I’d spent that night alone in my studio, paint-splattered and telling myself I preferred it that way. How different things might have been if I’d wandered into The Blue Room that night.
We climb the back stairs, his fingers laced with mine, the silence between us crackling with electricity. Each step heightens the anticipation coiling inside me, a delicious tension that’s been building all evening.
His office door appears at the end of a short hallway. The brass nameplate catches the dim light as Gabe unlocks it andguides me inside. Books line one wall, jazz records another. A massive desk dominates the space, all dark wood and leather.
The door closes behind us with a soft click.
In an instant, Gabe’s composure shatters. He moves like a predator unleashed, backing me against his desk, his mouth crashing into mine.
His hands find my waist, then slide lower, cupping my ass and lifting me. I gasp against his mouth as he presses himself between my thighs, the hard length of him evident through his tailored pants.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he growls against my mouth, one hand traveling up my spine to the zipper of my dress.
The sound of it tearing downward breaks the silence of the room. Cool air hits my back as the fabric parts, Gabe’s warm hands immediately replacing it, exploring newly exposed skin with urgent touches.
“Let me see you,” he demands, pulling back enough to push the straps of my dress off my shoulders. The material pools at my waist, leaving me in just a black lace bra above, my chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath.
His eyes darken as they rake over me, cataloging every detail like he might be tested on it later. I should feel vulnerable—instead, I feel powerful watching his control crack because of me.
I watch him as intently, memorizing the flush across his cheekbones, the way his pupils dilate, how his fingers flex against my skin.
His teeth graze my collarbone, and I arch into him, surrendering to the exquisite tension. My fingers fumble with his shirt buttons, desperate to feel hisskin against mine.
“No.” Gabe captures both my wrists in one large hand, pinning them above my head against the wall. “You don’t touch until I say you can.”
The command in his voice sends a shiver through me. A primal and dangerous hunger flashes in his eyes. This isn’t the polished jazz club owner anymore; this is another beast entirely.
“I want to see what you can take,” he murmurs, his free hand stroking my throat before tightening enough to make my pulse race against his palm.
I should feel afraid. Instead, my pussy clenches and my breath catches.
“Color system,” he says against my ear. “Green means continue. Yellow means slow down. Red means stop. Tell me your color.”
“Green,” I breathe, shocking myself with how badly I want whatever’s coming.
Gabe smiles against my neck, then bites down—not quite hard enough to break skin, but enough to make me cry out. The pain blooms into pleasure so intense my knees buckle.
“I’m going to edge you until you beg,” he promises, his hand sliding beneath my dress. “And even then, I might not let you come.”
His fingers trace teasing circles, approaching where I need him most before retreating. I whimper, trying to shift my hips to follow his touch.
“Patience,” he warns, tightening his grip on my wrists. “Or I’ll have to restrain you properly.”
The words shouldn’t excite me as much as they do. Something in his voice tells me he has experience making people helpless.
“I want to break you apart,” he whispers, “and put you back together the way I want you.”
His control is absolute, predatory. Each touch is calculated to build pressure without release. And God help me; I want to surrender completely to whatever darkness waits within this man.
In one fluid motion, Gabe releases my wrists and sweeps his arm across the desk. Papers, pens, and a crystal paperweight crash to the floor. The violence of it shocks me, but equally sends a rush of heat through my body.
“On the desk. Now.”
Before I can move, he’s tugging my dress down my hips until it pools at my feet. My underwear comes off next, leaving me in nothing but my bra. His eyes devour me, his gaze so feral that it should terrify me, but only makes me wetter.
“Hands,” he commands. When I offer them, he loosens his burgundy tie, slides it free from his collar, and binds my wrists together with swift, tight movements. The silk is cool against my skin, the knot secure without cutting off circulation.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growls, lifting me onto the desk. The polished wood is cold against my bare ass. He pushes me down until my back is flat against the surface, hands above my head.
