The hotel bathroom lightsblazed too brightly. I stared at my reflection, fingers ghosting over the bruises on my throat. Purple and red bloomed across pale skin like violent flowers. His marks. Finally.
My tablet lay abandoned on the marble counter, its black screen reflecting the harsh lights. I couldn't recall the last time it had strayed more than arm's length away, but now all I could focus on was the ache in my throat, the lingering taste of copper and whiskey, the swollen heat of my mouth from his kiss.
Three decades of enforced control, measured distance, professional boundaries I'd constructed to shield him from distraction, all shattered in minutes on that plane.
I pressed the darkest bruise until pain flared. A shiver raced through me, straight to my cock. I remained half-hard from the plane, my body refusing to accept that he'd denied us both completion. His fingers had branded me, claimed me, made me his in ways no contract or loyalty oath ever could.
Mine, he'd growled.You've been mine since the day we met.
Yes. Always. Even when he'd refused to see it. Even when I'd forced myself to become the steady foundation for his ambition rather than the distraction I longed to be.
My phone buzzed against the marble. The screen displayed a message:
Video conference with Shaw in 30 minutes. Ensure private location.
I would have to hide these marks and pretend to betray the only man who had ever mattered. The very thought made me feel sick.
The silk of my shirt whispered against the bruises as I moved, sending sparks of pain-pleasure through my body. Each breath reminded me of his ownership, his hands on my throat, the way he'd finally, finally taken what was his.
My cock throbbed insistently, demanding attention I couldn’t give. Movement echoed through the wall. Algerone was in the adjoining suite. The connecting door might as well have been tissue paper. Every footstep, every shifted piece of furniture, every breath carried through. The bed creaked, and my imagination supplied images of him stretching, undressing…
I stepped out of the bathroom, drawn toward the sound. My hand reached for the connecting door before I caught myself. What would I do? Knock? Beg? Fall to my knees and press my forehead to his feet? My cock throbbed at the thought.
He'd denied me even that.
After thirty-two years of devotion, after building his empire, after sacrificing everything including my own desires to see him succeed, I hadn't earned the right to properly abase myself before him.
I turned back to the mirror and began the ritual of concealment. Foundation first, carefully layered over the darkest marks. The makeup sat wrong against my skin, cold and artificial where his bruises burned warm and real. Thefoundation dried tight and itchy, making me hyperaware of what lay beneath.
My hands trembled as I worked. Twice I paused when covering the bruises made me dizzy with loss. The makeup reeked of chemicals, nothing like the lingering scent of his skin.
When I finished, I selected a shirt with the highest collar I'd packed. The black silk would photograph well while hiding every mark. The fabric whispered against my sensitive skin, and I bit back a groan.
"Maxime."
I froze. Algerone's voice came from the main room. I hadn't heard the connecting door open.
I stepped out to find him standing in the middle of my suite, leaning on his cane. He must have entered while I was focused on the makeup. His green eyes found mine immediately, then dropped to my throat. His jaw clenched when he noticed the concealed bruises.
"You covered them." His voice sounded flat, unreadable, but I caught the undercurrent of possession and perhaps anger.
"Shaw requested a video call," I explained, hating how defensive I sounded. "I thought—"
"You thought correctly." He moved into my room, each tap of his cane against marble making me flinch. "Can't have him seeing my handiwork. Not yet."
He stopped directly before me, close enough that I tilted my head back to meet his eyes. The movement pulled at the bruises, sending a spike of sensation straight to my groin.
"Where will you take the call?"
I gestured to the desk by the window, ignoring how my voice had roughened. "The lighting works best there. Zurich makes an appropriately neutral background."
He studied the setup, then moved to the wall beside the desk, just outside the webcam's field of view. "I'll be here."
"Algerone—"
"Set up your equipment." His tone allowed no argument. "Show me the camera angle."
I arranged my laptop, angling the screen so he could see what Shaw would: my face and shoulders, the window behind me showing Zurich's skyline in late afternoon light. As I leaned forward to adjust the angle, my collar shifted, and his eyes tracked the movement hungrily.
