Page 11 of His to Command

The sound of my name in her mouth sends satisfaction coursing through me. "Because I want you here."

"Why?" She presses, bolder now. "There are dozens of women in the company better qualified for this position. Women who would be thrilled to work directly for you."

"I don't want dozens of women." I lean forward, holding her gaze. "I want you."

The bluntness silences her. Her lips part, then close. She looks down at her hands, then back at me.

"I'd like to go home now," she says quietly.

Something dangerous stirs in me at her rejection, but I master it. This is a chess game, and I'm playing for the long win. I've made enough progress tonight. Pushed enough boundaries. Tomorrow, I'll push more.

"Of course." I stand, offering a hand she doesn't take. "I'll call the car."

While we wait for the elevator, she stands with careful distance between us, her body language closed, defensive. But she can't hide the flush on her cheeks, the slight tremor in her hands, the way her breathing quickens when I move closer.

"Thank you for your work tonight," I say formally as the elevator arrives. "We'll continue tomorrow."

She steps inside, turning to face me. "Goodnight, Mr. Roth."

"Hudson," I correct one final time as the doors begin to close.

Just before they shut completely, I see her lips form the word. "Hudson."

Alone in my penthouse, I pour a whiskey and return to the chair where she sat. It still holds her warmth, her scent. I close my eyes, replaying every reaction, every unguarded moment.

She's fighting her attraction, holding onto her boundaries. But I saw the cracks forming. Tomorrow I'll widen them. The day after, break through completely.

I pull out my phone, looking at the photo I took of her silhouetted against the city lights. My city. Soon, my woman.

I change her schedule for tomorrow—early meeting in my office, lunch with me, afternoon conference that will run late. I book a hotel suite in the building in case we "work too late to go home." I schedule a car to pick her up from her apartment, ensuring she has no transportation independence.

Small, strategic moves. Cutting off exits. Creating dependency. Building inevitability.

Robin Hastings thinks she's maintaining professional boundaries. She doesn't realize yet that I've already decided:she's mine. The only choice she has is how long she fights it before surrendering to the inevitable.

five

. . .

Robin

I arriveat the office at 6:45 AM, fifteen minutes before the car Hudson sent was scheduled to pick me up. I need these moments alone, to breathe, to think, to pull myself together before seeing him again. Last night plays on repeat in my mind—his eyes holding mine across his dining table, his fingers deliberately brushing against mine, his voice dropping to that dangerous register when he said "I want you." Not my skills. Not my brain. Me. And God help me, despite my professional boundaries and better judgment, I spent all night thinking about what it would be like to be wanted by Hudson Roth.

The executive floor is ghostly quiet this early. My heels click against marble, each sound amplified in the silence. I settle at my desk, breathing in the lingering scent of Hudson's cologne that somehow permeates even this outer office space. My body remembers it from last night—that proximity, the heat of him beside me, the deliberate touches disguised as accidents.

I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face—that predatory focus, the slight curl of his lips when he caught me reacting to him. Worse, when I finally did sleep, my dreams were filled with those hands on me, that mouth against my skin, those eyes watching me come undone. I woke tangled in sheets, breathless, aching for something I shouldn't want.

The outer door opens precisely at 7:30. Hudson strides in, suit immaculate, expression unreadable. He stops at my desk, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

"You're early," he observes.

"Yes, I—I wanted to organize for the day."

His eyes narrow slightly. He knows I'm lying. "My office. Now."

I follow him through the inner doors, notepad clutched in white-knuckled fingers. He doesn't sit behind his desk but stands at the window, city spread before him like a kingdom.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks without turning.

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