Page 8 of His to Command

After lunch, I return to my desk. Minutes later, my phone pings with a calendar notification—a dinner meeting at 7:00 PM. With Hudson. At his penthouse.

My head snaps up to find him watching me through the glass. He raises an eyebrow, challenging me to object.

I should say no. I should maintain boundaries. But the word "mandatory" glares from my screen, and beneath it, a note: "Car will pick you up from the office. Bring the Westfield proposal."

The afternoon crawls by. I tell myself this is normal—executives often work from home, have late meetings in private residences. But nothing about this feels normal. Every time Hudson passes my desk, he finds a reason to touch me—a hand at the small of my back guiding me aside, fingers brushing mine as he takes a document, standing close enough that our shoulders touch as we review something on my screen.

Each contact is brief, professional on the surface, but deliberate. Testing. Pushing boundaries one millimeter at a time.

By the end of the day, my nerves are frayed, my body humming with unwanted awareness. As I gather my things to leave, Hudson emerges from his office, jacket back on, expression unreadable.

"The car will be here at 6:30," he says, stopping at my desk. "Don't be late."

"Mr. Roth," I begin, summoning courage, "I'm not comfortable with?—"

"Not comfortable with doing your job?" His voice is silk over steel. "With reviewing a crucial proposal? With earning your considerable new salary?"

Put that way, my objection sounds ridiculous, unprofessional.

"Of course not," I backpedal. "I'll be there."

Something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes. "Good girl."

The praise shouldn't affect me. It's condescending, possessive. But heat pools low in my belly, and I hate my body's betrayal.

As Hudson walks away, I realize with crystal clarity what's happening. He's watching me. Every move. Every breath. Every curve. Like a predator stalking prey.

And God help me, some dark, hidden part of me is enjoying the chase.

four

. . .

Hudson

I checkmy watch—6:25. She'll be here in five minutes if the driver follows my instructions. Everything is prepared. Dinner from Le Bernardin waiting on the dining table, documents strategically spread across my home office desk, lights dimmed to create a more intimate atmosphere. I've changed into a fresh shirt, left the top button undone. Casual but still in control. My penthouse is pristine, impersonal—a showroom, not a home. Until tonight. Tonight Robin Hastings will be here, her scent lingering in my space, her presence filling the emptiness I never acknowledged before I saw her.

My phone buzzes. "She's on her way up, sir," my doorman informs me.

"Thank you, Edward." I end the call, adjusting my cuffs one final time.

The elevator to my penthouse requires a special key. Only I have it—and now Robin, for tonight. I've arranged everything so she has no excuse to leave early. The Westfield proposal iscomplex, will take hours to review. I've ensured the driver won't return until I call. I've had her assistant's credentials revoked, so she can't access the documents remotely from home.

Watching her today was exquisite torture. The way she jumped slightly whenever I entered the room. How her cheeks flushed when I stood too close. The subtle catch in her breath when my fingers brushed hers. Each reaction cataloged, filed away for future use. Each boundary noted so I can systematically dismantle it.

The elevator chimes. I stand in the foyer, hands in pockets, the picture of casual authority. The doors slide open.

Robin steps out, clutching her portfolio to her chest like armor. She's still in her work clothes—a gray pencil skirt that does nothing to hide the generous curve of her hips, a blue blouse buttoned to her throat. Her hair falls in dark waves around her shoulders, and I see her fingers twitch as if longing to tie it back, to hide behind that severe bun.

"Mr. Roth," she says, her voice carefully professional.

"Hudson," I correct, stepping closer. "We've been through this." I take her portfolio from her hands, our fingers connecting in a touch that lasts two seconds longer than necessary. "You look tired. Have you eaten?"

She blinks, thrown by the question. "I—no. I thought we were reviewing the Westfield proposal?"

"After dinner." I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her deeper into the penthouse. I feel her stiffen beneath my touch, but she doesn't pull away. Progress.

Her eyes widen as she takes in my home. Sixty floors up, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Manhattan at dusk, the city transforming into a grid of lights beneath us. Minimalist furniture in black and gray, original artwork on the walls, no personal photographs or mementos.Nothing that reveals anything about me—except now, the fact that I want her here.

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