He shrugs out of the custom-tailored suit jacket without breaking eye contact, letting it fall to the floor in a heap of expensive fabric that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The white dress shirt beneath clings to the broad planes of his chest, the top two buttons already undone to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of deep green skin.
"Tie."
His hands move to the Windsor knot at his throat, thick fingers working the silk loose with practiced efficiency. He pulls the tie free and lets it join the jacket on the floor, his gaze never leaving mine. There's something almost meditative about the way he follows my instructions, a focused intensity that makes my pulse kick up another notch.
"You're enjoying this," I observe, uncrossing my arms and taking a deliberately slow step toward him, closing the distance between us with measured precision. The way his eyes track my movement, hungry, possessive, utterly focused, tells me everything I need to know about exactly how much he's savoring this moment of relinquished control.
"Immensely." His voice emerges as pure gravel, rough and low and thrumming with barely restrained need. "Keep going, Romee. I want to hear every order you have for me."
I take another step, my sensible flats silent against the bedroom floor. "Shirt. Unbutton it. Slowly."
He reaches for the top button with deliberate casualness, then pauses, his massive hand stilling against the white fabric. That signature smile spreads across his face, the one that's equal parts dangerous challenge and smoldering invitation, the one that makes my skin prickle with anticipation and my pulse hammer faster.
"You want to watch me strip for you, Romee?" His voice drops lower, that dark amusement I've come to crave threading through every syllable. "I like that. I like seeing you get that look in your eyes."
I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to acknowledge the flush creeping up my neck. "I gave you an instruction, Thrall. Follow it. Now."
That earns me a low growl that I feel in my bones. His hands move to the buttons, working them open one by one with deliberate slowness. Each one reveals more of that deep moss-green skin, the powerful architecture of muscle and bone beneath. There are faint scars scattered across his chest and abdomen, pale lines that catch the late afternoon light filtering through my bedroom window.
I want to trace every single one of them with my mouth.
"All the way off," I add when he reaches the last button.
He pulls the shirt free from his trousers and shrugs it off, letting it fall to join the growing pile of discarded clothing. The sheer size of him steals my breath. He's massive, all broad shoulders and thick, corded muscle, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths that betray none of the hunger I can see burning in his eyes.
I tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. My hands settle on his chest, palms flat against the warm, solid wall of muscle. His heartbeat thunders beneath my touch, fast and strong.
"You said you wanted equal partnership," I murmur, sliding my hands upward over his shoulders, mapping the landscape ofhis body with deliberate thoroughness. "That means you don't get to swoop in and take control every time we do this."
"I know."
"Do you? Because three weeks ago, you pinned me against a door and took exactly what you wanted without hesitation or negotiation. You didn't ask. You simply decided, and I..." I pause deliberately, watching his pupils dilate as the memory settles between us like smoke. "Well, I complied."
"And you loved every second of it," he says, but there's a question buried in the statement, a need for confirmation that surprises me coming from someone so perpetually certain of everything.
"I did," I admit freely, the confession tumbling out before I can stop it. But tonight, right now, the rules change. Tonight, I'm in charge. You follow my lead. My pace. My rules. Complete obedience, Thrall. No exceptions, no improvisation."
His hands twitch visibly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me, from pulling me close and reasserting the dominance that comes as naturally to him as breathing. The internal struggle plays out across his face, a fascinating war between his primal instinct to control and his desire to give me what I'm asking for.
"And if I don't?" he asks as my pulse quickens. "If I decide your rules don't apply to me?"
"Then I stop," I say simply, the threat delivered with absolute certainty. I lean up on my toes, my mouth brushing against the underside of his jaw in the barest whisper of contact. "Everything stops. And you leave. Without getting what you came here for. Without getting me."
The growl that rumbles through his chest is pure frustration, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he forces his hands to relax, lettingthem hang loose at his sides in a gesture of surrender that sends heat flooding through me.
"Good," I breathe against his skin. "Now get on the bed. On your back."
He moves immediately, crossing to my bed and lowering himself onto it with surprising grace for someone his size. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and he stretches out on his back, his massive frame taking up nearly the entire width of my queen-sized bed. His hands rest on his stomach, fingers laced together, and he watches me with part patience, part predatory anticipation.
I take my time crossing the room, shrugging out of his borrowed t-shirt and letting it pool on the floor. I'm wearing nothing underneath, and the way his gaze rakes over me, hot and possessive, makes my skin flush with awareness.
"Romee." My name tumbles from his lips as a rough exhale, the syllables stretched thin with barely controlled restraint. There's a plea buried somewhere in that single word, a raw vulnerability that catches me off guard even after everything we've done tonight. His voice drops lower, almost a whisper, laden with the kind of need that makes my pulse quicken.
I lean back slightly, just enough to meet his amber gaze head-on, and my voice comes out steady and measured, the same authoritative tone I use to command rooms full of intimidated executives. "Quiet. You don't talk unless I ask you a question. Those are the rules."
For a moment, I wonder if he'll push back, if that notorious tech CEO arrogance will reassert itself, if he'll try to negotiate or challenge my authority the way he does in every other context of his life. But then I watch as something shifts across his face, a deliberate surrender of control that's far more intimate than anything physical.
His jaw clenches visibly, the muscles working beneath his moss-green skin as he processes my command. Then, slowly and deliberately, he nods once, a sharp, economical movement that's somehow deeply obedient. It's such a stark contrast to his usual commanding presence that it sends another wave of heat through me.
