Mrs CEO: Strictly Unprofessional by Tessa Kelwyn
Mrs CEO: Strictly Unprofessional
Description
One night with a stranger. That was the deal. No names, no numbers, no morning after. Just a hotel room and the first real orgasm of her adult life. Sloane Norcott is thirty-five, married, and the CEO of a charter travel company she built with her own money, her own name, and zero help from her husband's old-money family. She doesn't need anyone, except... She doesn't know what good sex feels like. Her body has been starving for fifteen years because her husband has never once bothered to ask what she needs. Then a stranger puts his hands on her and she finds out what she's been missing. The rules were simple: one night, no names, no numbers. Sloane followed every rule except the one: make sure the stranger doesn't become your employee.
Chapter 1
Jun 18, 2026
Sloane's POV
Wrap it the fuck up, Isaac, or I swear to God I am going to jerk off right in front of you.
Isaac Baxter, my potential business partner, has been talking non-stop for forty-seven minutes. He owns a resort chain on Santorini that I've been trying to acquire for six months.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, laptop on my thighs, because my husband Nolan has the living room TV cranked loud enough to rattle the cabinets.
"The Santorini property alone is worth the flight," Isaac says slowly. "You'll see it differently in person."
Oh, for the love of God…
I will see it differently in person. I will also waste several days flying to Greece to shake a man's hand when an email would've sufficed.
But Isaac is old-school, and old-school men don't sign deals with women they haven't sized up across a dinner table.
"Fine," I say, pressing my knees tighter together. "I'll fly out next week."
"Excellent. I'll have Grace set dinner at the house." He's already shuffling papers on his end, probably pulling up his calendar. "You'll love her."
He says it like his wife's cooking is supposed to make up for the fact that I'll be trapped on a twelve-hour flight with a new assistant I haven't met or vetted.
And I don't do new people. I barely do the ones I already know.
I need Isaac to hang up. I need ten minutes alone in this bathroom with the door closed and the water running, and I need it so badly my skin hurts.
Hang up, hang up, hang up.
Finally, Isaac says goodbye. I close the laptop, stand, twist the bath faucet. Water hits porcelain. Steam curls toward the ceiling. I strip out of my clothes, fold them on the counter, and lower myself into the tub.
The heat bites my skin, which is… perfect, really. I need to feel something that isn't the flat, gray numbness Nolan leaves behind every night when he rolls over and falls asleep seconds after finishing.
My phone is on the ledge. I open it, find the video I bookmarked two days ago. A man is pinning a woman's wrists above her head. His mouth is on her throat. Her back is arching off the mattress because he's making her wait.
I press play, slide my hand under the water, and close my eyes.
Nolan hasn't made me wait for anything in fifteen years. He doesn't pin or tease. Doesn't ask what I want, because asking would mean admitting he doesn't already know, and Nolan can't handle being wrong about anything, especially not sex.
So instead he does two minutes of kissing, his hand between my legs, then he's inside me and I'm staring at the ceiling trying to feel something.
I've faked every orgasm since our third anniversary. That's twelve years of closing my eyes and imagining hands that aren't his, a voice that isn't his, a man who takes his time because he actually wants to watch me come.
The woman in the video gasps. The man pulls her hips to the edge of the bed and drops to his knees and I'm close, so close, my free hand gripping the edge of the tub, water sloshing…
The door opens.
Fuck, did I not lock it?
Nolan stands in the frame, beer in hand, already mid-complaint.
"Sloane, the kitchen's a mess, so whenever you're done playing CEO in the bath…" He stops. His mouth stays open but the words die.
He's looking at the phone on the ledge, the video still playing. The sound of a woman moaning is filling the bathroom.
His eyes go from the phone to my hand under the water to my face, and the confusion twists into… disgust. At me.
He crosses the bathroom in two steps. Grabs the phone off the ledge. Looks at the screen for three seconds too long, then hurls it at the tile floor. The screen cracks and the moaning cuts out.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Sloane?" he asks.
I grab the towel. My hands won't stop shaking. "Listen, Nolan…"
"No, seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you?" He's laughing but it's ugly and wants to hurt. "That is what gets you going?"
"Well, you've never once asked me if I'm satisfied, have you?" It comes out before I can stop it. "Fifteen years and you've never once asked what I need."
"Oh, here we go." He takes a step back, spreads his arms wide. "Poor neglected little Sloane with the big company and the big house and the husband who's apparently not enough because he doesn't slap her around in bed."
"That's not what I…"
"You're a freak." He's leaning against the sink now, beer still in his hand, and he takes a slow sip. Doesn't break eye contact. "You sit there bossing everyone around, and then you come home and…" He trails off, shakes his head, presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "That's sick, Sloane. You know that, right? That's fucking sick."
I've seen Nolan drunk and mean before. Plenty of times. When he's wasted, he finds the softest part of you and presses his thumb into it.
Usually I can take it. Usually I let him run out of venom, clean up the mess in the morning when he pretends he doesn't remember.
But I'm standing in a towel with water running down my legs and my cracked phone on the floor and he just called me a freak, and my throat is closing up like my body is deciding for me whether I'm going to scream or cry.
I won't do either. I won't give him that.
"You don't get to call me…"
"I'll call you whatever I want. You're my wife." He's close now. Close enough that I can smell the beer on his breath. "Were you faking it with me? The whole time? Every single time we fucked, were you lying there thinking about this?"
I don't answer but he reads the answer on my face. His nostrils flare.
"You want to get fucked by someone else that bad?" He nods slowly, jaw working, like he's chewing on the words before he spits them. "Then go. Get the fuck out. Go find some random prick to throw you around since your husband apparently isn't man enough. Go fuck whoever you want, Sloane. See if I give a shit."
***
The engine turns over and I drive with no destination, just velocity, because if I stop moving I'll go back inside and apologize for something I'm not sorry for.
Now I'm two Jamesons deep at a bar on Tenth Street, perched on a stool with my wedding ring catching the overhead light like a joke.
Eighteen years. That's how long I've been fucking the same man. The only man.
I was eighteen when Nolan smiled at me across a crowded orientation hall and I just… never kissed anyone else. Never had anyone else's hands on me.
Never even found out if sex could feel like anything other than a chore I lie still for while he finishes in two minutes and rolls over like I'm a task he checked off.
And now he told me to go fuck someone. Said it to my face like a dare because he's so fucking sure I won't.
Watch me, you moron. You told me to do this.
I scan the room. Most of these guys look like they'd apologize halfway through.
Then I see him on the dance floor.
Mid-twenties, tall, lean and solid. He's got two girls pressed against him — one in front, one behind — and he's handling both of them like his hands were built to hold women in place. Sharp cheekbones, buzzed dark hair. He looks like trouble and he knows it.
I finish my whiskey. Set the glass down. Walk straight to the dance floor.
Come on, Sloane, you've got this.
I tap his shoulder. He turns, and up close he's taller than I thought. His green eyes look like he already knows why I'm here.
One of the girls — blonde, barely legal, glitter on her collarbones — shoots me a look. The other one doesn't even notice. She's too busy grinding against his thigh.
Fuck, the music is too loud for this.
I lean in, close enough that I catch his smell — tequila on his breath, salt drying on his neck, and some woodsy cologne that's faded down to just his skin underneath. My lower belly tightens and I hate how fast it happens.
"I'm married." I flash the ring. "My husband told me to go fuck someone tonight. No names, no numbers. After tonight we're strangers. You interested, or should I keep looking?"
He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek slowly. Like he's tasting something.
"You should keep looking." He says it flat, almost bored. Then his eyes drag down my body and back up with zero apology. "But you won't. Because the guys at the bar would fuck you polite, and that's not what you drove here for." He steps closer. "Is it?"
Mrs CEO: Strictly Unprofessional
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