After landing, Tyrone didn’t go straight to the office or the gym. He went home—to his sleek, masculine penthouse overlooking the skyline. Dim lighting. Black marble floors. Brushed steel accents. A fully stocked bar and a walk-in rain shower the size of most people’s bedrooms.
He peeled off his shirt, revealing that sculpted chest—deep bronze skin, thick slabs of muscle, veins like roadmaps tracing down his arms. He let the hot water run down his back as he stood under the shower, eyes closed, remembering everything from Sweden… and the flight.
Lukas’s soft gasps. Isabelle’s hungry moans.
His body still thrummed with power—but he was smart. Strategic. He knew more visitors were coming. And they’d be… eager.
He gave himself a day to recover.
Protein. Hydration. A long massage from a private therapist who knew not to try anything with him unless invited. A cold plunge. And then sleep. Deep and uninterrupted. The kind only alphas allow themselves—earned, not given.
By morning, the text messages were already waiting.
- “Tyrone, we need to review the merger—mind if I stop by later tonight? – Jessica”
- “Heard you’re back. Drinks? – Devon”
- “A friend of mine wants to meet you. She’s… very curious. – Juliette”
He grinned.
He put on a fitted dark-green shirt that hugged every inch of his torso, unbuttoned just enough to tease. His tailored trousers sat low on his waist, and his cologne—rich, musky, laced with spice—was the kind that clung to skin like a promise.
He poured himself an espresso, set out two glasses. And waited.
Sharp. Brilliant. Late 30s, half-Chinese tech investor with legs for days and an obsession with power she barely masked. Her heels clicked across his hardwood floor as she walked in wearing a cream blouse that clung to her curves and a tight black pencil skirt.
“I should’ve scheduled a meeting,” she teased.
“You know I don’t need appointments to undress someone,” Tyrone said, handing her a drink.
She laughed—low and sultry. “I missed you, Dominian.”
He didn’t reply. He just stepped close, placed his hand on her lower back, and let the air shift between them. The tension bloomed instantly. She bit her lip.
“You smell like you just came back from wrecking hearts.”
He leaned in. “I did. You want to be next?”
She set her glass down. “I want to be first today.”
He took her against the glass wall of his penthouse—her blouse ripped open, her skirt bunched around her hips. Her moans echoed off the skyline as he bent her over his desk, pushing into her with that same slow, dominant rhythm that made women melt. He didn’t let her up until her hair stuck to her skin and her breath came in ragged pants.
By the time she left an hour later, her legs were trembling—and her voice was gone from screaming his name.
Mid-20s. Fresh-faced, masculine but curious. One of Tyrone’s ex-interns turned junior partner in another firm. Bi. Pretty-boy type with thick thighs and soft eyes that always lingered too long on Tyrone’s hands.
He showed up in joggers, claiming he “just happened to be nearby.”
“Liar,” Tyrone smirked.
Devon blushed. “Okay, maybe I hoped you were free.”
Tyrone grabbed him by the jaw and pushed him up against the wall. “You want to be used again?”
Devon nodded, breath shallow.
“Strip.”
Devon undressed quickly, cock already hard, face flushed.
Tyrone took him in the bedroom this time—slow at first, teasing. Made him beg. Then flipped him over and made him scream. Held his wrists down. Bit his shoulder. Gave him just enough pain to make him love it. And Devon did. Again. And again.
When he finally collapsed into Tyrone’s sheets, spent and shaking, Tyrone stood over him—still hard, still hungry.
Devon looked up with dazed eyes. “How do you still have this much energy?”
Tyrone just smirked. “Recovery day. I planned ahead.”
By dusk, the door opened again.
Juliette entered like a queen—black heels, tailored blazer, sunglasses still on indoors. But she wasn’t alone.
Behind her walked Celeste: mid-40s, curvy French-Caribbean beauty with full lips and big, natural curls. Tall. Regal. And unmistakably dominant.
Juliette said nothing. Just gestured.
Celeste walked straight up to Tyrone, looking him over like a meal.
“I’ve heard many things,” she said in that silky accent.
“And?” Tyrone asked, standing taller.
“I want to see if they’re true.”
Tyrone leaned into her ear. “I’ll make you feel them instead.”
Juliette poured herself a drink and watched from the corner—cool, unbothered, legs crossed like a voyeur queen on her throne.
Celeste and Tyrone danced in the center of the room—bodies pressed close, hands exploring. He pulled her into him, kissed her deep, and undressed her slowly. Her breasts were full and natural, her hips wide and inviting.
He bent her over his couch, making her gasp. She slapped his thigh—testing him.
He slapped hers harder.
Juliette smirked.
Celeste moaned.
The rhythm of their bodies filled the room for the next hour. Sweat, moans, the sound of wet skin. And when Juliette finally joined them, it became a slow, sensual worship session—mouths, hands, and moans shared between all three, but Tyrone never surrendered control.
When it was over, all three lay tangled in his massive bed, skin slick with sweat.
“You’re dangerous,” Celeste whispered.
Tyrone kissed her collarbone. “Only if you try to leave too soon.”
Juliette smirked and lit a cigarette, her hair wild, her lipstick smudged. “Told you he was worth the visit.”
The night wasn’t over. There were whispers of an up-and-coming podcast host who wanted an “exclusive sit-down.” A rival exec from Dubai flying in the next morning. And an anonymous text with a selfie of a tight, youthful body sprawled in a hotel suite nearby.
Tyrone stretched. Cracked his knuckles. Took a long pull from his drink.
He had work to do.
Because in his world…
The business of pleasure never sleeps.
And Tyrone Dominian?
He always delivers.
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