The Werewolf Prince and I (3 page)

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.