Tara’s Penthouse Command
Tara’s Penthouse Command
Red-hot confidence, marble floors, and a night above the city
Tara strode into the lavish penthouse, heels clicking on marble, a tight red dress tracing every curve. Her hair fell in glossy waves, her perfume warm and dangerous. She saw Marcus on the leather sofa, the skyline burning behind him like a thousand tiny spotlights.
“Marcus, darling,” she purred, sauntering closer with a slow, indulgent sway. “I have a little request for you tonight.”
He smiled, eyes traveling the length of her. “Anything for you, Tara.”
She leaned to his ear, breath hot, and whispered something bold enough to make his pupils flare. Surprise cracked into a grin; obedience followed like gravity. Tara’s fingers slid into his hair, guiding; her other hand tipped his chin, claiming the tempo.
“Good,” she murmured when he followed, voice low and velvet. The city lights caught on the crimson fabric as the room fell into their rhythm—slow, hungry, inevitable.
Time stretched and snapped tight. Marcus gave her the kind of attention that felt like worship—steady, focused, eager to please. Tara’s praise was wicked-sweet: a leash and a reward in the same breath.
“Just like that,” she guided, setting the pace with a light command and a firmer hand. The dress inched higher; heat licked across her skin; the city felt so close it might as well have been watching.
When the rush finally eased, she tipped his chin so their eyes met. “You did so well,” she said, and meant it. He glowed—flushed, breathless, satisfied by the simple fact that she was.
“Flatterer,” she teased when he told her she was devastating in her element. She tapped his nose, laced their fingers, and tugged him up. “Come on. Let’s clean up and take the rest of the night for ourselves.”
Hand in hand, they drifted toward the marble-lined bath, city lights glittering like applause through the glass.