His to Command

2 - An Offer Wrapped in Velvet

The limousine was a silent, rolling tomb. No windows. No distractions. Just the low hum of the engine and the scent of cold, conditioned leather. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, a rhythm of pure, unadulterated panic. Lucien sat beside me, a statue of contained power, his presence a physical weight in the confined space. He hadn’t spoken since we left the lab, his silence a more effective tool of domination than any command.

A black silk scarf lay folded on the seat between us. He picked it up, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “The first rule of entry is oblivion. You will see my world only when I permit it.”

My throat went dry. “A blindfold.”

“An invitation to focus on sensation. To feel, Solange. Not to think.” His voice was a low, hypnotic thrum. “Do you consent?”

What choice did I have? This was the contract. This was the price. A shaky breath left my lungs. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

The correction was immediate, a gentle but unyielding force. It sparked a flicker of rebellion that was instantly doused by a hotter, darker curiosity. “Yes, Sir.”

He moved with an unnerving grace. The world vanished into a void of plush black silk. The knot was secure, not tight, but absolute. My other senses screamed to life. The sound of his breathing. The scent of him, that clean, expensive sandalwood mixed with something darker, something uniquely male that made my stomach clench with a need I refused to name.

The car stopped. A door opened. Cool night air brushed my face for a single, disorienting second before his hand was on my arm, his grip firm and guiding. “Step out. I have you.”

He led me forward. My heels sank into something soft. Grass? Then the texture changed to smooth, cool stone. A door whispered open, and the air transformed. It was warm, humid, and saturated with a thousand intoxicating notes. My notes. Velvet Accord. It hung in the air, a living, breathing entity, but it was different. Deeper. Richer. It reacted to this place, to the bodies within it. My scientific mind whirred, trying to catalog the change, but his touch severed the thought.

“This way.” His voice was close to my ear, his breath a warm caress on my neck.

We walked. The floor beneath my feet was polished, seamless. Muffled sounds reached me, the soft strains of a cello, a distant, breathless sigh, the rustle of fabric. I was hyper-aware of his hand on my elbow, the only anchor in a sea of unknown sensation. He stopped me. A door clicked shut behind us, muting the outside world completely. The air here was cleaner, the scent more concentrated. Us. It was our scent now, blooming wildly in the confined space.

His hands came to my shoulders, turning me to face him. I could feel the heat of his body just inches from mine. “The second rule,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of my collarbone over my lab coat. “Your body belongs to me tonight. Its reactions are my data. Its pleasure is my design. Do you understand?”

I swallowed, my mouth watering. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” His fingers found the buttons of my coat. One by one, he undid them, his movements slow, ritualistic. The white fabric fell open, then was pushed from my shoulders. It pooled on the floor at my feet. I stood before him in my simple cotton shirt and trousers, feeling more exposed than if I were naked. The cool air raised goosebumps on my arms.

His fingertips skimmed up my sides, mapping my shape through the thin cotton. A jolt of electricity shot through me, so sharp my knees almost buckled. f**k. I bit my lip, trying to stifle the sound that wanted to escape.

“I can feel your pulse from here, Solange,” he whispered. “It’s racing. What is your body telling me that your mouth will not?”

His hands slid around to my front, his palms flattening against my stomach, pulling me back against the solid wall of his chest. I could feel every hard plane of him. His chin rested on my shoulder, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “It’s telling me you’re terrified. And it’s telling me you’re so f*****g aroused you can barely stand.”

His words were a violation and a liberation. He was reading me like one of my chemical equations, and the result was undeniable. A warm, heavy ache settled between my legs, a throbbing insistence that demanded attention.

One hand drifted lower, splaying over my lower abdomen, pressing down. The pressure was exquisite, intensifying the empty ache inside me. My head fell back against his shoulder, a silent plea.

“Use your words, chemist. What do you feel?”

“I feel…” I gasped as his other hand came up to cup my breast through my shirt, his thumb circling my n****e until it beaded into a hard, sensitive peak. “I feel your hands on me.”

“And what does that feel like?” His voice was a dark velvet rumble, laced with a command I was helpless to disobey.

“It feels… like you own me.” The admission was torn from me, a truth I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

“I do.” His teeth grazed my earlobe. “Now, the third rule. You will ask for what you need. You will beg for my touch. And you will request permission for your climax. Now ask me, Solange. Ask me to touch you where you’re aching for me.”

My pride was a distant memory, incinerated by the heat of his command. The words were ash on my tongue. “Please, Sir. Touch me.”

“Where?”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of my trousers, popping the button. The zipper hissed open. “Tell me precisely.”

His hand slid inside, past the elastic of my underwear. His fingers were cool against my feverish skin. They didn’t dive for the core of me. They traced the very top of my slit, a feather-light, maddening tease. A broken sob escaped my lips. My hips pressed back against him, seeking more, seeking pressure.

“Say it.”

“Please, Sir. Touch my p***y. Please f**k me with your fingers.”

The vulgarity, spoken in my own voice, shattered the last of my resistance.

“Good girl.”

One long, skilled finger plunged into me. I cried out, the sound echoing in the quiet room. I was soaked, my body welcoming the invasion with a greedy, clutching heat. Oh god. He withdrew almost completely, then pushed back in with two fingers, stretching me, filling me. The heel of his palm ground against my c**t with every thrust.

My world narrowed to the rhythm of his hand, the scent of our desire saturating the air, the feel of his hard chest against my back. This was nothing like the clinical, selfish encounters of my past. This was a dissection. A mastery. He was learning me, finding the perfect angle, the perfect pressure that made me see stars behind the blindfold.

“You’re so wet for me,” he growled into my ear. “Your body is so honest. It knows its master. Now, ask for it. Ask for your release.”

I was teetering on the edge, a tight, screaming coil of need. “Please, Sir. May I come? Please, I need to come.”

His thrusts became harder, deeper, his thumb circling my c**t with ruthless precision. “Come for me, Solange. Now.”

The command unleashed the tidal wave. Pleasure detonated through me, a silent, screaming orgasm that ripped through every nerve ending. My body convulsed around his fingers, milking them, my cries muffled against his suit jacket. He held me through it, his arm like an iron band around my waist, keeping me upright as I shattered.

As the last tremors subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers. He brought them to my lips. “Taste,” he commanded, his voice rough with his own hunger. “Taste your surrender.”

And God help me, I did. I opened my mouth, and he slid his glistening fingers over my tongue. The taste of my own desire, sharp and musky, was the most intoxicating thing I’d ever known.

He spun me around to face him, his hands cupping my face. I could feel his own arousal, hard and demanding against my stomach. The blindfold was suddenly gone. I blinked against the sudden low light, my vision swimming. And I saw him. Not the investor, not the stranger. Lucien. His icy blue eyes were burning, his controlled composure fractured by a raw, predatory hunger.

“The final rule,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous promise as he began to unbutton his own shirt.