When he pulled back, a fresh mark overlaid the original. Darker. Deeper. Already purpling.
"So you don't forget who you belong to," he said calmly. "Now go. Hurry."
I stumbled toward the bathroom on unsteady legs, my body vibrating with need. The impersonal nature of his commandsomehow made it worse, reducing my desperate arousal to a problem needing solution before the mission.
In the shower, under the hot spray, it took less than thirty seconds. I thought of his teeth in my throat, his fingers pressing bruises, the way he'd ordered me to do this, before I came harder than ever before, biting my fist to muffle my cry.
After, I leaned against the tile wall, shaking. The orgasm had cleared my head, just as he'd intended. But it left me strangely empty. I'd wanted him to break my denial. Instead, he'd ordered me to do it myself, turning even my pleasure into something he controlled from a distance.
When I emerged from the bathroom, hastily dressed in pants and an undershirt, he sat at the desk reviewing something on his phone. My hair remained damp, my shirt half-buttoned, but I looked decent. He glanced up, assessing me with those calculating eyes.
"Better?"
"Yes." My voice steadied.
"Good. Get dressed. You have fifteen minutes before you need to leave."
I forced my hands steady as I reapplied the makeup. This time, I chose a midnight blue shirt. The silk tortured my hypersensitive skin, each movement sparking through my nervous system. The fresh layer of foundation suffocated me worse than before, like burying treasure that belonged in the light.
Algerone watched every movement, occasionally correcting me. "Higher. Make sure nothing shows. We can't have Shaw getting suspicious."
When I finished dressing, he conducted a final inspection. His hands adjusted my collar, smoothed nonexistent wrinkles, lingered a moment too long. The casual intimacy after three decades of careful distance ached in my chest. His fingersbrushed against the fabric covering the bruises, and I locked my knees to remain standing.
"Perfect," he finally pronounced. "You look exactly like a man ready to betray his employer."
The words stung, even knowing they belonged to the game.
"Algerone—"
"Go." He stepped back, creating distance between us. "Do what needs to be done. But remember..." His eyes found mine, held them. "I'll know if you forget who you belong to. And the consequences for forgetting..."
He left the threat unfinished. Somehow, that frightened me more than specifics.
I gathered my things: phone, wallet, the tablet I couldn't completely abandon. At the door, I turned back.
He stood in the middle of the room, both hands resting on his cane. The evening light streaming through the windows transformed him into something mythic, untouchable. The man I'd loved for thirty-two years. The man whose marks I wore like a secret beneath my clothes.
"I would wear your claim forever if you asked," I said softly. "I would let you mark me where everyone could see, let the whole world know I'm yours."
"Go," he repeated. "Before I take you up on that offer."
I left, closing the door quietly behind me. My reflection in the hallway mirror showed a perfectly composed businessman with expensive clothes, immaculate grooming, not a hair out of place.
But underneath, I'd been destroyed. Marked. Claimed. And I was desperate for more.
The limousine turned ontoa discreet side street in Zurich's industrial district, far from the polished facades of the banking quarter. No innocent establishments populated this block of converted warehouses. This was the city's playground for those who required absolute privacy for their particular appetites.
We stopped at a former textile factory. The building's original facade remained intact, but subtle security cameras tracked every approach, and the heavy metal door was guarded by two men whose muscles strained against leather harnesses rather than suits.
"Mr. St. Germain," the larger one nodded as I emerged. "Welcome to Unterwerfung."
The German word for submission. How fitting.
Inside, the club occupied the factory's former main floor, industrial bones preserved but transformed. Exposed brick contrasted with polished concrete. Original beams overhead now supported elaborate pulley systems and suspension pointsfrom which several patrons hung in various stages of artistic bondage. The air carried notes of leather, sweat, and the metallic tang of discipline recently administered.
An attendant led me up an industrial staircase to a mezzanine level, then to a circular room at the far end. The room featured a domed ceiling with a chandelier constructed of chains and cuffs rather than crystal. At the center, Shaw awaited.
"Maxime," he greeted, rising smoothly. Unlike the leather-clad patrons below, he remained traditionally attired in his bespoke suit. "I trust the venue isn't too provocative for your tastes?"
