Page 300 of Rosetti Family New York
"Fine," I whisper, even as every sensible part of me screams warnings.
I sit on his lap. Make contact. His thighs are firm beneath me, heat radiating through the fabric even though the room is warm. When his arms surround me to reach the keyboard, I'm enveloped by the scent of cedar.
"Comfortable?" he asks, amusement in his voice making my cheeks flush.
"Just show me what we're dealing with."
His fingers move swiftly across the keys, and I have to lean back against his chest to see the screens clearly. The contact sends a shiver down my spine, making me hyperaware of every breath and movement of his body against mine.
"Here," he murmurs close to my ear, his breath stirring my loose hair. "They're using a distributed attack pattern. Multiple entry points, coordinated timing. See how they're probing for weaknesses?"
I do see it, the intricate complexity of military-grade intrusion methods adapted for civilian targets. But concentrating becomes almost impossible with his lips so near my throat, with the steady beat of his heart against my spine.
"Adaptive algorithms," I manage, leaning forward to study the data streams, trying to ignore how the movement presses my back more firmly against him. "They're learning from your countermeasures."
"Exactly." His hands guide mine to the keyboard, his fingers covering mine with a warm, claiming touch. "Which means we need to be unpredictable. Force them to react instead of act."
The contact sends heat up my arms, but beyond the physical response, I feel a surge of intellectual excitement. This is a high-level chess game, minds clashing over battlefields where a single mistake means failure.
"Give me the secondary interface," I say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds despite the chaos in my pulse.
"No."
His refusal is blunt. I lean in to study his face, close enough to see silver flecks in his eyes.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't share control of my systems. Ever." His voice drops to a low register that makes my core clench, even now. "But I'll teach you to use mine."
The difference hits hard. It’s not partnership, it’s permission. Not equality, but joining on his terms, under his rules and total authority over all our interactions.
The power shift feels terrible. So why do I feel heat in my belly?
"Show me," I breathe. The choice is made, despite every feminist instinct screaming no.
His hands take mine to guide me through the interface, his fingers weaving with mine as he shows me a process that feels more like seduction than training. "Here, redirect their probe through these proxy servers. Make them think they're gaining ground while we trace their origin point."
The plan is brilliant: use the attackers’ own aggression against them and gather intel to stop future threats. But it demands close cooperation, his hands on mine to guide exact steps, his voice soft near my ear as he explains each move.
"Like this?" I ask, launching a counter-probe that should expose their command network.
"Perfect." Pride in his voice warms my chest. "You learn fast."
"I've had good teachers." The words slip out, memories of men who tried to show me their systems, their methods, their secrets. None of them taught in a way that felt like foreplay.
"Have you?" A dangerous edge surfaces in his tone, possessive, making my skin prickle. "And did you enjoy learning from them?"
The question carries more than curiosity: it’s a challenge, a threat, maybe jealousy.
"Not like this," I admit, feeling honesty well up from somewhere deep. "Never like this."
His body stiffens behind me, muscles flexing as he holds back. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher.
"Good," he growls against my ear. "Because this is mine. You responding to my instruction, your body against mine while we work. All of it belongs to me."
Realizing I can be this dangerous, this ready to give in to force, fire blazes through me. Heat pools between my thighs, arousal surging.
"Emilio," I begin, uncertain if it's a protest or plea.
