The city pulsed beneath them, a mosaic of amber lights and concrete secrets. Inside Tyrone Dominian’s penthouse, the air was heavy with heat and unfinished tension. Juliette Vernier stood pressed against the cool glass of the window wall, the skyline of downtown mirrored in her eyes. She looked immaculate as ever—dark burgundy lips, silk blouse undone just enough to tease, and a pencil skirt that hugged her like it was custom-made for sin. The smell of her perfume—amber, spice, and something darker—wrapped around Tyrone like a spell.

Tyrone still hadn’t buttoned his shirt. His broad chest was bare beneath the fabric, slick with a light sheen of sweat from the encounter with Brandon moments ago. But his eyes were already back on Juliette. There was no guilt. No hesitation. Only hunger. For her. For more.

Juliette tilted her head, one brow arching as she looked up at him from beneath thick lashes. “That boy… he barely knew which way was up when he left.”

Tyrone smirked, placing one hand flat against the window beside her head. “He’ll learn. I’m good at training.”

Juliette chuckled—a low, indulgent sound that curled between them like smoke. “Mm. I’ve always admired that about you. The way you mold people. Pull the truth out of them. Strip away all the bullshit.”

He stepped closer, until their bodies brushed. “Careful, Juliette,” he whispered against her cheek. “You’re starting to sound like one of them.”

“I’m nothing like them,” she shot back, her voice sharp but breathless. “I don’t break easy. You know that.”

He caught her jaw in his hand, turning her face toward him. “I know you like pretending you’re in control.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m playing.”

That made him grin.

Tyrone slid his hand down her throat, across her collarbone, fingers slipping beneath the edge of her blouse. “Then let’s raise the stakes.”

In one swift motion, he unbuttoned the remaining clasps, revealing the lace beneath—midnight black against her pale skin. She didn’t stop him. Her breath hitched, but her gaze never left his. A challenge. A dare.

He kissed her—deep, slow, and punishing. The kind of kiss that made her arch into him, the kind that said I own youwithout a single word. His hands moved with purpose, dragging the silk blouse from her shoulders, then unzipping her skirt until it puddled at her heels. She stepped out of it with the grace of a woman who knew exactly what effect she had on men.

But Tyrone was no ordinary man.

He spun her, bending her forward against the window. The city lights flickered below them, and her breath fogged the glass.

“No panties,” he noted, his voice thick. “You came here ready.”

“I’m always ready for you,” she breathed, biting her lip.

He knelt behind her, spreading her thighs, fingers running up the inside of her legs. Then his mouth found her, hot and commanding, tongue stroking, licking, devouring. Juliette gasped, one hand slamming against the glass for balance. His grip tightened on her hips as he feasted on her, no gentleness—just dominance, possession.

Her moans filled the room, low and urgent. She was unraveling, but still fighting for control—her spine taut, her hands fisted.

Tyrone loved that. The resistance. The fight.

He rose to his feet, undoing his belt, dragging his slacks down just enough to free himself. His cock pressed hot and heavy between her thighs as he leaned over her back.

“You still want to play?” he growled into her ear.

Juliette looked back over her shoulder, hair falling wild around her face. “Fuck me like you want to win.”

He drove into her with a grunt, hard and deep. Juliette cried out, her body slamming against the window. He gave her no reprieve—his hips pounding, his hands gripping her hips like he was afraid she might fly apart. Each thrust was precise, brutal, relentless.

She clawed at the glass, her nails leaving streaks of condensation.

“I missed this,” she gasped. “Missed the way you take.”

“And you’ll keep missing it,” he said, his voice guttural, “unless you earn it.”

“I always earn it,” she hissed back, pushing against him. “With every fucking scream.”

He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in circles that made her legs tremble. She was close—he could feel it in the way her muscles clenched around him, in the way her breath caught in her throat.

“Come for me,” he commanded.

And she did—shattering beneath him, back arching, thighs shaking, a long moan tearing from her lips.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out, turned her around, and lifted her into his arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively as he carried her across the room to the leather chaise lounge by the fireplace. There, he laid her back, pinned her wrists above her head, and entered her again—this time slower, deeper, grinding into her until she whimpered.

“You think you can handle this forever?” he asked, watching her face twist with pleasure.

Juliette nodded, breathless. “More.”

Tyrone gave it to her. Hours passed in waves of ecstasy and dominance—positions shifting, bodies sweating, cries echoing. When they finally collapsed into each other, tangled in sheets and breath, dawn was already creeping through the curtains.

Juliette lay curled against his chest, her fingers lazily tracing the muscles of his abdomen. “I could fall for you,” she said quietly.

“You already have,” he replied, brushing a kiss to her forehead.

But even as he held her, Tyrone’s mind wandered. Not from boredom, but from curiosity.

Brandon would return—hungry and pliant, desperate to please.

And others would come, too. Investors. Rivals. Potential partners with secrets and desires written in the lines of their bodies and the desperation in their eyes.

Tyrone Dominian was a man of appetite—and power was his favorite dish.

And he was just getting started.

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