Page 17 of Billionaire Alien Boss Daddy

“Yes, Sir?” Her voice is calm, but I catch the faintest tremor.

I hold up the report, my finger jabbing at the offending number. “What is this?”

She leans in, her brow furrowing as she studies the page. “It’s the projected yield for the mining operation. Why?”

“Why?” My tone is sharp, and I see her flinch. “Because it’s wrong. A decimal point out of place. Do you know what happens if we base our negotiations on flawed data?”

She straightens, her chin lifting slightly. “I’ll fix it immediately.”

“You’ll fix it?” I rise from my chair, towering over her. “This isn’t a first-year accounting class, Ms. Redding. This is Veritas. Mistakes like this could cost us everything.”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “I understand, Sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Ms. Redding,” I growl, my voice low and deliberate, “I will make sure that it doesnothappen again.” She doesn’t flinch, damn her. There’s a calmness to her that’s almost infuriating. She should be trembling, should be apologizing profusely. Instead, she’s standing there, her green eyes steady, her lips slightly parted as if she’s about to say something she knows I won’t like.

I point to the window. “Over there. Kneel. Hands behind your back.”

Her chin lifts just a fraction, and she obeys without a word. She kneels on the plush carpet, framed by the glittering Dubai skyline, her hands clasped behind her back. Her posture is perfect, her skirt riding up just enough to reveal the curve of her thighs. My jaw tightens. She’s too composed, too... serene. It’s as if she’s enjoying this. And that thought only makes my anger burn hotter.

I grab the report and press it against the glass. “Lean forward. Nose to the decimal point. Hold it there.”

She leans forward, her breath fogging the glass slightly as she places her face against the paper. “Yes, Sir,” she murmurs, her voice soft but unyielding. There’s a... something in her tone that I can’t quite place. Something that sets my nerves on fire.

I step behind her, towering over her kneeling form. My fingers twitch, wanting to reach out, to grab her, to shake her until she understands the gravity of her mistake. But I don’t. I stand there, my chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, watching her.

“If you drop that paper,” I say, my voice like gravel, “I’ll have to discipline you further.”

She doesn’t respond right away, and the silence stretches between us like a live wire. Then, in that same soft, infuriatingly calm voice, she says, “I’m sorry I failed to perform for you, Sir.”

My hand clenches into a fist, and I’m suddenly aware of the heat pooling low in my abdomen. My cock stirs, pressing against the fabric of my trousers. I grit my teeth, trying to will it away, but the image of her kneeling there, obedient and yet somehow defiant, sends a jolt of arousal through me.

I reach down, my fingers brushing against the bulge in my pants. I shouldn’t do this. She’s my subordinate, my responsibility. But I can’t help it. The thoughts come unbidden—images of her on her knees, my hand fisted in her hair, her lips wrapped around me...

The phone on the table rings, shattering the moment. I curse under my breath and step away, my hand dropping to my side. I glance at the caller ID—John Flair. Damn it. I can’t ignore this.

I look down at Claire, still kneeling, still holding the report against the glass. “Stay there,” I snap, my voice harsher than I intended. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch.

I snatch the phone off the table and answer it, my voice clipped. “Flair. You’re late.”

“Ah, Simon, mate!” John Flair’s voice crackles through the phone, too cheerful, too smooth. “Deepest apologies for the delay. You know how it is—time zones and all that. Bloody nightmare.”

I grit my teeth, pacing the room. Claire kneels by the window, her silhouette framed by the glittering Dubai skyline. Her hands are behind her back, her posture obedient, but I know her better now. She’s watching me, calculating. Always calculating. “Cut the pleasantries, Flair. You’re three days late. What’s the holdup?”

“Well, you see, Simon,” he drawls, “we’ve had a wee chat with the board, and, uh, seven billion seems to be the magic number.”

I stop pacing. Seven billion? The company’s barely worth one. My hand clenches around the phone. “Seven billion? Are you drunk, or just delusional?”

He chuckles, a sound that makes my scales itch. “Now, now, no need for that tone. Why don’t you make me a new offer, eh? Something more... reasonable.”

My eyes flick back to Claire. She’s shifted slightly, her knees clearly aching, but she’s holding her position. Good. She needs to learn. I walk over, my boots silent on the marble floor, and place a hand on her shoulder. She flinches, nearly dropping the paper pressed against the glass.

“Careful,” I murmur, my voice low. “Hold it steady.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispers, her voice soft but tinged with defiance.

I let my hand slide down her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her blouse. My fingers trail over her side, and I cup her breast. She inhales sharply, her back arching ever so slightly. I feel her nipple harden under my palm, and a soft moan escapes her lips.

“Simon?” Flair’s voice pulls me back. “You still there?”

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