The Werewolf Prince and I Page 2

  I clear my throat. Maybe Ed’s heard wrong. Maybe it’s Do…Donaldo from 14/F who’s looking for me and not the Big Boss himself. “If you’re really sure,” I say slowly, silently begging him not to be sure.

  Ed still doesn’t meet my eyes. “I received the call myself,” he mumbles. “He even gave your complete name, Misty,” he adds unhappily.

  What the hell did those two apeholes tell the CEO anyway? That I grammatically sabotaged their papers or something? It’s not like I can do anything else.

  Ed coughs, drawing my attention back to him. I have a feeling he wants to wish me good luck but doesn’t want to because that means something is wrong. And nothing can be wrong in his happy place.

  He’s a good man, really. Nerdy, meek, but a good guy still. I’m secretly terrified I’ll be like him if my life doesn’t change in the next few years.

  Wait –

  I shouldn’t be terrified. I should be ecstatic. Boring is good. Boring is safe. Boring puts food on the table and doesn’t get called out by the CEO to get royally fired.

  Why do you listen to me, God? I’m stupid. I don’t know what I’m asking for. Don’t listen to me again.

  The walk to the elevator is like the green mile, and I feel the zombies of Ze Morgue grinning behind me. The elevator’s mirrored walls taunt me with my reflection. It’s saying – you don’t look boring enough. That should teach me and my big, fat mental mouth.

  It’s a long way up to 19/F, with people coming and going nonstop. I while away the journey by reviewing what I know about Domenico Moretti.

  He’s 29 – eight years older than I am. Or make that seven in a few months’ time. He’s the eldest in a brood of six, with extraordinary Italian dark good looks – so much so he’s had to file a TRO against a supermodel who’s gone maniacally obsessive over him when their one-night stand ended.

  All the business journals describe him as “ruthless” and “cunning”. Moretti Inc. only used to do business in Italy and the United States, but when Domenico took over less than 10 years ago, he turned the family business into a global empire by taking a couple of mind-blowingly risky gambles which paid off.

  The doors open one last time for me as the elevator arrives at 19/F.

  It’s my first time to be here since this floor is strictly by-invitation only. According to the office grapevine, there are only 3 reasons you can get an invitation to the hallowed offices of the CEO. You either pissed or pleased someone very high in Moretti Inc. – so much you’re worth a thirty-second congratulatory message delivered personally by the great Domenico Moretti himself – or you’re a female who’s hit the jackpot by snagging a highly-coveted invite to his private orgy room, which rumors say are hidden somewhere in this floor.

  His secretary, a stern-looking woman in her forties named Evelyn, look at me with genuine pity in her eyes.

  Oh, shick.

  “Do you have a restroom somewhere?” I’m about to pee in my undies. I’m that scared.

  To give her credit, she doesn’t even blink and just gestures to the hall to her right. “There’s a ladies’ room at the end.”

  I do my business as quickly as I can because I don’t want to leave Domenico Moretti waiting. I don’t want to give the CEO even more ammunition against me.

  Evelyn knocks twice before opening the door.

  I trip on my way inside.

  Her scent seduced and enslaved him the moment she came to his den.

  Domenico had always been proud of how different he was from the rest of his kind. He never lost control, never let passion rule him the way others did.

  But this once – this once he wanted to ignore his meticulously laid-out plan. Her scent alone made Domenico want to just fuck Misty into oblivion, fuck her hard until they both lost themselves in the pleasure of it.

  Fate was truly on his side, he mused while listening to her hesitant steps toward his office. He could not have chosen any better. Of course, it would have been nice if she had happened to be of royal birth as well or perhaps the daughter of a senator – a Democrat preferably - but Domenico could work with what he had. Besides, the reports showed that one of her sisters, Nicole, who was a cross between a budding Machiavelli and Jackie O. If Domenico groomed her early enough, she could be the start of a new political dynasty.

  He smiled when he heard Misty nervously asking his faithful secretary for the restroom. Then he frowned when he sniffed something else in the air – something unexpected. Every emotion had its own unique smell, and right now he could smell fear on her.

  Why?

  She should have been excited or curious at the very least.

  He took the remote control on his desk, punched a few buttons, and the panel to his right parted, revealing a wall of monitors connected to the building’s CCTV system.

  He fast-forwarded the replay from the moment Misty left her office for lunch, his face darkening when he saw what happened to her at 5/F. It insulted him – it offended him very greatly that his future princess would be subjected to such a sight.

  It made Domenico want to rip the old man apart and castrate him while he was at it. He was a very possessive man – yet another unusual trait among his kind. Others didn’t mind sharing. All they cared about was the rut – the mindless raw sensations that came with pleasures of the flesh.

  But he wasn’t like that. Life had shaped him to go for what he wanted, to not stop until he had conquered what he desired - and keep it in his possession even if he no longer wanted it.

  And right now, he wanted Misty with such fierce need it took every ounce of his control to keep still in his seat – to think before acting.

  A red haze of rage blinded Domenico when he saw William whispering to Misty. He did not like seeing anyone coming on to her, and his fingers clenched around the remote control so hard he accidentally crushed into pieces.

  Shit.

  He took out the spare from one of his drawers and had the panel slide back into place. It wasn’t that he made a habit of grinding remote controls. He just liked being prepared for every eventuality – and he never failed to do so until this. Until now. Until Misty.

  Misty was coming. Her scent beckoned to him, a siren’s call that Domenico’s body strained to answer. His cock had never felt this huge inside his pants, this near to bursting just because he was anticipating meeting a slip of a girl.

  Damn. Domenico had not been prepared for this – had not made any contingency plan against this.

  What would happen if he fell in love with Misty Wall?

  Chapter Two

  That the CEO’s office is huge would be the understatement of the year. My whole house can fit here but still leave extra space for a garage – two or three cars, tops. The place is dimly lit, the blinds shielding the room from the fiery glow of the setting sun. The walls are bare and made of black-coated steel, the cerulean carpet muting the sound of my approach. Too bad it can’t do the same for the pounding of my heart.

  The ceilings have a weird look and feel to them, and it takes me a while to realize they appear that way because the entire office is soundproofed.

  My eyes widen. Maybe there really is a pleasure house here somewhere.

  A complete set of living room furniture is at the far end of the room. It even has its own liquor bar.

  More seconds pass, but I know I can’t keep delaying the inevitable. Unable to stand the silence any longer, I force myself to face the man sitting behind the vast – no, it’s more majestic than vast – desk in the center of the room.

  Ah.

  I manage to swallow back the instinctive gasp that rises out of my throat, a shocked reaction to the unexpected wave of heat coming off from Domenico Moretti. I don’t see much of the CEO, but what I do see is more than enough for me to know that this guy is hot. Intensely so – but it’s the first time I find someone so literally hot that cold sweat actually starts bathing my skin.

  “Sir?”

  Shick. It sounds like I’m about to cry, which I don�
�t want to do. I try again, and this time my voice comes out more confident, stronger. “Mr. Moretti? I was informed you wanted to speak with me.”

  A chuckle in the dark. Then a voice, lightly accented, soft but hard at the same time, like a wolf’s growl. “I want something more than that, I’m afraid, but I suppose that will have to do for starters.”

  I’m --- I’m going to pretend there’s no sexual innuendo behind those words.

  This guy is Domenico Moretti, after all.

  Since he’s so used to having beautiful women throw themselves at his feet, why would he even bother hitting on me?

  That makes sense, so I relax even as Mr. Moretti suddenly stands up and walks toward me. Why hasn’t the fact that he’s so incredibly tall been mentioned in company newsletters? I mean, they should have at least tried to prepare new employees like me. Warning: CEO Is A 6”4 Unsmiling Giant. Do Not Be Intimidated. He Does Not Bite. Something like that should have been included in our employee manuals at least.

  The shadow behind Mr. Moretti makes him look taller, scarier, and – unfortunately – hotter, too. It’s because he looks very mysterious, I suppose. I gulp, but I’m not sure if it’s out of terror or excitement. Maybe a little of both.

  “I know you’re wondering why I’ve called for you.”

  I bite my lip.

  “Do you have something to say, Ms. Wall?”

  Shick. What Ed said was true. He really does know my name.

  I bite my lip harder. I can’t afford to be tactless since my entire career hinges on my internship here.

  Mr. Moretti’s voice turns silky, like a snake that’s about to uncoil and spit poison. “I prefer to deal with honest people, Ms. Wall. I hope you keep that in mind from here on. If you have something to say – please do so.”

  Maybe it’s just me, but that please sounds kind of threatening. Aware that what the CEO wishes has to be an intern’s command, I say slowly, “I’m just surprised you actually know my name, Mr. Moretti.”

  I feel rather than see his smile, all the way to my toes, which curl in response. I’ve always thought myself frigid. It’s just my luck to find out I’m as susceptible to lust as the rest when my job is on the line.

  Mr. Moretti’s voice drops an octave. “You’ll be surprised at what I know about you, Ms. Wall – and how much I want to know more.”

  I’m going to pretend – again – that I did not hear anything suggestive in those words.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  I fidget. Is this the time to be honest again?

  “Then what would you say if I tell you that I know you are 21 years old, single, orphaned, adopted by Nanette Wall at age 7, with four foster siblings?"

  I need a moment after that to pick my jaw up. It’s just dropped to the floor. But it’s a waste of time because my jaw just crashes back down when he continues, “There’s possibly a new member for your family if you all decide to let your foster mother have her way.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I have this nasty feeling he even knows I’ve never had sex and that I’ve a half-completed tattoo around my belly. It’s supposed to be a sunburst design, but now it just looks like my belly button’s grown horns. I only lasted two rays long before passing out.

  But Mr. Moretti isn’t finished.

  “I also know what happened earlier between---” Mr. Moretti’s voice turns steely. “---you, Janice Rudely, and William Grant.”

  Oh.

  Shick.

  I gag.

  Again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say miserably minutes later inside the private washroom of Mr. Moretti, which – by the way – looks palatial. It has gold-plated taps, for God’s sake. Doesn’t that scream palatial? Or too much money for Domenico Moretti to know what to do with it?

  “I have a really weak stomach.” I speak without actually looking at him because under the extremely bright fluorescent pin lights of the washroom, it becomes impeccably clear why he needs to file TROs against supermodels.

  If I look at him just once, I think he would have to file one against me, too.

  “I understand,” Mr. Moretti says smoothly. “The sight of William Grant’s wrinkled dick would have made me throw up as well if I had been a woman.”

  The image of Mr. Moretti – who is pretty much manliness personified – throwing up because of offended feminine sensibilities makes me choke back an unexpected giggle.

  “Are you all right now?”

  I nod, still keeping my gaze trained anywhere except him.

  “Then shall we go back to my office?” Without warning, he places his hand on the small of my back.

  I jump away, unnerved at the electrifying jolt that zings through my body at Mr. Moretti’s touch. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  Before I know it, Mr. Moretti spins me around to face him.

  I’m so fracked.

  Domenico Moretti is beautiful. His hair may be cut ruthlessly short like a soldier’s at the sides, but it doesn’t make a difference to how silky smooth it appears, how just the sight of it begs for a woman’s touch. I want to know how it feels, to run my fingers through his hair.

  His eyes are impossibly green but dark – like leaves in the height of summer. His face looks as if it’s been chiseled by God when He’s at his happiest, without a smallest flaw to mar it. High cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, wonderfully naturally red lips, and a prominently strong jaw - perfection, in other words.

  Mr. Moretti is only wearing a pale blue dress shirt of the finest silk, having discarded his blazer in his office earlier. It’s partially unbuttoned, allowing me more than a glimpse of his smooth brown chest. Even without touching it, I know that it would feel wonderfully hard under my fingers.

  But what really makes me breathless, what makes my body go weak, and an embarrassing amount of wetness gather between my thighs, is how Mr. Moretti is gazing at me.

  He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me, and the sexual tension emanating from him – from me, from us is palpable.

  I can’t take my gaze off him.

  His nostrils flare. “You smell…”

  I pale.

  Was he saying I stank?

  “I’m sorry,” I say weakly. “It was really hot this morning on my way to work.” I think I’m going to kill myself after this. I have never been so humiliated in my entire life.

  Mr. Moretti looks frustrated and furious. “No, I don’t mean it that way. I meant, I can smell---” He shakes his head and takes a step forward.

  I instinctively step backward, mostly because I don’t want him to smell me even more, whatever it is that he smelt.

  “I was hoping this would be the case, but I hadn’t dared hope,” he murmurs seemingly to himself.

  Yuck, I can’t help but think. He has a fetish for bad odors? It’s such a turn-off I shake my head at it.

  “What is it?” he asks sharply.

  “Nothing,” I stammer.

  “It doesn’t seem nothing,” Mr. Moretti says while taking another step forward.

  I take another step backward and almost curse when I realize I’ve inadvertently backed myself into a corner – literally. Mr. Moretti closes the distance between us, and with his gorgeous face this close I forget all about his weird fetish and just focus on keeping myself from hyperventilating.

  God, he’s hot.

  God, God, God, he’s hot.

  Mr. Moretti bends his head, nuzzling my hair. “You let it down. Why?”

  It takes me a while to realize what he’s asking. And what that question means.

  “I...couldn’t find my band,” I say, stumbling over the words because I’m so tense I have a hard time stringing words together. I tense even more when he lifts a lock of my hair, and then I feel close to fainting when he brings it to his lips, closing his eyes as if savoring the scent.

  Another fetish?

  “You smell so good.”

  Oh. So maybe that was what he was saying a while ago? That I smelled good and not that
I just stank?

  His head moves lower and he nuzzles my neck, inhaling again. “So good,” he says with something like reverence just before inhaling my scent again.

  It feels like he’s worshipping me, and just the thought that this man wants me so much makes me moan again. It’s too much. He’s too close, too hot, too everything that my body is arching towards him before I realize what I’m doing.

  “Misty.”

  The sound of my name on his lips seems to work like a key, unlocking the chains of restraint and common sense between us.

  I twirl my arms around his neck just as Domenico Moretti brings me close to him, his lips taking mine in an unashamedly carnal open-mouthed kiss. Our tongues touch, play, and entwine as our bodies fuse. His fingers bite into my butt as he pulls me even closer, and I groan against his mouth when I feel his erection, larger than life, and pulsing like crazy. It’s unbelievably erotic.

  He makes me want to forget all the rules I’ve made for myself and just have sex with him right this very minute. I’ve never felt this way before, and it’s a feeling that I don’t ever want to lose. It’s only now I understand why some women so desperately beg for a man’s touch.

  I know I should struggle and pull away. That would have been the sensible thing to do, if not the right one, but I can’t. It’s impossible. He’s irresistible. My first taste of lust is unquenchable. My hands rush all over him, and I can’t help but moan when I finally know how his hair feels like.

  Domenico Moretti doesn’t stop kissing me, and he’s a master at it, knowing exactly when to go soft and when to go deliciously rough, his lips and tongue dancing in a way that makes my head swim and my body become more and more pliant in his arms. He is my sculptor, and I am his clay. The sensual spell he weaves around me is so potent I’ve gone over the edge, my thoughts turning from logical to cheesy.

  A faint spell of dizziness assails me.

  Mr. Moretti releases me with a muttered curse. “Breathe, Misty.”

  I blink in a daze then begin inhaling huge gulps of oxygen when I realize what’s wrong with me.

  Well, this is awkward.

  And telling.