He gestured toward the restrained woman on the bench, toward the two people kneeling near Dom's feet.
“Show us what control really looks like,” Harrow said. Not to the room. To Dom specifically. “Show us why everyone speaks of your particular talents with such reverence.”
It was challenge and invitation wrapped together. A power play disguised as deference.
Dom's expression didn't change. He just nodded once. Acceptance.
Then he moved, and the room's energy shifted completely.
Dmitri's voice came through the nearly invisible earpiece I wore: “Cameras positioned. Audio live. I've got clean coverage of Harrow's corner and the entrance. Luka's engaging the fixer now. Troy has eyes on the enforcer.”
I touched my ear once. Acknowledgment.
The scene intensified. Dom had three people kneeling now. One he'd restrained to a bench—a woman with dark hair who arched into the leather straps with visible need. The other two positioned at his feet—a younger man with swimmer's build and an older woman whose composure had already started fracturing under Dom's attention.
His commands were quiet but absolute.
Dom circled the restrained woman slowly. Trailing fingers down her spine. She shivered. Pressed back into his touch with a sound that was half plea, half gratitude.
“Patience,” Dom said. Voice low. Controlled. “You'll get what you need. When I decide you've earned it.”
“Please,” she whispered.
“Please what?”
“Please, Sir. I need?—”
“You need what I give you. Nothing more. Nothing less.” His hand fisted in her hair. Pulled her head back so she had to look at him. “Understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He released her. Moved to the two kneeling at his feet. “You. Up.”
The younger man stood immediately. Dom guided him to stand behind the restrained woman. Positioned his hands on her hips. “Hold her steady. Don't move unless I tell you to.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Dom turned his attention to the older woman still kneeling. “And you. Show me what that mouth can do.”
She moved forward eagerly. Hands reaching for Dom's belt. He caught her wrists. Stopped her.
“Did I say you could use your hands?”
“No, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir.”
“Then put them behind your back and try again.”
She complied. Clasped her hands behind her. Used only her mouth to work Dom's belt open. Unzip his trousers with teeth and determination that would have been impressive if I wasn't trying to catalogue exits while watching this unfold.
My cock was hardening despite professional detachment. Despite the fact that I was supposed to be working. Despite every reason this shouldn't affect me. The leather harness felt tight across my chest suddenly, the fabric of my trousers restrictive.
Dom's head fell back slightly as she got his trousers open. His cock freed—thick and already hard. She didn't hesitate. Took him into her mouth with enthusiasm that made Dom's breath catch.
“Fuck,” he muttered. Hand moving to her hair. Guiding her rhythm. “That's good. Just like that.”
The sound of it—wet and obscene—carried through the room. Other participants watched. Some touching themselves. Others touching each other. The orgy building in layers.
Harrow leaned forward in his corner. Watching Dom with predatory fascination. His attention completely focused on the display of dominance, cataloguing every movement, every command. I stayed in the periphery, just another observer in dark clothes, forgettable behind my mask.
