Page 8 of His Dark Desires

"Adrian." I settle onto the adjacent barstool, maintaining enough distance to be polite but close enough to catch the notes of her perfume.

Her manicured nails tap against the stem of her glass, a silent rhythm of anticipation. Everything about her is carefully curated, like Mara—from the arch of her brow to the cross of her legs. Professional, perhaps legal or finance, someone who commands boardrooms by day and seeks surrender by night.

The bartender sets a glass of scotch in front of me without prompting. Celeste notes the amber liquid with interest.

"Now that's what I'd call a man." Her voice carries the precise diction of someone who chooses every word with care. "You don't even have to say a word to get what you want."

"In a place like this, it needs to be clear who's in control." I take a measured sip, letting the smoky notes linger. My eyes don't leave hers. "Everyone here respects that."

Her fingers trace the rim of her glass. "I suppose there's merit in everyone knowing their place."

"Indeed." I set my drink down, turning to face her fully. "I have a suite upstairs if you're interested in exploring that merit."

Celeste's smile sharpens. "Direct. I appreciate that." She stands, smoothing her dress. "Lead the way."

I rise, leaving my barely touched scotch behind. No games, no pretense—just the pure simplicity of understood intentions. The weight of the evening's performance at the gallery falls away with each step toward the private elevator.

The tension between control and release pulls taut as steel cables. Tonight, at least, there will be no questions about motives or consequences. Just clarity.

After we step off the elevator, I lead Celeste through the dimly lit corridors of Dominion, past velvet curtains and closed doors. We exchange no words—none are needed. The understanding passes between us in hungry glances.

The private room unfolds before us as I swipe my access card. Ambient lighting casts everything in a warm glow, softening the edges of the king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton. Dark leather accents complement the deep burgundy walls. Discrete steel rings are mounted at strategic points, their purpose clear without being ostentatious.

Celeste's fingers trail along the edge of a padded bench as she takes in the space. Her expression remains carefully neutral, but I catch the slight quickening of her breath.

The door clicks shut behind us with a sound of finality.

"Strip," I command.

Her movements are graceful as she complies, efficient. I watch as she turns, offering me her profile. Her dress slips down her arms, pooling at her feet. Her skin is pale, flawless except for the pale red marks of old sessions. Not mine. But now I know she can take whatever I have to give her.

"Faster." My command snaps like a whip.

Her hands tremble, but she obeys, peeling away the remaining layers. She's beautiful—there's no denying it. But she's not Sophia. The thought creeps into my mind unbidden, unwelcome. I push it down, focusing on the moment.

"Hands behind your back."

She complies, offering her slender wrists in silent invitation. I loop a soft rope around them, pulling it tight. Celeste's breath catches, and as I pull her to me and get a look at her face, I see her eyes half-closing at the restriction.

"Do you like that?" I ask, my voice betraying none of the turmoil beneath the surface. Inside, something is unraveling.

"Yes." The word is barely audible, but her hardened nipples give her away.

"What else do you like, Celeste?" I circle her like a predator, taking in the rise and fall of her breasts with each rapid breath, the way her muscles tense as she fights to keep her balance.

"Please..." Her eyes flicker to mine, the plea hanging between us.

I run my hand over her waist, relishing the soft gasp it elicits. "Tell me what you want."

"To be used." Her reply is immediate, desperate.

I nod in satisfaction, my fingers tracing the curve of her hip, the indentation of her waist. "You like to be told what to do, don't you?"

She nods, her eyes downcast. "Yes."

My thumb brushes her swollen clit, and she shudders. "Look at me when you answer. I want to see your eyes when you speak."

Her face snaps up, shame and hunger warring in her amber irises. "I like it when you touch me. When you tell me what a dirty slut I am."

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