My Billionaire Boss Dared Me to Say No, So I Locked the Door novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Dare
On his fifth night, Bartek's billionaire boss dares him to say no, and Bartek locks the door instead; the text on the floor afterward shows what he is hiding.
"Say no," Ingmar Ekeberg said. "I dare you."
His hand was flat on the glass beside Bartek's head, and the whole city lay lit up behind it.
Bartek had his back against the door of the corner office, and the brass handle was digging into his spine.
It was eleven at night on the forty-first floor, and every other desk on the floor had been dark for hours.
"Say it once," Ingmar said, "and I step back, and you keep your job, and Monday I never look at you again."
Bartek looked up at him.
He had spent five days looking at this man across a desk, and he had never once seen him this close.
The scar through Ingmar's left eyebrow was thin and white, and the pale eyes under it did not blink.
"Is that what you want?" Bartek asked.
"I asked first."
"You asked me to say no. You didn't ask me what I want."
Something moved in Ingmar's jaw.
For five days he had spoken to Bartek in a flat, bored voice.
He had sent back a coffee four times, and he had called Bartek's meeting notes "adequate."
Now the voice was low and rough, and it was not bored at all.
"Then ask yourself what you want, Mr. Wrobel," Ingmar said. "Quickly. I'm not a patient man."
Bartek reached behind him.
His fingers found the lock on the door, a small brass turn, and he twisted it.
The click was loud in the empty room.
Ingmar looked at the lock, and then at Bartek's face, and his whole body went still.
"That's not no," he said.
"No," Bartek said, and grinned, because his own mouth was shaking and he needed something to do with it. "It really isn't."
Ingmar's hand came off the glass and closed around his jaw.
It was a big hand, warm and dry, and it tipped Bartek's head back until his throat was bare.
"Say it out loud," Ingmar said. "What you want."
"You. Right now. Sir."
He had not planned the last word, and it was out before he could stop it.
Ingmar's eyes closed for a moment.
Then he kissed him.
It was not polite, and it was not slow.
He took Bartek's mouth hard, tongue deep, one hand holding his jaw and the other sliding into his hair and closing in a fist.
Bartek made a sound against his lips and grabbed two handfuls of the expensive waistcoat.
The wool was fine under his fingers, and the body underneath it was solid and hot and shaking a little.
Ingmar broke the kiss to bite along his jaw, then down his throat.
"You've been staring at my mouth since Monday," he said against Bartek's pulse.
"You've been staring at my ass since Tuesday."
"Wednesday." A graze of teeth. "Tuesday you were wearing the wrong trousers."
"I own two pairs."
"They fit. That's the problem."
Bartek laughed, a breathless, helpless noise, and Ingmar's mouth curved against his skin.
It was the first time Bartek had seen him smile, and he felt it all the way down in his stomach.
Ingmar pulled his tie loose with one sharp tug and drew it out of his collar.
It was cheap blue polyester, and he held it up between two fingers.
"This is a terrible tie."
"It's the only one I own that isn't a clip-on," Bartek said.
"Give me your wrists."
Bartek held them out.
Ingmar looped the tie around them twice and knotted it, quick and exact, and lifted the bound wrists over Bartek's head.
He pinned them to the door with one hand.
"Too tight?" he asked.
"No."
"Tell me if it is."
"It's not," Bartek said. "Do something."
"Patience."
"You said you didn't have any."
"I lied." Ingmar's free hand unbuttoned Bartek's shirt, slowly, one button after another, and Bartek's stomach drew in under his knuckles. "I have a great deal. I've been saving it for tonight."
The shirt fell open.
Ingmar's thumb found Bartek's nipple and rubbed it hard, then pinched, and Bartek's head hit the door.
"Fuck."
"Yes, that's the idea."
He bent and took the nipple into his mouth, and Bartek swore again, louder.
His wrists strained against the tie.
Ingmar worked his belt open with his other hand and dragged the zipper down, and the sound was very loud.
"You're hard," he said. "Already."
"I've been hard since Wednesday."
"Since you noticed me staring."
"Since I noticed you not staring," Bartek said. "You looked at the wall every time I walked in. I thought you hated me."
"I did look at the wall," Ingmar said, and his voice cracked, just slightly. "The alternative was this."
He pushed Bartek's trousers and shorts down to his knees, and the cold air touched his cock and made it jump.
Ingmar looked at it.
For a moment he did nothing but look, and Bartek felt every second of it.
"Good," Ingmar said quietly. "That's very good."
Bartek's whole body flushed.
He had been called plenty of things, and nobody had ever said it like that, flat and sure.
Ingmar closed his hand around him.
The grip was firm and slow, a long pull from root to tip, and Bartek's knees almost went.
"Hold still."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder," Ingmar said.
The thumb swept over the slit, spreading the wet, and then Ingmar sank down in front of him.
A man who owned the top four floors of the building went down on his knees on the carpet of his own office.
He took Bartek into his mouth.
It was hot and wet and tight, and Bartek shouted, an ugly cracked sound, and slammed his bound hands against the door.
"Oh my God. Oh, fuck."
Ingmar hummed around him, and the sound went into Bartek's bones.
He took him deep, all the way, and held there with his throat working.
Then he pulled back slowly with his tongue flat on the underside.
His free hand came up and pressed Bartek's hip to the door.
"Don't move," he said, with his mouth wet and his eyes dark. "If you thrust, I stop."
"That's cruel."
"I'm known for it."
He went down again.
Bartek bit his own lip until it hurt.
Ingmar's mouth was merciless and perfect, and every time Bartek got close, he drew back and let him go.
"Please," Bartek said.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
"No," Ingmar said. "Not like this. I want to be inside you the first time."
He stood.
He took Bartek by the bound wrists and the hip and walked him backwards to the desk.
It was a long slab of black walnut with nothing on it but a lamp and a closed laptop.
He swept the laptop aside, and it hit the carpet.
"That cost four thousand dollars," Bartek said, a little wildly.
"I can afford it."
"I know. I did your expenses."
Ingmar turned him around and bent him over the desk, and pressed Bartek's tied hands flat on the wood above his head.
The walnut was cool against his chest.
A heavy hand spread across the small of his back.
"Is there oil in your desk?" Bartek managed.
"Third drawer."
"Of course there is."
"It's for my hands," Ingmar said. "I get cold."
"You don't get cold," Bartek said. "You're a furnace."
"Be quiet, Wrobel."
He heard the drawer slide, and the cap of a bottle.
He heard the sound of a zipper that was not his own.
Then a slick finger circled his hole, and he stopped talking altogether.
It pressed in slowly, one knuckle, then the other, and Bartek let his forehead rest on the desk.
"Breathe," Ingmar said.
"I am."
"Out. Slowly."
He did, and the finger slid deeper.
It was careful, and it was unhurried, and it was nothing like the man who had sent back a coffee four times.
A second finger followed, and Ingmar crooked them, and Bartek jerked up off the wood.
"There," Ingmar said, satisfied. "That's where you like it."
"Don't narrate," Bartek said.
"I'll narrate if I want. It's my desk."
"It's my ass," Bartek said.
"Tonight it's mine."
The words were low and certain, and heat ran through Bartek.
A third finger, and a long, stretching burn, and Bartek was begging without noticing he was doing it.
"Mr. Ekeberg. Please," Bartek said.
"Again."
"Please, sir."
"Good," Ingmar said softly. "That's the word I wanted."
Nobody called Ingmar Ekeberg anything but Mr. Ekeberg.
The press called him the Iceman, and in five days Bartek had not heard a living soul say his first name.
The fingers withdrew.
The blunt head of his cock pressed against Bartek's hole, and he took his time.
He pushed in an inch and held there until Bartek stopped shaking, and then another inch.
"Look at you," he said, hoarse. "You're taking me so well."
"Shut up."
"You're taking me beautifully."
Bartek made a noise he would have denied under oath.
Ingmar was all the way in, and neither of them moved.
Ingmar's forehead came to rest between his shoulder blades, and Bartek felt the breath go out of him in a long shudder.
"All right?" Ingmar asked, and the cold voice had come apart completely.
"Move," Bartek said. "I swear to God. Move."
He did.
The first stroke was slow and deep and dragged against everything, and the second was harder.
The desk shook.
The lamp rocked on its base, and Bartek's bound hands scrabbled for purchase on the wood.
"Louder," Ingmar said.
"There's a night guard."
"He's on the lobby floor. I want to hear you."
A hand wound into Bartek's hair and pulled his head back, and the other slid around his hip and closed on his cock.
The rhythm was merciless now, fast and punishing, and every thrust shoved Bartek's hips into the edge of the desk.
He heard himself shouting.
"Yes. Fuck. Right there. Don't stop."
"I won't." A bite on his shoulder. "Come for me, Wrobel."
The rough, low order did it.
He came all over Ingmar's fist and the desk, shaking from head to foot.
His hole clamped down, and behind him Ingmar swore in a language Bartek didn't know.
He drove in once more, deep, and came with his mouth open against Bartek's neck.
They stayed that way for a long time.
The city glittered through the glass.
Ingmar was heavy and hot on his back, and he did not move away, and Bartek did not want him to.
Eventually the tie came loose from his wrists, and warm hands rubbed the red marks it had left.
"Did I hurt you?" Ingmar asked.
"No."
"Tell me the truth."
"The truth is I'm going to be sitting on a pillow tomorrow," Bartek said into the walnut. "And I'd do it again."
He felt the laugh before he heard it, a low shaking against his spine.
Ingmar kissed the nape of his neck, once, softly.
Then he stepped back, and there was the sound of a belt and a zipper, and a handkerchief was pressed into Bartek's hand.
Bartek wiped himself and straightened, wincing, and found his trousers around his ankles.
His phone lay face up on the carpet where it had fallen out of his pocket.
The screen was lit.
He bent to pick it up, and he read it before he could stop himself.
It was from a number with no name, and it said: Anything to report?
Seventy-four thousand dollars of hospital debt, an envelope in his locker, and a lawyer who billed by the hour.
He turned the phone face down against his thigh.
Behind him, Ingmar was doing up his cufflinks, and he looked up, and his eyes went to the phone.
"Who is that?" he asked.
Bartek said nothing.
Want to keep talking to characters like these? Chat with AI romance characters: AI Boyfriend · AI Girlfriend · Dark Romance · Fantasy Romance · BL (Boys’ Love) · Billionaire Boyfriend · Mafia Boyfriend · Possessive Boyfriend · Hockey Boyfriend · Older Boyfriend · K-Drama Boyfriend · Anime Boyfriend · Vampire Boyfriend · Werewolf Boyfriend · Demon Boyfriend · Fae Romance · GL (Girls’ Love) · Anime Girlfriend · Goth & Alt Girlfriend · Gamer Girlfriend · Tsundere Girlfriend · Fantasy Girlfriend