Spark Me Tenderly
Passion Exclusive
Steamy
7.0K
Description
Desperate to save her ailing mother , shy and traditionally valued Floris Middleton takes a job as an assistant to Eric Brighton, a dominant and cynical fashion house magnate. What begins as a professional arrangement quickly devolves into a morally ambiguous and steamy BDSM contract, forcing Floris to confront her boundaries and unexpected desires. As their intense dynamic deepens amidst corporate sabotage and hidden betrayals, Floris and Eric must navigate a world of power, pleasure, and surprising vulnerabilities to determine if their connection is one of true love or simply a dangerous game of dominance and submission.
Chapter 1
Jul 4, 2025
POV Floris
Some asshole in a trench coat body-checked me at Schiphol without even a "sorry," and honestly? Perfect fucking metaphor for how this whole Amsterdam adventure was shaping up.
"Sure, no worries," I muttered, wrestling my vindictive suitcase out of a tile crack while passengers flowed around me like I was human furniture. "Love getting steamrolled by strangers. Really sets the mood for international career opportunities."
The airport was chaos in corporate form—gleaming surfaces and people pretending their lives weren't falling apart.
Meanwhile, I stood there looking like a refugee from Silicon Valley's unemployment line: coat three seasons expired, boots that survived an actual flood, hair held together by spite and bobby pins.
Five feet of pure sarcasm wrapped in desperation, amber eyes that had seen too much tech industry bullshit, mouth that couldn't stay shut about it.
Yeah, that's me—Floris Middleton, MIT grad turned persona non grata, desperate enough to flee to a city where people bike in business suits like it's normal and everyone speaks better English than half of America.
Also, apparently, the only goddamn place left that would hire a blacklisted cybersecurity analyst with a history of making Very Important People very, very angry.
"Floris Middleton?" I spun around and nearly face-planted into my luggage.
Corporate Clone Barbie stood there—black trench coat, zero expressions, clipboard weaponized. Name tag: Juno, Recruiter: Lynx Solutions.
"Uh, yeah. That's me."
"You're late."
"I'm literally not though." Words popped out before I could filter them. "My phone says 10:47, flight landed on time—"
"You're late," she repeated, like she could bend spacetime through administrative bitchiness. “Follow me.”
Great. Twenty seconds in Amsterdam and already failing at existence.
The town car was stupidly expensive—leather seats worth more than my whole education. I pressed against the window, watching Amsterdam blur past in expensive grays and browns and suspicious neon that looked like legalized vice advertising itself.
"About this job placement—" I started.
"There's been a change," Juno interrupted, not looking up from her tablet. "The original position was filled this morning."
My stomach cratered. "What? But the TechFlow data analyst role—we had a signed agreement—"
"One position remains. Brighton Systems. Executive assistant."
I blinked hard. "You're trying to make me a secretary for a surveillance mogul?"
"Executive assistant," she corrected with precision suggesting she'd had this conversation before. "Excellent pay. Full benefits. Housing provided."
"I have a master's degree in cybersecurity from MIT. I designed encryption protocols that the NSA still can't crack. I am not someone's coffee-fetching, calendar-managing assistant."
Juno finally looked at me, expression warm as a tax audit. "As I know, your brother's medical debt. $84,000. Experimental treatment he needs? $5,000 monthly. No insurance coverage."
Ice water to the nervous system. I shut up.
"Brighton Systems offers comprehensive healthcare for employees' immediate family. Retroactive coverage, pre-existing conditions. No caps, no limitations."
My resolve cracked like cheap drywall. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. Sign a preliminary agreement, complete the interview process, your brother's treatment begins immediately."
She handed me a tablet. Contract loaded, cursor blinking like a digital heartbeat.
"Don't Google him," she added, almost casual.
The second Juno left me in their psychotic minimalist lobby, I whipped out my phone and Googled the shit out of Eric Brighton.
Corporate espionage allegations. Whistleblower lawsuits. Ex-employees with NDAs thicker than textbooks. One charming headline: "The Iceman Cometh: Why Eric Brighton's Employees Don't Last Six Months."
My hands shook scrolling through digital horror stories.
This was career suicide. Exactly the toxic corporate nightmare I'd spent three years escaping after the whistleblowing debacle at Nexus Tech left me unemployable, blacklisted, and emotionally destroyed.
But Jake's face flashed through my mind. My little brother, fighting leukemia like his full-time job. Who'd put himself through community college while I lived my best academic life at MIT, never asking for help.
Never asked for anything, never complained, called me crying last month because insurance denied the bone marrow transplant that could literally save his life.
When Juno returned with a finalized contract, I signed without reading a word.
Because sometimes you don't choose between good and bad options. Sometimes you choose which version of hell you can survive.
Brighton Systems occupied twelve floors of architectural intimidation in Amsterdam's financial district. The building looked like liquid obsidian—black glass and sharp angles designed to make visitors feel disposable.
The receptionist had no eyebrows and wore latex like business casual. She didn't speak, just scanned my retina with something that looked surgical.
Beep. Access granted.
The executive floor was sensory deprivation meets evil lair. No furniture, no art, no human habitation signs. Just surveillance monitors showing real-time global feeds—London traffic, Tokyo subways, maybe a drug deal in São Paulo.
Standing before it all like a digital emperor: Eric Brighton.
No shoes. Charcoal suit worth more than my car. Dark hair perfectly disheveled like he'd run hands through it once.
He didn't turn when I entered.
"Miss Middleton. You're late."
"Actually—" He turned and with that I forgot how to form words.
Photos hadn't prepared me. Museum-quality bone structure, pale skin, sharp cheekbones, mouth that had never smiled. Steel-gray eyes like arctic water.
This man looked like he ordered deaths between meals.
"I'm not late," I managed.
"Then your phone is lying." He moved closer—expensive cologne mixed with danger. "What exactly did you think you were applying for?"
"Executive assistant. Administrative support, scheduling—"
"Wrong." He circled me like a predator. "You're here because you have specific skills I require. Because you've proven you'll sacrifice everything for what you believe is right. And because your brother is dying."
My breath caught. "How—?"
"I know everything, Floris. MIT summa cum laude. Phantom Protocol encryption at twenty-four. Exposed Nexus Tech's illegal surveillance of federal judges, got yourself blacklisted from every major tech company."
He stopped in front of me. "Now you're desperate enough to work for someone like me."
"Someone like you?"
"Someone you Googled despite explicit instructions. Someone whose reputation terrifies you. Someone you believe is capable of terrible things." His smile could cut glass. "You're not wrong."
He walked to his desk. "Your real job isn't assistant work. It's a security analysis. Corporate espionage prevention. Finding holes in my system before enemies do."
"And if I refuse?"
"Your brother's treatment stops. His debt gets sold to collection agencies run by creative people. You get deported, unemployable for life."
The room shrank. "You're blackmailing me."
"I'm offering a choice. Work for me, protect my interests, your brother lives. Refuse, and you both learn what desperation feels like."
"Why me? Hundreds of security analysts don't have my baggage."
"Baggage creates loyalty. Desperate people work harder. You've proven you'll destroy your life to expose the truth." He leaned against his desk. "I respect that. I can use that."
"What happens when you're done using me?"
"Depends how useful you prove."
The monitors flickered. Hospital room. My heart stopped.
Jake. Asleep, connected to machines, but peaceful. For the first time in months he looked peaceful.
"He looks well," Eric observed. "New treatment's working. White cell count improved dramatically."
"You already started treating him?"
"Insurance authorized this morning. Funny how quickly things process when you know the right people." Relief and rage tangled in my chest. "Do we have understanding?"
I looked at Jake's face, then back at the man holding our lives. "What's my first assignment?"
His smile was winter. "Get on your knees."
I froze. "Excuse me?"
"Rule one: everyone starts at the bottom. Everyone learns humility first." He gestured to the floor. "Kneel."
"I'm not— This isn't—"
"Your brother's next treatment is Friday. Would be unfortunate if there were authorization complications."
My legs turned to water. This was insane, degrading, exactly the power-trip bullshit I'd sworn I'd never tolerate again. Every feminist instinct I had was screaming at me to walk out, to tell this psychopath exactly where he could shove his job offer.
But Jake's face was on that screen, peaceful for the first time in months. And sometimes survival means swallowing your pride along with everything else you thought you knew about yourself.
I sank to my knees on cold marble.
“Good girl,” Eric said softly. “Now we can begin. You will do whatever I say. Because I’m the only one keeping your brother alive.”
Spark Me Tenderly
30 Chapters
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Contents
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