His To CONTROL

CHAPTER 13 - JAMERSON

For the first month, our arrangement works precisely as designed.

Sydney arrives at Cross carrying tension in her shoulders and numbers behind her eyes. I give her rules simple enough to replace the decisions that consume her days. Where to stand. When to speak. What to wear beneath the clothes she chooses for work.

She does not submit easily.

That is why every act of obedience matters.

Outside an open scene, she remains entirely herself. She challenges me in meetings, defeats me in games and refuses to allow a private title to become a public advantage. If I look at her too long across a family dining table, one raised eyebrow reminds me of our agreement.

I enjoy the separation more than expected.

It lets me believe control is complete.

Then Summers Global enters the final stage of acquiring a transatlantic media group.

My working days stretch to sixteen hours. Lawyers call from three time zones. Board members demand certainty where none exists. Every conversation ends with another variable I cannot control.

The pressure follows me into private rooms.

At first, I tell Sydney what I need. Harder scenes. Less conversation. More time with her attention fixed entirely on me. She agrees when her schedule allows and refuses when it does not.

The first refusal surprises me.

"Quarter-end," she says over the phone. "I will be working until midnight."

"Come afterwards."

"No."

It is not a safeword. We are not in a scene. Still, the syllable lands like resistance.

"I need you."

"Then you need to decide whether sleep or s*x is the responsible option, because I am not available."

She is right.

Knowing that makes frustration sharper.

Two nights later, she refuses again. Her own deadlines have intensified, and I hear exhaustion beneath her voice. I end the call correctly. I do not argue or punish her silence.

Then I spend an hour imagining ways to make her understand how it feels to remain permanently on the edge of resolution.

The idea is born as communication.

By the time I reach her office, it has become retaliation.

The floor is empty. I gain access because our companies share executive clearance—authority intended for professional emergencies, not private need.

The office door clicks open. I step inside, locking the door behind me. I look formidable, my tie loosened, my dark hair slightly dishevelled, my blue eyes dark with intense, coiled frustration.

"Jamerson?" Sydney asked, surprised. "What are you doing here? I'm in the middle of closing the European ledger."

I don’t answer. I stride across the carpet, grab her chair, and spin it to face me. Before she can speak, I grip her wrists, pinning them to the armrests, my broad frame towering over hers.

"On your knees, Sydney," I command, my voice tight and rough.

"Here? Jamerson, this is my office—"

"Now," I order.

Sydney complies, kneeling on the carpet beneath her desk. I unzip my trousers, freeing my thick, hardened length. Guiding my c**k into her mouth, I set a demanding, relentless rhythm; my fingers tangle in her curly hair. Sydney takes me, using her tongue to soothe the tension in my body, but the pace is hurried and demanding.

Before I reach my release, I pull back, lifting Sydney by the waist and hoisting her onto the edge of the mahogany desk, pushing her skirt up. I retrieve a compact, high-powered bullet vibrator from my jacket pocket, pressing it firmly against her c**t while my other hand pins her thighs apart.

The sudden, intense vibration sends a violent shockwave through Sydney's body. She gasps, her hands gripping the edge of the desk as her arousal spikes instantly to the brink of climax.

"Jamerson, please... I'm going to come..." she whimpers.

Just as her body began to convulse, I abruptly pull the vibrator away, stepping back.

Sydney gasps, stranded on the edge of the desk, her body aching with intense, denied frustration.

I zip my trousers, button my jacket, and look down at her, my breathing heavy. "That is how I feel every minute of every day in those boardrooms, Sydney. Frustrated. Coiled. Needing release."

Without another word, I turn, unlock the office door, and walk out into the corridor, leaving her trembling alone in the dark.

The lift descends three floors before shame reaches me.

I have not crossed a written physical limit. Office play appears on our negotiated list. Sydney does not use a safeword.

Every defence is factually correct and morally worthless.

Office play requires confirmation that we are alone and willing. I use her surprise as an opening. I turn a negotiated act into punishment for having a life that does not rearrange itself around my needs.

Then I withhold aftercare because abandonment is the point.

The behaviour is not dominance.

It is cruelty wearing the shape of our contract.

I press the button for her floor.

Her office door is locked from inside when I return.

"Sydney."

Silence.

"Open the door."

The command leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

"Go home, Jamerson."

Her voice is steady enough to make the humiliation worse.

"You're right. I had no right to do that. Let me look after you."

"You don't get to become reasonable after you've made your point."

I rest my forehead against the door.

"No. I don't."

"Leave."

Every instinct demands I remain until she lets me repair the damage. That instinct is another form of entitlement.

So I leave.

At home in Limehouse, the rooms feel sterile. I read our contract from beginning to end. The anger clause sits in Sydney's handwriting.

If you're angry with me, we talk before you touch me.

I violated it within a month.

I write an apology and delete it because explanations keep turning into defences. I order her favourite flowers, white calla lilies, not roses and groceries for the meal she once described as comfort food.

Neither creates forgiveness.

They simply give me a reason to stand at her door and tell the truth.