Finally 2
Breaching the Protocol
In the sleek glass corridors of the executive floor, the whispered joke had circulated for nearly three years: if CEO Net Siraphop ever lost his planner, the company would crumble in a week, but if he ever lost JJ Radchapon, he would burn the entire industry to the ground just to find him.
The senior associates laughed about it over espresso. They traded knowing glances whenever Net’s famously rigid posture relaxed by a fraction of an inch simply because JJ stepped into the boardroom with an unprompted cup of black coffee. Everyone could see the invisible tether connecting them—the synchronized strides, the lingering eye contact across negotiation tables, the heavy silence that fell whenever an outside executive attempted to flirt with the quiet, devastatingly pretty Omega assistant.
Yet, despite the company pool betting on their eventual domestic collapse, Net and JJ remained a fortress of impenetrable decorum.
JJ was meticulous, discreet, and unfailingly professional. Net was commanding, uncompromising, and ruthlessly controlled. For five years, they buried every surge of territorial Alpha instinct and every breathless Omega shiver beneath quarterly projections and non-disclosure agreements.
Until Tokyo.
The overseas summit had concluded with celebratory drinks hosted by an eccentric foreign venture capitalist. Neither of them had realized until they stepped into the private elevator of their shared hotel penthouse that their glasses had been spiked with an illicit aphrodisiac—an aggressive cocktail engineered to shred biological inhibitions.
By the time the elevator chimed on the top floor, JJ’s knees had buckled, his thighs drenched in sudden, feverish slick as an artificial heat roared through his veins. Net’s composure had splintered seconds later, his eyes darkening to molten amber as his own rut slammed into him like a physical blow, his heavy cedar-and-leather scent filling the enclosed space until JJ was whimpering against his chest.
What followed behind the locked doors of the penthouse was nothing short of feral.
JJ still remembered the sheer, suffocating heat of it. Net had stripped him before they even reached the bed, lifting JJ effortlessly against the cold foyer mirror. JJ had clawed at Net’s broad back, crying out as Net’s thick, rigid cock tore into his unyielding tightness without mercy, filling him to the absolute brim. The Alpha had been relentless, his hips driving in brutal, bruising snaps that rattled the glass, his teeth sinking deep into JJ’s scent gland just shy of a permanent mating mark. Net had called him his Omega, his boy, groaning filth into JJ’s ear as he rutted into him for hours, knotting him repeatedly until JJ was convulsing around him, coated in a mix of come and slick.
Yet amidst the animalistic haze, there had been an agonizing tenderness—Net wiping tears from JJ’s flushed cheeks, kissing his bruised lips between harsh thrusts, holding him as if he were something priceless Net had waited a lifetime to break open.
When JJ opened his eyes at dawn, his body was aching, sticky, and thoroughly marked.
And sheer, blinding panic had seized his throat.
The room smelled overpowering—a suffocating testament to biological failure. Looking at Net’s sleeping, handsome face, JJ’s chest had caved in. *It was the drug,* his mind screamed. *It wasn't real. It was an involuntary rut triggered by poison.* If Net woke up to realize he had violated his own untouchable ethics with his personal assistant, the humiliation would ruin them both.
Terrified of the disgust he might find in Net’s eyes, JJ had crept out of the tangled sheets, scrubbed himself raw in the secondary bathroom, swallowed double doses of suppressants, and booked an earlier commercial flight home under the pretense of "handling urgent headquarters paperwork."
During the twelve-hour flight and the two agonizing days that followed back in Bangkok, JJ carried the memory like a shard of glass in his ribs. He sat behind his desk outside the executive suite, typing emails with trembling fingers, smiling politely at colleagues while silently unraveling. The worst part wasn't the physical soreness between his thighs; it was the crushing realization that Net was likely disgusted by the lapse in control—or worse, that Net remembered none of it, leaving JJ alone to drown in the ghost of their ruined boundaries.
On Thursday morning, the intercom buzzed.
"JJ," Net’s deep, resonant voice came through the speaker, devoid of emotion. "In my office. Now."
JJ swallowed the lump in his dry throat, smoothed his impeccably tailored charcoal slacks, picked up his leather-bound portfolio, and walked inside.
Net was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. His suit jacket was discarded, his crisp white shirt rolled to his forearms, exposing the faint red scratches JJ’s nails had left during their second round in the penthouse sheets.
"Good morning, Mr. Siraphop," JJ said, his voice a masterclass in synthetic calm. "I have the finalized contracts from the Tokyo merger ready for your signa—"
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind JJ. Net had moved with terrifying, predatory silence, cutting off the exit.
JJ froze, his breath hitching.
"Put the folder down, JJ."
"Sir, the legal team needs these documents before noon—"
"I said put it down."
JJ hesitated, his fingers trembling against the leather before setting the portfolio onto a credenza. When he turned, Net was already towering over him. The Alpha’s scent, normally suppressed by strict corporate patches, was billowing into the room—dark, smoky cedar laced with an undeniable, territorial fury.
"How long," Net asked, his voice dangerously low, "did you plan on pretending nothing happened?"
JJ’s pulse spiked violently against his ribs. He backed away, but the credenza pressed into his lower spine, trapping him.
"I don't know what you're referring to, Mr. Siraphop. If this is about my leaving Tokyo early, I filed the appropr—"
"Stop lying to me!" Net snarled, planting both palms on either side of JJ’s hips, effectively caging him. "You ran like a thief in the middle of the night. You wouldn't look at me in the hall yesterday. You bow, you call me 'Sir,' and you act as though you didn't spend eight hours screaming my name into the pillows with your legs wrapped around my waist!"
JJ’s face burned with sudden, scorching shame. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.
"You were drugged!" JJ choked out, his professional armor fracturing. "We were both drugged! It was an accident, Net! You were out of your mind in an involuntary rut—I didn't think you would even remember!"
"You thought I didn't remember?" Net let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, leaning down until his lips brushed JJ’s burning ear. "You thought I could ever forget the way you tasted? The way your walls milked me dry every time I knotted you? Is that the pathetic excuse you fed yourself so you could run away from me?"
"Please," JJ whispered, panic and an intoxicating rush of submission warring in his chest. "We can't do this here. You're the CEO, I'm your assistant—this is a line we can never uncross—"
"We already crossed it, sweetheart," Net murmured, his tone shifting into something dark, possessive, and unyielding. "And if you think that was just the drug talking, then I clearly need to remind you how real it was. Sober this time."
"Net, no—wait—"
Before JJ could protest further, Net seized his chin, tilting his head up and crushing their mouths together. The kiss was punishing and possessive, completely overriding JJ’s feeble attempt to push at Net’s solid chest. Net’s tongue invaded deep, tasting him with an ancient, demanding hunger, demanding compliance.
JJ let out a muffled whimper, his Omega instincts betraying him instantly. The sheer dominance rolling off Net caused JJ’s knees to weaken. Net took ruthless advantage of the hesitation, spinning JJ around and slamming his chest flat against the polished surface of the heavy executive desk.
"Net, stop... someone could come in," JJ pleaded breathlessly, though the slick already pooling between his thighs made a mockery of his words. "The door—"
"The door is locked, and the glass is soundproofed. You know that; you ordered the renovations," Net growled against the nape of JJ’s neck, his hands tearing at JJ’s belt with feverish efficiency.
"This is wrong... we shouldn't..." JJ gasped, squirming as Net unbuttoned his slacks and yanked both his trousers and briefs down to his mid-thighs. The cold, conditioned air of the office kissed JJ’s bare skin, making him shiver in sheer humiliation and arousal.
"Look at yourself," Net ordered, slapping his heavy hand down against JJ’s round, bare cheek with a sharp *crack* that arched JJ’s back. "You’re already soaking wet for me, JJ. Tell me you don't want this. Tell me to stop and look me in the eye while you do it."
Net gripped JJ’s hair, forcing his head back to meet his gaze in the mirrored reflection of the glass cabinets. JJ opened his mouth to speak, to demand restraint, but looking