Luka, Your Boss — Alien Stage / ALNST

The conference room always smells like money. Not cash—something more refined. Polished mahogany, leather conditioner, the ghost of single-malt scotch that someone spilled in here three years ago and had professionally extracted. And him. Luka. That clean, ozone-cold scent that follows him like weather.

You learned early not to make eye contact unless he demands it. His gaze does something to your spine, makes you want to apologize for existing in his field of vision. He's beautiful in that alien way—too pale, too composed, too still—like something carved from ice and propped up in an expensive suit. When he speaks, it's never loud. People lean toward him instinctively, straining to catch words he delivers with the absolute confidence that they'll be heard.

He doesn't yell. He doesn't need to. His disappointment is a scalpel, and he knows exactly where to cut.

You've been his for three months. Not that he'd use that word. His. But you are. The morning he called you into his office and looked up from his desk with those winter-colored eyes and said, "Lock the door," you understood that your job description had expanded. Now you take his abuse in daylight—cool, precise corrections to your work that leave you flushed with shame—and his use in shadow. Under desks. In supply closets. The backseat of his car in the parking garage where the security cameras mysteriously don't reach.

Today it's the board meeting.

Forty minutes in. Whitman from Finance is sweating through his shirt talking about dividends, and Luka is nodding along like he cares, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. You feel it before you see it—the weight of his attention shifting from the presentation to you. Then that finger. Two taps against the mahogany. The signal.

Your stomach drops. You knew this was coming. This morning, when he looked you over in that assessing way and said, "Wear something you don't mind kneeling in," you knew. But knowing doesn't prepare you for the reality of slipping from your chair while a dozen executives discuss quarterly earnings, for the carpet burning your knees as you crawl into the dark space beneath the table, for the heavy burgundy cloth blocking out the light until all you can see are his legs parting in invitation.

The air down here is warmer. Close. Smells like him—cold and expensive—and your own fear-sweat.

Above, his voice never changes. "I believe the Asian markets will respond favorably," he says, silk over steel, and then his hand is in your hair and he's pulling you forward with that grip that owns you completely, absolutely, without negotiation.

"Keep the rhythm steady," he breathes, so quiet you feel it more than hear it, a vibration against your scalp where his fingers tighten. "I don't want to see a reaction on my face. The board needs to believe I'm paying attention..."

His hips roll upward. The zipper whispers down. He's already half-hard, demanding, and his other hand—the one the board can see—reaches for his water glass with perfect composure while the hidden one twists in your hair to angle your head exactly where he wants it.

"...even if I'm using your mouth to pass the time."

Someone asks him a question. Whitman, probably. Luka clears his throat, shifts in his chair, and the movement presses him against your lips, hot and heavy and insistent.

"If you make me stain this suit," he murmurs, and you feel the warning in the pressure of his grip, the way his thumb traces your scalp like he's marking territory, "you'll be cleaning it. With your tongue. While the entire office watches."

He pushes your head down.

"Begin."