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Viola Dane is floored when Mr. Clarke, handsome billionaire and owner of Clarke Enterprises, hires her. Viola can't control her attraction to him despite the dark rumors of his sexual vices that swirl around the office. It all comes to a head when Viola makes a mistake, and Mr. Clarke has a spanking good time punishing her.

This sizzling erotic romance of 8,000 words is for adults only. Enjoy!


He stood and walked up to me. He cupped my cheek in his hand, and wiped the tear away with his thumb. I quivered at his touch and looked up at him, mesmerized. Mr. Clarke deliberately moved his hand from my cheek and closed it around the back of my neck, tangling his fingers in my hair. I took a sharp breath at the feel of him forcibly holding me still. Was it possible he wanted me too? That I hadn’t imagined him looking at me?

He sighed.

“We have another problem, Miss Dane.”

“What?” I asked, searching his face. He was so close.

“I find having you here . . . distracting. Deliciously distracting, but it still interferes with work.”

“You . . . you do?” I asked faintly. He had started massaging my neck, and a warm tingling sensation spread through me.

“Are you aware of my - proclivities?” Mr. Clarke asked gently.

“A little,” I breathed. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Oh, but I like to see you bothered, Miss Dane. I like it very much.” He looked down at me with a devil’s smile, and I stared back like a frightened and fascinated bunny. I couldn’t decide whether to stay or run. Too late - he made the decision for me.

Mr. Clarke reached behind me and shut the door to his office with a click, that half-smile still on his face. I heard the lock turn over with a soft clunk. Oh my God, was this really happening? I’d been fantasizing about him touching me since my interview, but now that it was happening it felt like a dream. A really good dream. My tears were forgotten. What had I overheard Grace saying that morning to Tina? That she’d break the rules on purpose if she knew Mr. Clarke would punish her and not fire her? Mr. Clarke pressed a knee between my legs, backed me into the door and started unbuttoning my silk blouse with swift fingers.

“Oh!” I cried, confused. I raised my hands to still his, and gazed at him, panting. Mr. Clarke paused and captured my wrists with his left hand, grinding the bones together. His right fingers tugged at another button.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly. I couldn’t think.

“Please . . .” I said brokenly, and Mr. Clarke smiled down at me and kept going, button by button . . .

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