I should have said no.
I didn't.
The sound of his belt buckle was too loud in the quiet room. It echoed off the dark wood of his desk and the tall windows overlooking a city I no longer recognized.
Alexander watched me.
Always watching.
His gray eyes held no heat, only expectation.
"On your knees," he said.
Not a request.
My knees hit the floor.
The hardwood was cold, a sharp shock through the thin fabric of my dress.
I could smell him now, rich wool, clean skin, something uniquely male that made my stomach clench.
He unzipped his pants.
The sound was rough, intimate.
I shouldn't look. I did.
He was hard.
Thick, flushed, standing rigid against the expensive fabric of his trousers.
He wasn't gentle. He wasn't kind.
He was in control.
"Open your mouth."
My lips parted before I could stop them.
He guided himself to my lips, the smooth, hot skin pressing against them.
A tremor went through me.
This was real.
This was happening.
I closed my eyes, but the image was burned into my mind, his hand, his cock, the raw power of it all.
He pushed inside.
Slow.
Deliberate.
My mouth stretched to accommodate him.
He was bigger than I'd imagined.
The weight of him on my tongue was heavy, hot, undeniably real.
My cheeks hollowed as I tried to take more of him.
A low sound vibrated in his chest.
Not a moan.
Approval.
My hands rested on his thighs, the fine wool cool against my flushed skin.
I could feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint he held even now.
I moved, learning him, tasting the salty bitterness of his arousal.
My mind raced... this was Alexander Ward, the man who'd ruined my father, the man I was supposed to hate.
But there was no hate.
Not here.
Not now.
There was only the thick heat of him in my mouth, the low, controlled sounds from his throat, the sharp scent of his dominance filling my senses.
His fingers tangled in my hair, not gentle, not rough, just… holding.
Possessing.
"Look at me."
My eyes fluttered open.
He was watching me, his expression unreadable, those gray eyes like smoke.
His control was flawless.
Mine was shattered.
He thrust his hips forward, just once.
A test.
My eyes watered
He held my gaze through it, his power washing over me, drowning me.
And I let it.
I let him take everything.
"Is this what you imagined?" he asked, voice low.
I couldn't answer.
My mouth was full of him.
He chuckled, a dark, intimate sound that vibrated through my entire body.
He didn't need my answer.
He knew.
His grip tightened in my hair as he guided my movements, setting a rhythm that was his and his alone.
I was a vessel for his pleasure, a willing sacrifice in this war between our families.
The thought should have revolted me.
It didn't.
It fueled a dark, twisted part of me I hadn't known existed.
I wanted to please him.
Wanted to break that perfect control, to see him lose himself in me.
I swirled my tongue around his tip, tracing the sensitive ridge.
His breath hitched.
Victory.
But it was short-lived.
His fingers tightened, a silent warning.
This was his game.
His rules.
His pleasure.
I was just the instrument.
His hips moved faster, the rhythm becoming erratic, losing its careful precision.
The control was slipping.
I could feel it.
Could taste it in the way his movements became jerky, desperate.
His eyes never left mine, watching every flicker of emotion, every tear that escaped and traced a path down my cheek.
He was close.
I could feel it in the way his thighs tensed under my hands, in the low growl that built in his chest.
"Swallow," he commanded.
The words were barely out before he came.
Hot, thick, bitter coating my tongue, filling my throat.
I swallowed, the action automatic, instinctual.
A shudder ran through him, his whole body tensing as he emptied himself into me.
And then, silence.
Heavy.
Thick.
He withdrew slowly, leaving me empty, exposed.
I stayed on my knees, my head bowed, my mouth tasting of him.
Of power.
Of submission.
He tucked himself away, the sound of his zipper a final, dismissive punctuation to the act.
He didn't offer me a hand.
He didn't speak.
He walked back to his desk and sat down, the perfect businessman, as if I weren't still on the floor, a mess of shame and something darker, something I didn't want to name.
"Stand up," he said, his voice calm. Remote.
I pushed myself to my feet, my legs shaking, my dress wrinkled, my dignity in tatters.
He gestured to the contract on his desk, my signature still wet with ink.
"The year starts now," he said.
Not a question.
A statement.
My life, for the next 365 days, was no longer my own.
I was his.