The early evening light spilled into Tyrone Dominian’s penthouse office, streaking gold across the marble and glass like an invitation. Tyrone stood shirtless at the floor-to-ceiling windows, broad shoulders catching the dying sun, his slacks hanging low on his hips. He swirled a neat pour of bourbon in one hand, the scent of sandalwood and warm leather clinging to his skin from a long day. He exhaled deeply. He could still taste Juliette Vernier on his tongue—sharp, complex, commanding.

She had returned the night before, unannounced but entirely expected.

Juliette always carried herself like a storm in heels—deliberate, elegant, and impossible to ignore. She didn’t need to say she’d missed him. The way she claimed his bed, his mouth, and his control before the door even clicked shut said it all. But it was never just sex with Juliette. It was a test of power—hers against his. A constant, sensual game of dominance and submission that shifted like smoke, thick with tension.

After a long, breathtaking night of wrestling control from each other—bodies tangled in silk sheets and hoarse whispers—she had left in the morning with nothing more than a “See you soon,” and a bite to his jaw that still throbbed.

Tyrone loved her for that. But he loved variety even more.

That’s when his thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Not the front one—his private elevator entrance.

He turned, arching a brow. No one ever used that unless he told them to.

The doors slid open to reveal someone new.

Young. Lean. Tightly wound.

The intern.

Brandon.

He was fresh from Columbia Business School, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, bright blue eyes, and an eager energy that always seemed just shy of nervous. Today he wore a tight button-down tucked into slim slacks that hugged his ass in a way no straight man could ignore—not even one as composed as Tyrone.

“I… I hope I’m not intruding,” Brandon said, stepping into the low-lit office. “You told me to bring the McAlister files tonight.”

Tyrone took a long sip from his glass and set it down with a soft clink.

“I did. But I didn’t expect you so late,” he said, voice low, rich, and deliberate.

Brandon swallowed. “I… I stayed behind to finish checking the figures myself.”

“Mmm.” Tyrone approached slowly. “Always so thorough. I like that.”

Brandon held out the folder, but Tyrone didn’t take it immediately. Instead, he circled him, like a lion sizing up prey. Brandon stiffened slightly, the folder still between his fingers.

“Relax,” Tyrone said behind him, his breath grazing the back of the intern’s neck. “You’ve done good work.”

Brandon turned slowly. “Thank you, sir.”

“That word,” Tyrone murmured, eyes locked on him. “You always call me that.”

Brandon shifted on his feet. “It feels… appropriate.”

Tyrone stepped close—too close. Their chests nearly touched. “Or maybe it feels… natural.”

The tension was electric.

Brandon didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

So Tyrone reached out and finally took the folder, tossing it onto the desk without looking. Then he lifted Brandon’s chin with one firm hand, forcing his gaze upward.

“You know what happens when you give yourself over to something completely?” he asked, voice like dark velvet. “You stop thinking. You just feel. You let go.”

Brandon’s lips parted. “I’m not sure I know how.”

Tyrone smirked. “You’re about to learn.”

He kissed him. Hard. One hand wrapped around the back of Brandon’s neck, pulling him in. The intern gasped against his mouth, but Tyrone didn’t give him a chance to retreat. He deepened the kiss—tongue claiming, dominant. Brandon melted into him like wax under flame.

By the time Tyrone pulled back, Brandon was breathing hard, his face flushed, lips kissed raw.

Tyrone turned him slowly, pressing his chest to the desk.

“Hands flat. Don’t move.”

Brandon obeyed, trembling. “Yes, sir.”

Tyrone pulled the shirt from his waistband, then slowly unbuttoned it—exposing a smooth, toned back. He slid his palms over the bare skin, feeling the tension there. So tight. So eager. So ready to unravel.

“You came here for work,” Tyrone murmured. “But I know you’ve thought about this.”

Brandon’s voice was barely audible. “Every night.”

Tyrone smiled, dragging his mouth along the intern’s neck. “Then let’s get started.”

He undressed him slowly—like unwrapping something he already owned. Every button popped free like a confession. Every inch of exposed skin was met with teeth, tongue, or firm fingers. He bent Brandon over the desk completely, one hand gripping his wrists together, pinning him.

Tyrone opened his own slacks, thick arousal heavy in his grip. He teased the head against the curve of Brandon’s ass, listening to the ragged sound of his breath.

“You still sure?”

“Yes,” Brandon whispered, pressing back.

Tyrone took him with one long, careful stroke—slow but unrelenting, filling him inch by inch. Brandon gasped, head dropping to the wood as his whole body tensed.

“Good,” Tyrone growled, beginning to move. “Now give yourself to me.”

The rhythm built steadily—firm, punishing thrusts paired with whispered praise and stern commands. He told Brandon what to do, when to moan, how to beg—and the intern obeyed. With every movement, Brandon slipped further into submission, his mind consumed by the sensation of being used, guided, possessed.

Tyrone kept a hand on the back of his neck, holding him down while he drove into him relentlessly, groaning low as their bodies collided again and again. The desk creaked. Papers fluttered to the ground.

“Yours,” Brandon gasped. “I’m yours—sir—please—”

That pushed Tyrone over the edge. He slammed deep, spilling inside him with a sharp grunt, gripping Brandon so tight it left marks. He held him there—panting, sweating, pulsing—until they both stilled.

After a long silence, Tyrone pulled out slowly and turned Brandon around, cradling his jaw.

“You did well,” he murmured. “Very well.”

Brandon stared up at him, eyes glassy. “I’ve never…”

“I know,” Tyrone said. “But you’ll come back. And next time, you’ll learn more.”

A few minutes later, Brandon dressed slowly, still dazed, while Tyrone leaned against the window, watching the city.

Then came the sharp click of heels.

Juliette.

She entered with the confidence of a queen returning to her throne—red lips curled, dark eyes dancing.

Her gaze flicked from Tyrone to Brandon, and back again.

“Well,” she said smoothly. “I see you’ve been… entertained.”

Tyrone smirked, shirt still unbuttoned. “Curiosity breeds opportunity.”

Juliette stepped forward, brushing past Brandon with a cool smile. “Don’t worry, darling. He has plenty to give.”

Brandon’s face flushed deeper. But he didn’t run.

Instead, he paused at the door and looked over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, sir.”

Tyrone nodded once. “Be ready next time.”

When the door shut, Juliette walked up to Tyrone and ran a hand down his bare chest.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

He caught her wrist, eyes gleaming. “Always. But I don’t stop when you’re gone.”

Juliette smiled darkly. “Good. I’d hate to be the only one playing with fire.”

Tyrone pressed her back against the window, mouth on her neck.

“I don’t play,” he whispered. “I conquer.”

And so the night began again.

Tyrone’s Page