Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance

I’m ashamed to admit I spent half the night tossing and turning, replaying every filthy fucking word my redheaded HR manager typed about me.

I’m even more ashamed to confess that I came so hard in the shower this morning that I nearly slipped and cracked my skull open. All because I couldn’t stop imagining Gemma’s fierce green eyes glaring at me as she rode me hard, telling me what an asshole I am.

Getting my rocks off to fantasies about a direct report—something I’ve never stooped to before.

I’d have to be dead not to appreciate the way Gemma fills out those tight pencil skirts, the fabric stretched taut over her ass. Or how her blouses pull a fraction too snugly across her ample breasts with each breath. But I’ve always been able to exert control.

There’s supposed to be an ethical wall between me and Gemma. A clear separation of church and state. She’s the shoulder for employees to cry on when big bad Liam hurts their feelings or expects them to do their damn jobs. I can’t be caught with my hand up her skirt.

I made sure that wall was built high and strong from day one. I remember the pretty redhead walking into the interview, all polished and eager to please. She nailed every question. It was obvious she was the type of good girl to prepare obsessively, diligent to a fault.

Her wide eyes kept darting to mine, searching for a sign of approval, of warmth. I could see it plain as day—she wanted me to drop the act, to flash her a smile and insist she call me Liam. To welcome her with an easy familiarity.

But I had to keep my distance from that green-eyed beauty.

Now Miss Prim-and-Proper just lit a match and tossed it into a pool of gasoline with that hate-letter she blasted out last night. The one where she chokes me with my own tie while telling me where to shove my demands.

Now she’s late. After that stunt, she has the audacity to make me wait? If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to get fired.

I scratch my jaw, feeling my blood pressure spike as I reread Gemma’s email.

My deepest apologies, sir, I have a personal appointment that means I’m running approx. two hours late today.

Maybe she is trying to get fired. But she’s HR; she knows I could fire her on the spot over this breach of conduct with no lavish payout. It makes zero sense. If she wanted out, she’d do it the smart way—milk that “stress leave” for all it’s worth. She wrote the employee handbook, for Christ’s sake. She knows every loophole like the back of her hand.

So what’s her angle here? What kind of game is she playing?

Damned if I know.

All I know is, I’ve spent the last hour pacing my office like a caged animal, unable to focus on anything but the thought of her walking through that door.

A sharp knock shatters the tension, and I bark out a “Come in,” not even trying to hide the growl in my voice.

The door swings open and in strolls Gemma, wearing that pencil skirt I imagined in the shower this morning. God, give me strength.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. McLaren,” she says breathlessly, hovering in the doorway. “Is now an acceptable time?”

Her cheeks are flushed, chest heaving like she just ran a marathon in those heels. Those red curls are tumbling down her shoulders, begging me to grab a fistful and pull.

Disrespectful little minx.

I level her with a glare.

She just stares back, her face a maddening mix of polite confusion and vague unease.

“What time do you call this?” I ask, keeping my voice level.

“I realize I’m behind schedule and I sincerely apologize. My cat is ill, and I had to make an emergency vet appointment. And with all due respect, sir, you scheduled this last-minute meeting at midnight. I didn’t see the invite until I woke up this morning.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, too wound up to even think about sitting behind my desk. “Would you care to discuss what you so thoughtfully shared with me last night?”

She nods crisply. “Absolutely. I’m happy to pull up the document in question so we can review it together?”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I got the gist quite clearly.”

“Excellent. Then you’re in agreement?” She doesn’t even blink.

I clench my jaw. “Not entirely, no.”

“I see.” She purses those full lips. “Which parts did you take issue with, specifically?”

“Are you trying to be funny?” I growl, stepping closer.

She blinks up at me, those wide emerald eyes the picture of confusion. “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”

The tension in the room thickens with every passing second of her maddeningly innocent expression.

“Just what exactly do you think I’m referring to here, Gemma?”

“The new recruitment strategy I sent over last night, per your request,” she replies evenly. “We’ll proceed with implementing it today, as discussed.”

A harsh laugh rips from my throat.

Her brows knit together, all righteous indignation. “I fail to see what’s so funny, sir.”

“Oh, it’s ‘sir’ again, is it?”

She frowns. “I always address you as sir.”

“You always address me as . . . sir,” I repeat, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Her frown deepens, uncertainty flickering across her pretty face. “Would you prefer ‘Mr. McLaren’ instead?”

I smile slowly, already imagining the torrid details she’ll scribble about this encounter later. “What would you like to call me, Gemma?”

She eyes me warily. “You’ve never had an issue with how I address you before.”

“Well, I have an issue with it now. What is it you’d really like to call me?”

She hesitates, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. I track the movement, my body tensing. “Liam . . . ?”

“Liam it is then,” I concede, my tone dripping with mock sincerity.

I hold her gaze for a long moment. It’s clear now—she has no idea she shared her hate manifesto with me.

I’m tempted to fire her on the spot. So fucking tempted.

It doesn’t matter if Gemma likes me or not. I’m not here to win a popularity contest. What matters is that she does her job and does it damn well. And she does. Always has.

But this level of blatant disrespect? I can’t just let that slide. It sets a dangerous precedent.

Then again, maybe there’s another way to handle this. A way that could be far more satisfying than simply replacing her. Maybe I could have a little fun first.

“I reviewed your ‘strategy,’” I murmur. “I must say, it was an intriguing read. Filled with unexpected passion. Not your usual reserved style at all.”

The frown returns to her face, a mix of indignation and confusion. “I put my total commitment and passion into every endeavor for this company.”

“Clearly.” I chuckle darkly, enjoying this game more than I should. “We’ll proceed precisely as you’ve outlined then.”

“Excellent. Boss. Liam.” She affirms with a sharp nod, her features smoothing into that practiced professionalism I’ve come to know so well.

“After all,” I continue, “we want to attract the best and the brightest. Not some guys swinging their dicks like they’re God’s gift to the corporate world. Clogging up the applicant pool with their inflated egos. And the same goes for the lasses, of course.”

Her eyes widen, composure faltering for a delicious moment before she recovers. Oh, this is fun. “Certainly not. This firm has quite enough volatile personalities on staff already without compounding the issue. We already have people trying to put chairs through the windows, as you’re aware.” She pauses, her eyes searching mine. “Is there anything else?”

“That’ll be all. For now.”

She holds my gaze a moment longer, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to decode some hidden message in our loaded conversation, before giving a crisp nod and turning on her heel to leave.

I watch her go, wondering what the hell I’m doing. Anyone else who dared to disrespect me like this would be out on their ass already. But Gemma’s different. Hard-working, resilient, she’s stood her ground against every challenge I’ve thrown at her.

This presents an interesting dilemma. One that requires careful consideration. And Gemma, whether she knows it or not, has just made a very bold, very dangerous move.