Chapter 13 #4
I feel his presence lingering in the details, the neat arrangement of the contracts stacked beside his crystal tumbler, their edges lined up with precision. The vodka sits ready, the ice shifting softly inside the glass. Everything is set.
I move without thinking, lowering myself beside his chair and pressing my knees to the cool floor. The marble is smooth beneath me, grounding. My hands rest lightly on my thighs, fingers barely touching my skin.
The air is still. Heavy.
I clench my thighs, the anticipation curling deep, insistent. A claw of fear curls in my gut, and I choke back panted breaths.
And while it’s hard, still I wait.
I kneel in silence, the cool marble pressing against my skin. The anticipation tightens low in my belly, winding through my veins like a slow-burning fuse.
I don’t know why I want to obey him. There’s just something about the way Hayden speaks, the way he looks at me, that makes it hard to say no.
It’s not like I’m in love with him, but when he tells me what to do, I listen.
I don’t even think about it. I just react.
And the worst part is, some part of me wants to.
I want to follow his lead. I want to kneel for him, even if I don’t understand why.
It’s freeing, in a way. To submit. My whole life has been a perfect road of instruction: get the grades, smile politely, say the right thing, follow the plan.
Always in control, always performing. But with him, it’s different.
I don’t have to think or calculate. I just listen.
I just feel. And when I let go, when I follow his lead without question, there’s this strange relief.
Like I can finally breathe. Like someone else is holding the weight for once, and all I have to do is give in.
With him, there is never room for discussion, and in the loss of choice, I find freedom.
Everything is in place.
Including me.
The room remains still, but I feel him before I hear him. A shift in the air, the weight of his presence pressing against the quiet. Then, footsteps, measured and unhurried, the sound of leather against marble.
I keep my eyes downcast as he enters.
The space he commands is immediate, inescapable. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to—his energy crackles in the air between us, igniting something profound, something that has been waiting.
Then, his hand.
Fingers curl beneath my chin, firm in the way they lift my face to meet his gaze.
My breath catches. His eyes are dark, so full of anger, yet they look down at me, and for the first time, I see the war in them.
I feel like he sees through me. Every thought I haven’t voiced.
Every ache I try to hide. Each breath slips out of me in shallow pants, my lips parting without meaning to.
His grip tightens just enough to part my lips, and then his mouth crashes against mine.
His lips are full of heat and pressure. A kiss that is not gentle, not patient, but claiming. His lips move with purpose, slow, deliberate devouring, and I give in to it, letting him take what he already owns.
His other hand comes up, fingers threading into my hair as he deepens the kiss, angling my face to his liking. My lipstick smears, smudging between us, staining me. He tastes of cold vodka and something that makes my pulse race.
When he finally pulls away, his thumb drags across my lower lip, smearing more lipstick around.
“Messy,” he murmurs, almost amused, his voice low and knowing.
I swallow, my breath unsteady.
His thumb drags lazily across my lower lip, smearing the last bits of my lipstick across my cheek. His gaze flicks over my face, studying the mess he’s made of me, his expression smug.
I'm breathless, but he's in complete control of himself.
Bringing his thumb back to my mouth, he pulls my lower lip down slightly, exposing the bottom row of my teeth. He presses against them, making me open my mouth, as he drags his thumb on the tip of my tongue.
He straightens, taking a slow step back, regarding me with that insufferable look of quiet amusement.
His fingers trail down my jaw before gripping it again, harder this time, just shy of pain. “You’re going to sign this contract,” he says, calm, absolute—a fact, not a request.
I force my breath steady, meeting his gaze head-on. “Forcing my hand already?”
That earns me a quiet laugh, dark and edged with condescension. “Martine,” he drawls, tilting his head, “while I enjoy you being an argumentative brat, this isn’t up for negotiation.”
His hand moves down, fingers brushing the curve of my throat, pressing lightly. Just hard enough to be a reminder. A warning.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Which means you already know how this ends.”
I should stay silent. It would be easier and much safer for me to bite my tongue.
Instead, I push back.
“You think so?” I say, my voice steady, sharper than he expects. “Maybe I’m here because I enjoy watching you waste your time.”
His smirk flickers, just for a moment, before it sharpens.
His other hand moves, fingers skimming my bare shoulder before trailing lower, tracing the delicate strap of my dress. He toys with it absently, almost like he’s thinking, deciding just how much resistance he’ll allow.
Then, he lets it go.
“You want to play pretend?” he says, voice dropping lower, richer. “Fine. Tell me you won’t sign.”
I set my jaw. “I won’t.”
His grip tightens, cutting me off with a slow, deliberate squeeze. Painful this time. Enough to remind me of the game we’re playing and who always wins.
I swallow hard. My breath falters.
His smirk returns. “That’s what I thought.”
His fingers loosen, but he doesn’t let go, tilting my face up to him as his thumb drags over the corner of my mouth, tracing the smudged lipstick.
“Sign,” he says simply.
And then, as if the matter is already settled, he releases me entirely and lowers himself into his chair, reaching for his glass.
He doesn’t look at me as he takes a slow sip of vodka.
Because he knows I will.
I stay kneeling, my pulse hammering in my throat, my breath uneven. He drinks his vodka slowly, the ice clinking softly in the crystal tumbler. Like I am nothing but another thing waiting to be dealt with.
But I push. I shift on my knees, exhaling as if I’m unbothered, as if he hasn’t already wound me so tightly I could snap. "You really think threats are necessary?" I murmur, tilting my chin up defiantly. "Seems desperate."
The glass halts just before his lips.
The air stills.
Then, he moves.
I barely have time to react before his hand knots in my hair, tearing me up from my knees with a force that sends a sharp bolt of pain across my scalp. My neck strains; the sudden pull is so brutal that it steals my balance, and the whole room tilts.
A cry stumbles out, but he swallows it with his mouth on mine, crushing my lips with a searing and ruthless kiss.
The edge of the table digs into my thighs, sharp and unforgiving, and then, without warning, I’m lifted—my back slams down onto the spread of contracts, the sting of impact pulsing through me.
Papers crumple beneath me, but they’re meaningless compared to the hard, immovable weight of him pressing down.
His grip is punishing, fingers digging into my hips as he forces me still as if I’d even think about pulling away. As if I could.
He’s so rough with me it hurts, and yet something dark inside of me craves his harsh hands. I'm curious how far he’ll surely take things.
I try to breathe, but he doesn’t let me.
His mouth is on me again, claiming, bruising, leaving no space for protest. He kisses me like he’s daring me to fight back, to try and resist when we both know how this will end.
My nails dig into his arms, but he just presses harder, until I’m forced to look at him, take in his face that holds an expression somewhere between amusement and possession.
He finally pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my mouth.
"You think I’m desperate, Martine?" His voice is low, lethal, tinged with an intoxicating hint of breathlessness I also feel. "That I need to threaten you?"
His hand grips my hair again, harder this time, wrenching my head back until it hurts far worse than before. His face is so close to mine, I can see every flicker of the decision he’s already made for me in his eyes.
My skull stings where his hand is wrapped up in my hair, leaving me no room to wiggle in his grasp.
“You’re going to sign,” he says, slow and cold, his voice low enough to make my stomach twist. His fingers tighten a bit more somehow, making me gasp. “Or I’ll lock you in the fucking basement until you do. It’s one of my favorite fantasies of you.”
A shiver runs down my spine. My thighs press together before I can stop them, heat pooling low, sharp, and sudden.
Would I like being locked away, at his constant disposal?
The more I exist in Hayden's world, the less and less I have. I don’t lack in riches, or clothes, or food at my disposal, or rare vintages to drink, or jewels to cover myself in, but the greater, more meaningful choices are slim.
It’s an uncomfortable thought, considering I’m not entirely far off from that now.
“How is that any different than what I am to you now?” I grit out through closed teeth.
He continues, ignoring my fight, “Hearing you down there, crying out for me. Your voice is hoarse from screaming my name. Stripped of the grand luxuries you take for granted that have built you into the spoiled brat you are.”
He catches how my body leans in closer to him from his words. His smirk says he was waiting for it.
“You like that idea, don’t you?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “Of course you do, my darling is too spoiled for even her to bear.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but he kisses me again, swallowing the lie before I can even speak it.