"Because you're mine." His teeth caught my earlobe, sharp enough to sting. "And I always know when someone plays with my things."
He released me abruptly. I stumbled, catching myself against the desk. My legs weakened, my body vibrated with unsatisfied need. But the businessman in me recorded every detail of the conversation, every tell Shaw had revealed.
"Listen carefully," he ordered, moving to stand by the window. The late afternoon light carved his profile from stone and shadow. "Here are the rules for tonight."
I straightened, giving him my complete attention.
"You can let him buy you drinks. You can flirt, suggest interest, play at being attracted to him. You can go to his private space if necessary to gather intelligence."
He paused, letting that sink in before continuing.
"But no kissing. No intimate touching. Nothing that crosses the line from performance to reality." His eyes found mine, held them. "You belong to me. Don't forget that."
"I won't," I managed, my voice rough. "I understand."
"Your collar," he commanded. "Unbutton it."
My hands moved immediately to obey, trembling as I unfastened the top button. The silk parted, revealing the edge of the makeup-covered bruises.
"More," he ordered. "I want to see what you've hidden."
I undid two more buttons with shaking fingers. The makeup looked wrong in the harsh light, like a lie painted over truth.
He stepped closer, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. "Stand still."
His hand roughly gripped my jaw, angling my head to expose my throat. There was no tenderness in the gesture. Just ownership. He pressed the cloth against my skin and began wiping away the foundation with harsh, efficient strokes.
The friction awakened the bruises, sending spikes of pain through sensitive skin. I bit my lip to keep from whimpering as he scrubbed at the makeup, removing it like erasing an insult. But pain mixed with pleasure, and my body couldn't distinguish between them. Each rough swipe jolted straight to my cock.
"Please," I gasped, my hips jerking involuntarily. "Algerone, stop. I can't—I'm going to—"
His hand stilled. "Going to what?" His voice turned dangerously soft.
Heat flooded my face as I turned away, unable to meet his eyes. "If you keep—the bruises, the pressure—I won't be able to..."
I trailed off, mortified at admitting how little control remained. My whole body trembled with the effort of holding back.
His laugh sounded dark, pleased. "You're ready to come just from this? From me cleaning your face?"
"Please," I begged, pride abandoned. "I can't control it."
He paused, studying me with calculating eyes. I stood trembling, chest heaving, teetering on the edge.
"No," he said finally, stepping back. "I need you thinking clearly tonight, not desperate for release. You'll make mistakes if you're this... compromised."
I blinked at him, confused by the sudden shift.
"Go shower," he ordered. "Take care of it. I want you focused on the mission, not on your cock."
The command surprised me so completely I couldn't process it. "You want me to—"
"Masturbate. Yes." His tone turned impersonal.
I stared at him, torn between relief and humiliation. He ordered me to touch myself like just another task to complete before the meeting.
"Wait," he said suddenly as I turned toward the bathroom. "Come here."
I moved back to him on unsteady legs. Without warning, his mouth found my throat. This wasn’t a kiss, it was something more primal. He bit down exactly where the darkest bruise bloomed, and I cried out, my hands flying to his shoulders. Pain and pleasure tangled until I couldn't tell them apart. My hips jerked forward, but he held me just far enough away to deny friction.
