Chapter Twelve Sloane #2
He’s at my doorway without warning, his large frame filling the space completely. His eyes, dark and hungry, lock onto mine. The necklace dangles from his fingers like a silent threat.
“Invite me in, Sloane,” he says, his voice low and commanding. It’s not a request. It’s a demand barely contained by the rules we’ve established. He doesn’t cross the threshold, but everything in his posture suggests he’s barely restraining himself.
I hesitate, remembering our agreement. My space is mine. I’m supposed to be in control here. But the way he’s looking at me, waiting at the door like some vampire who can’t enter without verbal permission... it makes my blood rush faster.
“Come in,” I say, the words coming out breathier than I intended. As soon as they leave my lips, I feel something shift between us... a power transferring from me to him.
He takes one step over the threshold. We both know what it means. No cameras here. No excuses. No going back.
“Turn around,” he says softly, but it’s not really a request.
I do. The metal feels cold against my throat, but his fingers are warm as they work the clasp. Each small adjustment of the chains sends a new sensation across my skin. When they finally settle into place, the weight is perfect—commanding but not confining. Not yet.
“Look,” he murmurs, turning me toward the mirror.
The necklace transforms the simple camisole into something dangerous. Something powerful. Cole’s fingers trail along the chains, testing the tension. “Beautiful,” he says, but he’s not looking at the jewelry anymore.
“The cameras—” I start.
“Can’t see us here.” His hands settle on my waist. “That was part of our deal, remember?”
His hand finds the chain at my throat, fingers sliding beneath the links.
With the slightest pressure, he pulls me back against him.
I watch in the mirror as his other hand grips my waist, holding me in place while he tests the tension of the necklace.
The intensity of his gaze, the barely controlled power in his grip.
My knees would buckle if he wasn’t holding me up.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against my ear.
I don’t.
His lips brush against my neck, just above where the metal rests. “Last chance,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my skin.
I meet his eyes in the mirror, seeing my own desire reflected back. “I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper.
The air between us changes.
Suffocating as if his hand is around my throat and squeezing.
But instead of restraining my breath, his hand slides up to grip the necklace, not pulling, just holding—a reminder of the control I’ve given him. His other hand spans my waist, fingers splayed possessively against the silk.
“Do you understand what this means?” he asks, voice rough at my ear. “What you’re offering?”
I can barely breathe, caught between fear and a desire so intense it borders on pain. “I think so.”
“Not good enough.” His grip on the necklace tightens fractionally. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I’m giving you control,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Over this moment. Over me.”
A sound rumbles from his chest, something between approval and hunger.
His free hand slides up my arm, fingers tracing a path to my shoulder, then along my collarbone.
So light, so deliberate, making me hyperaware of each point of contact.
I stare at our reflection. I look flushed, eyes wide, lips parted.
“I could make you do anything right now,” he says, his mouth at my ear, breath hot against my skin. “You know that, don’t you?”
I nod, unable to speak. His hand slides higher, fingers encircling my throat above the necklace. The pressure is gentle but firm, a promise rather than a threat. I feel my pulse hammering against his palm.
“This necklace makes me want to do dirty things. Raw, unhinged things,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “It makes me want to see what you’d look like surrendering. I think this necklace could unleash the inner beast in anyone.”
With his hand on my throat, my head tilted back against his shoulder, I should feel vulnerable, afraid. Instead, I feel powerful, desired. Like I’m the one who’s brought this controlled, powerful man to the edge of his restraint.
“How does it feel?” he asks, adjusting the necklace so the chains drape differently, creating new sensations against my skin.
“Like flying,” I answer honestly. “Dangerous. Thrilling.”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror, dark with desire. “Good. Remember this feeling when you’re designing. This is what sets your work apart. You understand both sides of the power exchange. The freedom in surrender.”
His hand returns to the chains at my throat. With subtle pressure, he adjusts the tension, tightening the necklace just enough that I feel the pressure increase. Not enough to restrict my breathing but enough to remind me who controls it in this moment.
“If I were to kiss you right now,” he says, his lips hovering near mine, “could you stay professional tomorrow? Could you separate this”—his fingers trace the edge of the necklace—“from the business we’re building together?”
The question is not what I expected. It’s not what I expected. I’d been prepared for him to push further, to take more. Instead, he’s offering me a choice. A way back to safer ground.
“I—” My voice breaks, and I try again. “I don’t know.”
His smile is knowing, almost sad. “That’s what I thought.”
To my shock, his hands fall away. He steps back, putting distance between us. The absence of his touch leaves me cold, aching.
“The necklace is exquisite,” he says, his voice controlled again, though I can hear the strain. “It’s fucking hot and perfect for the collection.”
I turn to face him, confusion warring with frustration. “That’s it? A design critique and good night?”
“For now.” His eyes are still dark, hungry. “The collection comes first. We both know that. And crossing this line now...” He shakes his head. “It complicates things we can’t afford to complicate.”
He’s right, damn him. The collection, my career, everything I’ve worked for. It all hangs in the balance. And yet...
“And if I don’t want to wait?” I challenge, lifting my chin.
“That’s not your decision to make.” He reaches out, running one finger along the edge of the necklace, the touch so light it makes me shiver. “Not if you gave me control.”
I swallow hard, hating how needy my body feels... how desperate.
“Keep the necklace on,” he says as he turns to leave. “Think about what it means. What you want it to mean.”
At the doorway he pauses, looking back at me with an intensity that steals my breath. “And Sloane? If we do revisit this conversation—I can’t promise I’ll have the restraint to walk away. Remember that.”
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with my reflection and a necklace that suddenly feels far heavier than before. My heart is racing, my body on fire with unfulfilled desire. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Cole Asher at this moment.
And he just walked away.
I drag a shaking hand through my hair, trying to understand what just happened. One minute we were on the verge of... something explosive. The next, he was gone, leaving me frustrated and confused.
But as my pulse slowly returns to normal, I realize what he did. He gave me space to think clearly. To consider what crossing that line would really mean.
I touch the necklace at my throat, feeling the cool metal warm against my skin.
Control. Surrender. Consequences.
Damn him for understanding my creation better than I do myself.