Page 10 of His to Command

She tenses but doesn't move away, pointing to specific numbers, explaining the discrepancy. I lean in, not to see the document but to breathe in the scent of her hair—vanilla and something uniquely her.

"What would you recommend?" I ask, my voice low near her ear.

"A complete recalculation based on the actual demographic data." She turns her head to emphasize her point and finds our faces inches apart. Her pupils dilate, her lips parting slightly.

"Do it," I instruct, holding her gaze.

She swallows and turns back to the laptop, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. I don't move away, remaining close enough that she must feel my breath on her neck. She makes small, involuntary movements—tucking hair behind her ear, shifting in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Each betrays her awareness of me, her body responding even as her mind resists.

We work for hours, the pretense of business providing cover for my real purpose—keeping her here, watching her, testing her reactions. When she reaches for her coffee cup, I do the same, our fingers brushing. When she points to something on screen, I lean in closer than necessary. I create a thousand small moments of contact, building a current between us that will eventually, inevitably short-circuit her resistance.

At 10:30, she glances at her watch. "It's getting late. I should probably go."

"We're not finished." I nod to the documents still spread before us.

"We could continue tomorrow at the office."

"This is sensitive material. It doesn't leave this room." I stand, rolling my shoulders as if stiff from sitting too long. "More coffee?"

She hesitates, then nods. "Just a little. Then I really should call a car."

"My driver is at your disposal whenever you're ready," I lie smoothly, knowing I've instructed him not to return until called. I take her cup, letting my fingers brush against hers.

In the kitchen, I grip the counter, momentarily closing my eyes. I've built empires, demolished competitors, made and broken millionaires without my pulse rising above its resting rate. Yet this woman—this soft, curvy, infuriatingly reserved woman—has me counting seconds until I can return to her presence.

When I return with fresh coffee, she's standing at the window, staring out at the city below. The lights play across her face, illuminating features that have been haunting me since I first saw her. Without her noticing, I take a photo with my phone, needing to capture this moment—Robin in my space, where she belongs.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" I say, approaching with her coffee.

She starts slightly. "Yes. It's like seeing the city as you must see it—from above, everything laid out before you."

"Is that how you think I see the world?"

She accepts the cup, careful not to touch my hand this time. "Don't you? From up here, everyone else must seem very small."

The insight surprises me. "Not everyone," I murmur.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the pretense falls away. She sees me looking at her—not as a CEO at an employee, butas a man at a woman he desperately wants. Fear and something darker flash in her eyes.

"I should go," she whispers, setting down her untouched coffee.

"One more document," I counter, guiding her back to the desk with a hand at the small of her back. "The pricing structure needs your input."

She allows herself to be led, but I feel resistance building in her posture, her movements. She's realizing this isn't normal, that no business meeting requires this level of isolation, this much proximity.

We return to work, but the easy rhythm is broken. She sits straighter, maintains distance, answers in monosyllables. When I deliberately brush her hand reaching for a document, she pulls back as if burned.

"Robin." My voice cuts through the tension. "Look at me."

She raises her eyes—those remarkable hazel eyes with flecks of gold that seem to ignite when she's agitated.

"Are you afraid of me?" I ask for the second time today.

"Should I be?" Her voice is steady despite the pulse visibly racing in her throat.

"No." I lean back, giving her space. "Never."

"Then why am I here, Hudson? Really?"

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