Page 19 of His to Command

"Hudson—"

"Get cleaned up," I interrupt, not ready for whatever objection she's about to raise. "We have the executive committee in thirty minutes."

I leave her standing there, returning to my office through the connecting door. Alone, I allow myself a moment of unfamiliar introspection. This obsession with Robin isn't justsexual, though God knows I want her body with an intensity that staggers me. It's deeper, more complex.

I've spent my life building walls, keeping people at precisely calculated distances. Robin somehow slipped through. Saw past the power and wealth to the man beneath. And rather than running from what she saw, she challenged it. Matched it with her own strength.

She's not mine yet—not completely. She's still fighting it, still clinging to conventional boundaries and expectations. But I can be patient when the prize is worth it.

And Robin Hastings is worth everything.

seven

. . .

Robin

I avoid Hudson all day,ducking into bathroom stalls when I hear his footsteps, rescheduling meetings that would put us in the same room. My body still aches from yesterday—pleasant soreness between my thighs, fingertip bruises on my hips—physical evidence of what happened in my new office. Evidence I need to forget if I'm going to survive this job, this life, with my sanity intact.

This morning, I arrived early and left a note on his desk:

Need time to think. Professional boundaries must be maintained.

Such clinical words for what's happening between us. Like putting a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound. But I need distance. Space to breathe. To remember who I was before Hudson Roth decided I was his.

He's responded with a barrage of emails—meeting requests, document reviews, budget questions. All perfectly professional on the surface. All requiring my presence. I answer each one remotely, citing other commitments, sending work through assistants. It's cowardly, but necessary. If I see him again, if he touches me, I'll shatter.

By three o'clock, my nerves are frayed to breaking. Every ping of my computer makes me jump. Every shadow passing my frosted glass door sends my heart racing. I pack my laptop, tell my assistant I'm working from home, and slip out through the service elevator, feeling like a fugitive.

The subway ride to Brooklyn is a blur. Only when I unlock my apartment door do I finally exhale, shoulders dropping as the lock clicks behind me. My apartment is small but mine—the first place that's ever felt like a true sanctuary. Soft gray walls, overstuffed couch, bookshelves crammed with paperbacks. Nothing like the chrome and glass sterility of the Roth Enterprises executive floor.

I kick off my heels, peel away the professional mask I've worn all day. In the bathroom mirror, I study my reflection—the woman Hudson wants so desperately. My hair falls in messy waves around my face. I've stopped confining it in that severe bun, his preference apparently overriding years of habit. My cheeks hold a persistent flush these days, like my body's constantly aware of him even when he's not present.

I strip, step under the shower's hot spray, hoping to wash away the memory of Hudson's hands on me, his mouth claiming mine, the way he growled "mine" against my throat. But the water only makes me more aware of my body—the curves he praised instead of shamed, the softness he grasped so hungrily. I close my eyes and his face appears behind my eyelids, those steel-gray eyes watching me with predatory focus.

Clean but not cleansed, I pull on leggings and an oversized NYU sweatshirt—clothes that feel like me, not the corporate armor I wear at work. I pour a glass of wine, curl on my couch, and stare at the wall, trying to make sense of the tornado that's become my life.

One week ago, I was invisible. Forgettable Robin Hastings, the competent but unremarkable marketing assistant. Now I'm... what? Hudson Roth's latest obsession? His employee-with-benefits? The woman he's reorganized an entire corporation to keep close?

It's too much, too fast. The intensity of his focus terrifies me. Not because I'm afraid of him—though perhaps I should be—but because of how desperately I want it. How right it feels when he claims me. How completely I've surrendered each time, despite my protests and boundaries.

I've never been wanted like this. Never been seen like this. It's addictive. Dangerous. If I give in completely, what will be left of me?

The knock startles me so badly I spill wine on my sweatshirt. Three sharp raps, authoritative, demanding. My stomach drops. I know who it is before I even check the peephole.

Hudson stands in my hallway, still in his work suit, holding a brown paper bag that smells heavenly. His jaw is clenched, body tense with barely restrained energy.

I consider pretending I'm not home. But that's pointless. He probably has the building security footage on his phone, tracking my arrival.

When I open the door, he doesn't wait for an invitation. He steps inside, filling my small apartment with his presence, making it shrink around him.

"You're avoiding me." Not a question. An accusation.

"I left a note." My voice comes out smaller than I intend.

His eyes rake over me—the wine-stained sweatshirt, leggings, bare feet, damp hair. Something in his expression softens minutely. "You look different here."

"This is who I really am." I gesture to the apartment, to myself. "Not the executive you created overnight. Not the woman you bent over a desk yesterday."

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