Page 6 of His to Command

His gaze slides over my loose hair, and heat blooms across my skin. I resist the urge to gather it back, to hide behind the curtain it provides.

"Yes, sir," I manage.

"Sir." A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "I like that."

He studies me for a long moment, gaze traveling from my face down to where my hands rest on the keyboard, then back up. Taking inventory of what he's claimed.

"Coffee," he says, then walks through the inner doors to his office without waiting for a response.

I exhale, realizing I've been holding my breath. My hands tremble as I navigate to the kitchenette Gregory showed me. Black, one sugar. Don't spill, don't spill, don't spill. The mantra repeats as I carry the steaming cup back, knocking lightly on Hudson's door.

"Enter."

His office is a minimalist cathedral to power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a godlike view of Manhattan. His desk is a slab of black marble on steel legs. Behind it, Hudson sits reviewing something on his tablet, jacket removed, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms dusted with dark hair.

I place the coffee precisely at the corner of his desk, where Gregory instructed.

"Thank you, Robin."

My first name in his mouth still feels intimate, inappropriate. I murmur a response and turn to leave.

"Stay."

I freeze, my back to him.

"Turn around."

I do, clasping my hands to stop their trembling.

"You look different with your hair down."

I don't know how to respond to that. "Is it... acceptable, Mr. Roth?"

"Hudson." He takes a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving mine. "When we're alone, you call me Hudson."

My throat tightens. "I don't think that's appropriate, Mr. Roth."

"And yet it's what I want." He sets down the cup. "Come here."

I hesitate.

"That wasn't a request, Robin."

My legs carry me forward against my better judgment, until I stand before his desk, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive, with notes that remind me of whiskey and leather.

"Closer."

I round the corner of the desk, stopping an arm's length away.

"Why are you afraid of me?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, studying me through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm not afraid," I lie.

"Your pulse is racing." His gaze flicks to my throat. "I can see it here." He raises a hand, and for one wild moment I think he's going to touch me, but instead he gestures to a chair. "Sit."

I perch on the edge of a leather chair, knees pressed together, wondering how this became my life so quickly.

"Tell me about yourself, Robin."

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