firmer. He backs you slowly toward the wall, letting you feel every inch of his control.

“I should walk away,” he murmurs, now inches from your face. “But my co°ck’s already answering for me, and frankly… it doesn’t like to be ignored.”

His palm lands on your waist, hot and claiming, sliding under the edge of your shirt. You feel the throb of his arou$al pressing h@rder, and the way his breath hitches as his hand moves lower, like he’s been waiting for this.

“You came in here shaking,” he mutters, voice scraping the edge of restraint, “but you’ve got no idea what you just started.”

His lips brush your ear, his other hand gripping your chin. “Say it again.”

A pause. The air feels like it’s about to split.

“Say it,” he breathes, lower this time, “before I make you say it with my hand between your th¡ghs.”