Chapter 2
Adrian
The gallery's warmth fades behind me as I step out. The sidewalk gleams under the neon lights, still damp from an earlier rain. My pulse hasn't quite settled from our interaction—Sophia's effect stays with me. Mara falls into step beside me.
"I need you to ensure those pieces sell tonight. All of them," I order. "And make sure Marcus follows through on his offer."
"You mean the offer you arranged through the shell companies?" Mara pulls out her tablet, fingers dancing across the screen. "Already handled. Though I have to say, your little performance in there was... a lot."
"What do you mean?"
"Please. You practically devoured her with your eyes. So much for subtle." She glances up. "I thought we agreed you'd keep it professional."
"I was professional." The lie tastes bitter. My hands clench in my pockets as I recall how Sophia's eyes lit up discussing her work, the way her fingers danced as she described her process. The vulnerability in her expression when she mentioned what she tried to capture...
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." Mara's typing pauses. "Look, I'll make sure everything goes smoothly with the sales. But Adrian..." She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "This obsession of yours, it's getting deeper. You're playing with fire."
"I'm protecting her."
"Still clinging to that?" The skepticism in her voice cuts through my defenses. "Because from where I stand, it looks an awful lot like—"
"Enough." The word comes out sharp enough to make her flinch. "Just handle the arrangements. That's all I need from you right now."
Mara's lips press into a thin line, but she nods. "Consider it done." She turns to leave, then pauses. "For what it's worth... she seemed genuinely taken with you. Maybe try actually getting to know her instead of..." She gestures vaguely. "All this."
I watch her walk away, her silhouette disappearing into the neon-lit night. The truth of her words settles uncomfortably in my chest. But I've come too far to change course now. Sophia needs my guidance, my protection, whether she knows it or not.
I slide into the back of my Bentley; the leather seat cools against my skin. The privacy partition rises silently as my driver pulls away from the curb. My fingers tap against my thigh, a restless rhythm matching the chaos in my mind.
Sophia's scent lingers in my memory—lavender and paint, an intoxicating mix. The way her breath caught when I mentioned the commission, how her fingers fidgeted with her glass, betraying her nerves even as she maintained that artistic confidence.
I pull out my phone, accessing the gallery's security feed. The cameras catch her still there, moving between her pieces, talking with potential buyers. My buyers, though she doesn't know it.
The satisfaction of orchestrating our meeting wars with an electric tension coursing through my veins. My control over the situation was perfect, each moment calculated, but it's not enough. The energy builds beneath my skin like a current seeking ground.
I press the intercom. "Change of plans. Take me to Dominion."
The car smoothly changes direction. I loosen my tie, letting out a breath. The exclusive club caters to very specific tastes—tastes that align with my need for absolute control. Tonight's successful manipulation has awakened something primal that demands physical expression.
The city blurs past my window, a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow. My thoughts drift between Sophia and the release that awaits me at the club. Two years of watching, planning, manipulating—and finally, contact. The reality of her exceeded every surveillance feed, every digital interaction I'd monitored.
The car slows to a stop in front of an unmarked building. Its plain exterior betrays nothing of what lies within. Perfect control requires perfect discretion, after all.
As I enter Dominion, the atmosphere changes, becoming dense with unspoken promises and dark potential. My shoes sink into deep crimson carpet as I pass through the reinforced doors. The head of security gives me a subtle nod. No words needed—he knows my preferences, my rules, my requirements for absolute discretion.
The main floor unfolds before me, a decadent display. Crystal chandeliers cast shadows across leather-clad surfaces and exposed skin. Private alcoves line the walls, each screened by translucent curtains that reveal just enough to tease. The central bar gleams obsidian, its surface reflecting fragments of light like broken mirrors.
Soft moans and sharp cracks of leather blend with the low, pulsing bass. The scent of expensive cologne mingles with sweat and desire. Everything here speaks of power—who has it, who craves it, who surrenders it.
I take in faces both masked and bare. Some avert their eyes. Others stare back with naked hunger. Here, at least, the game of control needs no pretense.
The club's exclusivity shows in its details: hand-stitched Italian leather furnishings, discrete panic buttons disguised as architectural elements, security cameras masked behind smoky glass. Every inch designed for pleasure without compromise of power.
A flash of red catches my eye—a woman at the bar, her posture radiating the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly what she wants. Her black dress hugs her curves like a second skin, the slit riding high enough to reveal a tasteful glimpse of thigh. Red hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, framing features that could cut glass.
Our eyes meet across the room. A flash of recognition crosses her face—not of who I am, but of what I represent. What I can offer. Her lips curve into a knowing smile as she takes a deliberate sip from her martini glass.
I cross the floor. Up close, her eyes are a striking amber, lined with black wings. A delicate collar adorns her neck—both jewelry and a statement of intent.
"Celeste," she offers, her breath carrying a hint of smoke.
"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."
"Are you a slut, Celeste?" I bend to whisper in her ear, my breath stirring the delicate hairs on her neck. "Do you want to be filled, used, controlled?"
"Yes." The word is an exhale.
I step back, taking in her bound form, her breasts rising and falling with shallow breaths. I trace her curves with my eyes. "Spread your legs."
Her thighs part, revealing her slick core. I squat and lean in, inhaling the scent of her arousal. "You're already wet." It's not a question.
She bites her lip, unable to deny it. "You did this to me."
My fingers skim her inner thighs, and I savor her sharp intake of breath. "Do you want more, Celeste?"
"Yes. Please."
I chuckle, the sound devoid of humor. "That's what I thought."
I move behind her, pressing against her back. Her bound wrists force her chest to arch forward. My palms slide over her hips, squeezing, then settling on her ass.
"Such a perfect view," I murmur, my lips close to her ear.
Then I push her forward. She stumbles and falls to the bed, and I'm right above her, not giving her a moment to settle. My hand connects with her ass, sharp and stinging. Celeste jolts, a surprised cry escaping her lips. I admire the pink mark blooming on her creamy skin. Again, I bring my hand down, this time harder. She bucks up, a soft whimper escaping her mouth, muffled by the bedspread.
I continue, each strike a little harder than the last. Her skin reddens, the slap of my hand reverberating through the room. As I give her these blows, I imagine it's Sophia before me—her softness yielding to my touch, her breath catching as I push her boundaries.
I trail kisses down Celeste's spine, each one a contrast to the harsh sting of the paddle. She's trembling now, the scent of her arousal heady. I slip my hand between her legs, relishing her wet heat.
"You're soaked," I murmur, my thumb teasing her clit. "You like being at my mercy, don't you?"
"Yes..." The word is strangled as I work a finger inside her, slipping in easily. I pump slowly, my other hand squeezing her breast. "What do you want, Celeste?" I lean forward, my breath warm against her ear. "Tell me."
"I want you inside me. Please." Her hips push back, seeking my hardness. "I want to feel you fill me."
I free myself from the restraint of my pants. Positioning myself behind her, I enter her with one swift thrust. Celeste cries out, her voice muffled in the bedding. I grab her hair, pulling her head back and making her gasp sharply.
"I want to hear you." I pull out and push back in, a deep, hard stroke that makes her back arch. "Louder."
She moans, loud and clear now, her bound arms straining against the rope as she pushes back to meet each of my thrusts. Her cries fill the room as I take her—hard, rough, claiming every inch of her body. With each movement, I see Sophia's face, feel her soft skin under my palms, hear her whispered pleas. It's a surrender, an expression of power, of my need to dominate and possess.
"Please—let me..." Celeste's voice breaks as she writhes beneath me, her body begging for release.
I tighten my hold on her hair. "Not yet." My voice is a rough command.
I continue to thrust, harder, deeper, my mind clouded with images of Sophia. I squeeze my eyes shut, seeing her face, her body, feeling the softness of her skin. It's her scent I inhale as I move. Her lips I claim in a bruising kiss. The thought of marking her, possessing her completely, pushes me closer to the edge.
"Sophia," I groan, my thrusts becoming erratic as I reach my limit.
I pull out and spill myself onto Celeste, holding her in place as I ride out my release, marking her back with my essence.
Celeste whimpers but doesn't come, her body rigid with the effort of holding back. Not a single muscle relaxes, showing the iron will she possesses.
Goosebumps rise on my skin as the reality of what I've done washes over me.
I said her name aloud.
I've never lost control like this before, never allowed my facade to slip.
My heart pounds in my ears. I slowly pull away and release Celeste, the slickness between us the only reminder of the moment that just passed.
Celeste remains immobile, her breath slow and steady. She knows the rules of engagement here, the parameters of our interaction. A shiver runs through her, betraying the tension she holds within.
I untie her wrists, hand her a few tissues, then take a moment to collect myself. The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick like the air before a storm.
She sits up and tries to pat at her back, her eyes lowered, saying nothing. We're strangers again, our true selves hidden in the shadows of our respective desires.
"Get cleaned up," I say, my voice distant, resigned. "There's a private bathroom through that door. Everything you need is inside."
She nods, still saying nothing. I hear the soft rustle of her dress as she slips it back on, the faint click of her heels as she moves to the bathroom. The door closes behind her.
Alone, I finally allow myself to breathe, my actions bearing down on me. I rake my hands through my hair, my mind replaying the events of the night.
Sophia's face flashes before me—her reactions, her uncertainty, the tentative acceptance in her eyes. I clench my fists, my knuckles white. The familiar demon of self-loathing rises, its tendrils wrapping around my throat.
I'm a fraud. A monster. The very idea of deserving her feels like a betrayal to her innocence. Yet I can't deny the obsession, the craving to possess and protect her at all costs. It's twisted, possibly even dangerous. But it's real.
The sound of Celeste running water in the bathroom pulls me back into the moment. Without another thought, I dress quickly. The two of us, we're done here. My head is filled with thoughts of Sophia—and I'll sort them out later. But one thing matters above all right now.
I need to be gone by the time Celeste finishes.