"Good girl." I watch her reaction to the praise—pupils dilating, breathing catching. She needs that too. Needs to know when she's doing what I want. "We're going to do that again. And this time, you're going to ask permission before you come. Clear?"
"Clear."
I drop to my knees again, and this time I don't make her wait. Mouth on her clit immediately, fingers inside her, finding that spot and working it with the precision I use for everything else.Reading her, learning exactly what she needs, giving it to her with ruthless efficiency.
She's even closer this time, body wound tight from the denial, arousal amplified by frustration. Her thighs shake against my shoulders. Her breath comes in gasps and whimpers. The restraints creak as she pulls against them reflexively.
"Oh god, oh god, I'm close, please?—"
I pull back slightly, just enough to slow the building orgasm without stopping it completely. Force her to work for it. Force her to beg.
"Please, Cole, please let me come, I need?—"
"Not yet." I keep the pressure steady, right at the edge, holding her there. Watching her fight the orgasm, fight the need, her whole body trembling with the effort of obedience. "You come when I tell you to come."
She makes a sound that's pure desperation, and I watch her surrender deepen. Watch the federal agent, the woman who spent years in control of every situation, give all of that power to me. Trust me to hold it. Trust me to give her what she needs.
That's what I've been waiting for. Not the physical surrender. The psychological one.
I increase the pressure, tongue and fingers working in tandem, driving her right back to the edge. Her whole body goes taut, every muscle locked. She's seconds from breaking.
"Now," I order against her skin. "Come for me now."
She shatters. The orgasm hits her hard enough that the restraints strain and her legs shake and she makes sounds that are nothing like the controlled federal agent who walked into The Forge. Raw, desperate, completely unguarded. Her body clenches around my fingers, pulsing with each wave. I work her through it, drawing out every sensation, extending it until she's gasping and trembling and barely holding herself upright.
When the aftershocks finally fade, I stand and catch her before her knees give out completely. Release the cuffs carefully, guiding her to the padded bench. Her wrists are marked but not damaged. Good. I want her to feel those marks tomorrow. Want her to remember this every time she sees them.
Dominance doesn't end when the scene does. Taking someone apart means being there to put them back together. That's the contract.
I grab water, a blanket, everything she needs while the endorphins level out and reality settles back in.
She's quiet for a long moment, breathing evening out, processing what just happened. When she finally speaks, her voice is rough. "That was..."
"Intense," I supply. "Too much?"
"No." She meets my eyes. "Exactly what I needed. Permission to stop performing and just feel something real."
I pull her closer, keeping her warm while the adrenaline fades. Aftercare is part of the dominance. Not softness. Control extending through every phase of what just happened.
"This complicates things," she says after a moment. "You're a subject in my investigation. I'm federal law enforcement. We just crossed every professional boundary that exists."
"We did." I'm not going to pretend otherwise. "Does that change your investigation?"
"No. Professional and personal are separate." She shifts, meeting my gaze. "What happens between us doesn't affect the evidence. Doesn't change that someone's trafficking weapons through your shop. Doesn't mean I'll compromise the case to protect you if you're guilty."
"I know." And I do. That level of integrity is exactly why I trust her with the truth. "Does it change what just happened?"
"No. That was real. Separate from the investigation, separate from federal protocol. Just you and me figuring out what we need from each other."
The distinction matters. Means we can navigate this without pretending personal attraction doesn't exist while maintaining professional boundaries where they count.
Her phone buzzes on the bench where she left her clothes. She reaches for it, and I watch tension flood back into her shoulders as she reads the screen.
"What?" I ask, already knowing this is bad.
She answers the call, and I hear only her side of the conversation. "Monroe. When? Where?" Pause. "How many casualties? What kind of weapons?" Longer pause. "The vendor—do we have ID?" Her expression goes cold. "Send me everything. I'm on my way."
She ends the call and starts getting dressed, movements quick and efficient. The federal agent mask is back, but underneath I see the woman who just surrendered completely and is now facing whatever crisis just exploded.
