As I guideLea into my lake house, my mind replays that moment on the dance floor, her command still in my head: “Take me to your bedroom. Now.” The drive home was silent, neither of us willing to break the fragile balance of power suspended between us.
I shut the door behind us with a soft click. The adrenaline rush from the gala, from that unexpected, explosive kiss, has faded now, leaving in its wake a cold, analytical clarity. This is what I do best: dissect situations, calculate variables, plan three moves ahead. Yet something about today feels different, unbalanced. Dangerous.
Lea stands in the center of my bedroom, her stunning red dress a violent splash of color against the minimalist gray and white decor. She’s watching me, her chin slightly raised, lips still faintly swollen from our kiss. She’s perfected this new posture. It’s confident, seductive, clearly a woman who knows her power and isn’t afraid to wield it.
It’s a remarkable performance. And that’s exactly what it is: a performance.
The compliant, observant prisoner is gone. In her place stands this bold seductress, who thinks she can gain the upper hand by controlling the sexual dynamic between us. It’s a calculated move, not a surrender. I recognize the strategy because I’ve employed it myself countless times.
I unbutton my tuxedo jacket slowly, watching her eyes follow my movements. “That was quite a command at the gala,” I say, my voice deliberately casual as I hang the jacket over a chair. “Not a request. Not a suggestion. A command.”
Her lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Did you prefer when I was afraid of you?”
“I prefer authenticity,” I counter, loosening my bow tie but not removing it. “Even authentic fear is more honest than manufactured desire.”
She takes a step toward me, her movements fluid and graceful. The dress clings to every curve, emphasizing the slight sway of her hips. “What makes you think it’s manufactured?”
I consider the possibilities as I roll up my sleeves with deliberate precision. Is it possible her desire is genuine? The raw honesty of her response on the dance floor was undeniable. The way she gasped into my mouth, the hunger with which she returned my kiss. For a moment, the masks fell away, revealing something primal and unguarded.
But that’s a dangerous thought. Genuine emotion would imply a connection, a vulnerability that neither of us can afford. No, the more likely explanation is that she’s adapting her strategy. She’s realized that direct defiance won’t work, so she’s tryinga more sophisticated approach. Sex as manipulation. Pleasure as distraction. A classic move in chess when your position is threatened. Create complications elsewhere on the board.
“Tell me, Lea,” I say, moving toward her with measured steps, “when did you decide on this tactic? Was it when you realized you couldn’t escape the lake house? Or when you found the surveillance files of your mother?” I stop just inches from her, close enough to feel heat from her body. “Or when you tried to contact someone on the outside?”
The momentary widening of her eyes confirms my suspicion.Good.Let her know I’m still three steps ahead.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, but there’s a new wariness in her posture.
“No? Then let me be more direct.” I reach out, not to touch her, but to flick a thin strap of her dress off her shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, asserting control over her body while denying the contact she expects. “You think you can gain power by initiating sex. You believe it gives you control over the encounter, over me. It’s a common enough strategy.”
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fix the strap. “And what’s your strategy, Nico? Because I don’t think it’s working as well as you’d planned.”
I smile, allowing an icy edge to creep into the expression. “My strategy is always the same, piccola. Total control.”
Her eyes darken slightly at the nickname, a tell I’ve noted before. She both hates and responds to it on some primal level.
I move to the side table and open a drawer, noting how she tracks my movements with carefully controlled interest. Myfingers find what I’m looking for: a small remote control. I press a button, and blackout blinds descend over the windows, sealing us in with a soft mechanical whir. Another button, and the recessed lighting comes on, casting the room in a dim, amber glow.
“You issued a command at the gala,” I say, setting down the remote and turning back to her, my voice a low growl. “Now I’ll issue one of my own.” I pause, letting the silence stretch like a taut wire, watching the first crack appear in her composure: a subtle tension rippling through her shoulders, the way her fingers curl slightly at her sides. “Kneel.”
The words slice through the space between us, stark and unyielding. This is the crucible, the moment that will reveal all her schemes, her fire, and the raw hunger she tries so hard to bury. I study her with the precision of a predator, cataloging every flicker: the spark of defiance in her dark eyes, swiftly banked; the quick calculation as she weighs the cost of rebellion; the tightening of her jaw before she forces it to loosen.
Then, with a grace that’s almost defiant in its elegance, she sinks to her knees. The red silk of her dress pools around her like fresh-spilled blood, whispering against the polished hardwood floor. Her gaze locks onto mine the whole way down—a tiny insurgency amid her submission.
“Good,” I say, beginning a slow circle around her, my footsteps deliberate, echoing softly. “But not quite right.” I stop behind her, bend down close enough that my breath ghosts over the nape of her neck, raising fine hairs on her exposed skin. “Eyes on the floor.”
She hesitates, just a beat, her breath hitching. Then her head dips, gaze dropping submissively. The back of her neck is barednow, vulnerable beneath the upswept elegance of her hair from the gala. A few rebellious tendrils have escaped, curling damply against her flushed skin. I resist the urge to trace them, to feel the heat radiating from her body. Not yet. Control is everything.
“You overstepped this afternoon,” I continue, resuming my prowl, my voice a velvet blade. “You spoke to Wong after I explicitly ended that conversation. You challenged me in front of Chicago’s elite.” I halt, towering over her kneeling form. “Actions have consequences, Lea. Even for a clever little journalist like you. Especially for you.”
She doesn’t lift her eyes, but I see it—the frantic pulse throbbing at the base of her throat, betraying the storm beneath her calm.
“Stand up.”
She rises, her movements a touch less fluid now, a hint of a tremor in her legs. Perfect. The uncertainty is seeping in, eroding her edges.
“Turn around.”
She obeys, presenting her back to me. The dress clings to her curves, the delicate zipper a silver line from her neck to the dip of her spine. I step closer, so near that the heat of my body presses against hers without touching, my breath warming the shell of her ear. Still, I withhold contact. Let her crave it.
