Then he brought them to his mouth.
And licked them clean.
My stomach flipped, heat reigniting instantly—embarrassing, relentless.
His gaze returned to mine, dark and steady.
“You taste like obedience,” he said quietly. “Like hunger.”
My throat worked.
“Now,” he added, voice returning to calm, “you’ll get dressed.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The summit,” he said, as if I hadn’t just come apart in his hands. “You’ll do your job. You’ll speak. You’ll smile.”
He stepped back, leaving space—and the sudden absence of him made my skin ache.
Then he looked at the lingerie on the chair.
“You’ll wear what I left.”
I stared at him, still shaking. “Why?”
His gaze held mine, unflinching.
“Because I want you walking into that room knowing you’re mine under your professional armor,” he said. “Because I want you sitting onstage with your voice steady while your body remembers my hand.”
My pulse kicked again.
“And because,” he added, stepping closer just enough to make me inhale sharply, “I’m not finished with you.”
The promise landed heavy in my gut.
He turned and walked to the door without another word, as if what we’d just done was simply a morning routine like coffee.
He paused with his hand on the knob.
Without looking back, he said, “Text your friend.”
My stomach tightened. “Harper?”
“Yes.”
“How do you?—”
“Text her,” he repeated, tone flat. “Tell her you arrived. Tell her you’re busy. Keep it light.”
I swallowed hard.
Because that wasn’t just control.
That was containment.
He was managing the perimeter of my life while he dismantled me in the center.
“Yes,” I whispered.
