His To CONTROL

CHAPTER 10 - SYDNEY

I return to Cross on Tuesday evening carrying a notebook, three pages of questions and enough nerves to make the biometric lift feel airless.

Jamerson meets me in the private foyer. He wears a charcoal waistcoat over a white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. The absence of a jacket makes him look less corporate and somehow more dangerous.

"You came," he says.

"I said I would."

"That doesn't make the choice insignificant."

He takes my coat only after I hand it to him. The courtesy feels deliberate. Tonight, every small action is designed to remind me that choice remains mine.

His suite occupies the top floor of the St James's building. Exposed Georgian brick meets dark silk, oak and a limestone hearth. The bed is vast without being theatrical. Restraint anchors sit flush within the floor, visible only once he points them out. Every piece of equipment has a place.

The order settles something inside me.

"You built this," I say.

"Remi and I financed it. I designed this room."

"It looks like a luxury hotel developed a control problem."

He smiles. "Accurate."

We do not begin near the bed.

Jamerson leads me to a mahogany desk where water, tea and two copies of a temporary agreement wait. He sits across from me rather than beside me.

"Tonight is not a contract for an ongoing dynamic," he says. "It records one encounter. Consent remains revocable regardless of anything written here."

"Good opening statement."

"Accountants appreciate disclosure."

"We're capable of miracles when people provide complete information."

We work through every page.

Green means continue. Amber means reduce intensity and check in. Red ends the scene immediately. No sharing. No photographs. No marks visible beneath ordinary work clothes. No impact near old gymnastics injuries. No interference with my contraception or health decisions.

"No penetration without protection," I say.

He writes it into both copies without argument.

"What about emotional limits?" he asks.

The question catches me.

"No humiliation."

"Specific words or themes?"

"Nothing suggesting I'm stupid, bought or dependent on you."

His expression hardens, not at me but at the idea. "Agreed."

"No involving Brian. Not even as provocation."

"Absolutely."

I add office interference and professional retaliation to the prohibited list. Jamerson accepts both.

"Aftercare?" he asks.

"I don't know what I'll need."

"Then I offer options. Touch, space, warmth, water, food. You decide as we go. I remain until you tell me to leave or you are safely asleep."

"What if I want to leave immediately?"

"I arrange transport and accompany you only if invited."

His answers are calm, but I can see restraint in the set of his shoulders. He wants this. The fact he can want it without rushing me becomes part of why I continue.

I ask about his limits.

For the first time, he pauses.

"Dishonesty," he says. "Deliberately provoking jealousy. Agreeing to something because you think I expect it rather than because you want it."

"Those are behavioural preferences."

"They are limits. I cannot hold responsibility for a choice you conceal from me."

"So honesty runs both ways."

"It has to."

I read the agreement again. Then I sign.

Jamerson does not reach for me.

"We have one more conversation," he says. "Tell me why you are here."

"Because I'm curious."

"Not enough."

"Because watching Meg made me understand that surrender could feel like relief rather than weakness."

"And why me?"

I look at him.

The truthful answer is more revealing than nudity.

"Because you pay attention. Because you know I can leave. Because you've wanted me for months and haven't tried to purchase access."

His jaw tightens.

"Anything else?"

"Because I want to know what your voice sounds like when you're no longer pretending we're colleagues."

Silence changes the room.

Before he allows that change to become action, he brings water and asks me to sit again. The gesture unsettles me more than another display of wealth would. I have spent months imagining dominance as appetite. Jamerson keeps returning it to administration: information, preparation, responsibility.

I ask about his previous submissives. He offers no names, only patterns: short agreements, carefully ended; compatibility without attachment; women who found other partners or discovered that club work suited them better. He admits he has never brought anyone into his family life.

"So this is another short agreement."

"Tonight is one night. Anything after it is a separate choice."

"You always have the correct sentence."

"No. I have practised the necessary ones."

"What's the difference?"

"Correct sentences make me sound safe. Necessary ones let you test whether I am."

We return to the checklist. He asks about old gymnastics injuries, and I explain the shoulder that still tightens in cold weather. We agree on hydration, food, transport and where I might sleep afterwards.

"You planned breakfast?"

"Aftercare lasts longer than the dramatic part."

"That should be on the club brochure."

"I have fought the marketing team over worse."

He shows me the room's clock and asks how long I want the scene to last. I do not know.

"Then we use checkpoints," he says. "You never endure the next ten minutes because you agreed to the first ten."

My nerves ease, then gather again when he sets the contract aside.

"Paper cannot consent for you," he says. "Only you can do that, continuously."

I think of Meg's delight, Angel's careful watchfulness, and my fascination with the control Jamerson wears so easily. I am not certain what tonight will reveal. I am certain I want the answer to belong to experience rather than fear.

"One more question," I say. "Why me? Give me the answer you don't use in boardrooms."

His gaze travels over me, direct but unhurried. "Because I have wanted you since the night at my parents' house, and wanting you has made patience feel like a physical discipline."

Heat moves beneath my skin.

"Better."

The chief executive disappears by degrees. His posture remains controlled, but the warmth leaves his eyes, replaced by a focus so complete I feel it on my skin.

"Stand," he says.

My body responds before my thoughts organise themselves.

I stand.

He circles once, not touching, letting me feel his attention travel over the shape of my dress, my legs and the hair falling down my back.

"Colour?"

"Green."