Her name was Juliette Vernier. Late 40s. French-American. A strategic consultant with a reputation for fixing companies—and breaking egos. She wore tailored suits, bold lipstick, and always had a glass of scotch in reach.

When she entered Tyrone’s office, she didn’t expect the man to be… that.

“Mr. Dominian,” she said, extending a manicured hand.

Tyrone rose from behind his glass desk. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, arms thick and veined from hours in the gym. When he took her hand, his grip was warm—firm—but not overbearing. He didn’t shake it. He held it.

“Call me Tyrone,” he said, voice low and full of molasses.

Juliette raised a brow. “Very well. Tyrone.”

Their eyes locked.

She didn’t blink.

Neither did he.

It was going to be that kind of engagement.

She stayed late. Of course she did. Juliette wasn’t the kind of woman who left unfinished work. But what lingered in the air between them had nothing to do with spreadsheets or market positioning.

He stood behind her at the wet bar, pouring two glasses of aged bourbon.

“You’ve got a sharp mind,” he said, handing her one.

“And you’ve got strong arms,” she replied, eyes flicking to his biceps. “But I suppose that’s irrelevant.”

Tyrone stepped closer. “Depends on what you’re trying to lift.”

They didn’t kiss that night. But when she left, her cheeks were flushed and her blouse clung a little tighter than when she arrived.

It was supposed to be a presentation day. Juliette showed up early—black pencil skirt, crisp white blouse unbuttoned just enough.

She found Tyrone shirtless in his private gym, sweat glistening off his abs as he finished his final set of chest presses.

He didn’t apologize for being late.

She didn’t ask him to.

“Join me,” he said, handing her a towel.

She smirked. “In what? Business… or pleasure?”

He stared her down. “Both.”

Within minutes, she was on the mat, straddling him under the guise of helping him “stretch.” But when he ran his hands up her thighs and found nothing beneath her skirt, it was clear who was helping whom.

“Are you wet for me already?” he growled.

“I’ve been wet since Day One,” she whispered.

Clothes were shed. Her heels stayed on. And when he lifted her onto his hips and took her against the mirrored wall, she moaned in fluent French, each word a spell he was all too happy to obey.

The morning sun filtered in through the sheer curtains of Tyrone’s penthouse, casting golden streaks across the sleek hardwood floors. Tyrone stirred awake first, his strong arm draped across Juliette’s waist, her back pressed to his chest. She was still asleep, breathing slow and steady. For once, her face wasn’t sharp with strategy or layered in cool confidence. She looked… soft. Vulnerable. Human.

Tyrone liked that.

He brushed a kiss against her shoulder and slipped out of bed, heading to the kitchen naked, casual in his confidence. He started coffee, cracked eggs into a pan. The scent of sizzling butter filled the space. Juliette padded out a few minutes later, one of his shirts draped around her body—barely buttoned, the collar slipping off one shoulder.

“You cook?” she said, voice rough with sleep but carrying her signature dry humor.

He turned, spatula in hand. “I dominate in and out of the bedroom. Why wouldn’t I master the kitchen too?”

She chuckled, coming up behind him, her hands smoothing over his lower back, then down over the tight muscle of his ass. “Modest, too.”

“Never.”

They ate breakfast at the bar—barefoot, relaxed, like it was a Sunday morning in a normal world. But the heat simmered just below the surface. Every look. Every brush of hands. It wasn’t over.

By noon, they were in his home office.

Juliette sat on the edge of his desk, legs crossed high in a slit pencil skirt, tossing out observations and questions about his expansion plans. But Tyrone could barely focus. Her blouse was undone just enough to show the swell of her breasts. Her lips were stained with fresh lipstick. And she knew exactly what she was doing.

“You’re distracted,” she said, amused.

“You’re a walking distraction.”

She stood. Walked toward him. “Then let me remove the obstacle.”

She dropped to her knees, right there in the middle of the home office, her eyes never leaving his. Her hands undid his slacks with precise, practiced control. When she took him into her mouth, there was no hesitation—only hunger.

Tyrone groaned, hands bracing the edge of the desk as her mouth worked him expertly. She alternated between slow sucks and firm strokes, watching every twitch in his face, every subtle clench of his abs. He was barely holding back.

She pulled back, lips glistening. “Tell me when you’re about to come. I want to taste it properly.”

He growled, grabbing her hair. “You’ll take it when I give it to you.”

She smirked. “Then take it, baby.”

Minutes later, he exploded on her tongue, his hips shuddering, head thrown back. She swallowed it all, then wiped her lips and stood like nothing happened.

“Back to business?” she asked innocently.

The next day brought them to a site visit—Tyrone had a new mixed-use property breaking ground, and Juliette wanted to see it up close. They drove together in his black Maserati, tension crackling between them. She wore a tailored navy suit with a silk blouse and stiletto boots, her scent intoxicating. Tyrone, in a rolled-up white dress shirt and slacks, looked like he belonged on a magazine cover.

During the tour, Tyrone kept it professional—shaking hands, answering questions, pointing out features. But Juliette’s eyes followed his every move. She admired his command. The way men deferred to him, women softened around him. He was power incarnate.

When they stepped into a temporary trailer-office for privacy, Juliette struck.

“Lock the door,” she said.

He arched a brow. “Now?”

“You’re hard. Don’t insult us both by pretending otherwise.”

The second the door clicked, she pushed him against the wall, kissing him hard—hungry and aggressive. She straddled him, wrapping her legs around his waist, grinding against his bulge.

“This is what you do to me,” she whispered against his mouth. “Even in the field, I want you.”

He lifted her, set her on the makeshift desk, and yanked up her skirt. No panties.

“You planned this.”

“Of course.”

He sank into her with a single thrust and they both groaned, bodies colliding with a primal rhythm. It was desperate, messy, unrelenting. She bit into his shoulder. He wrapped a hand around her throat.

They didn’t stop until she was trembling and breathless, and he had come deep inside her, both of them sweating and panting, their clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled.

“Now,” Juliette said, adjusting her blazer, “we can finish the tour.”

By the sixth day, the dynamic had shifted.

Juliette wasn’t just a guest anymore. She was burrowed deep into his routines—hovering close, challenging his decisions, sipping from his coffee, correcting his numbers with dry wit and rolled eyes. And Tyrone loved it.

That night, they stayed in. He ordered steak and wine. They ate on the couch, legs tangled, music low in the background. But the mood turned when Juliette leaned in and said:

“I want to try something new tonight.”

Tyrone looked up, intrigued. “Do tell.”

“I want you restrained.”

He blinked.

“I want you bound, blindfolded, and silent. I want you to trust me with your body.”

It was a twist he didn’t expect—but it excited him.

He let her lead.

She tied him to the bed—leather cuffs around his wrists, silk around his eyes. Naked. Vulnerable. The businessman, the alpha, now at her mercy.

She started slow—kissing every inch of him. Neck. Shoulders. Abs. Thighs. Teasing his cock with featherlight brushes. He groaned, his muscles flexing against the restraints.

“Shh,” she whispered. “You’re not in control tonight.”

She edged him for over an hour. Tongue, fingers, feather, ice cube. She brought him to the brink of orgasm multiple times, only to pull away.

Tyrone was sweating, straining, breathless.

“Please,” he finally rasped.

She leaned in close. “Beg me.”

He did.

And she rewarded him—riding him slow and deep, whispering filth in French as she ground against him, their bodies slick and tangled in sheets. She held his face in her hands as he came, harder than he ever remembered.

Later, she untied him and curled into his side.

“You passed,” she whispered.

“Passed what?”

“The test. Of trust. Of surrender.”

He kissed her shoulder. “You’re dangerous, Juliette.”

“So are you. That’s why this works.”

Tyrone’s Page