The air in Dominika's penthouse bedroom felt as sharp as shattered glass. A sliver of late‑evening sunlight slid through the floor‑to‑ceiling curtains, falling across the polished marble, then cutting directly over Greg's trembling silhouette. He sat at the edge of the bed like a criminal awaiting a verdict, shoulders bent, fingers clasped, eyes darting around the room, because he could look at anything except her. Dominika stood several steps away from him, a silk robe tied loosely around her lithe frame, the fabric shimmering like liquid night whenever she shifted. She had the kind of presence that filled every inch of the room, even when she didn't speak. But tonight she wasn't just present, she was a force of nature winding itself tighter and tighter. She took one long breath through her nose, the kind that said she was restraining herself from an eruption. Then she tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"What," she began, her voice silky yet razor‑sharp, "gives you the right to breathe in that manner?"
Greg's spine stiffened. He opened his mouth to reply, but she raised a single finger, slowly, deliberately, and he shut it immediately like a child scolded by a mother. Her lip curled in disdain.
"As much as I derive the utmost joy in shattering men's egos…" She stepped forward, each footfall deliberate, predatory. "I also like to tell the truth."
Greg swallowed hard. Dominika could hear it from across the room, could hear the tiny, pathetic click of his Adam's apple.
"You try," she said, pacing slowly in front of him, "when it comes to business and money. You try." Her tone dipped into mockery, dancing around the word like it amused her. "But in this aspect?" she said, letting the pause linger like a blade suspended above his throat. "You are the exact description of dead weight."
He wilted. visibly, pathetically as she delivered the final blow. Completely disgusted, she lifted her chin and smoothed a hand down her robe as if wiping off the residue of disappointment he had left on her evening. Without giving him any more acknowledgement than she would give a smudge on her shoe, she picked up her phone from the bedside table. The device gleamed against her long, lacquered nails as she tapped a name with practiced precision. Her voice turned brisk, businesslike, but threaded with command.
"Let my toyboy know I need him in here. Right now."
She didn't wait for a response before dropping the call. The click of the phone hitting the table punctuated the silence a silence in which Greg's humiliation thickened the air like smoke. Dominika adjusted her robe again, this time leisurely, almost theatrically. She enjoyed making men squirm. It was an art form for her. And Greg, unfortunately, had become nothing more than a poorly executed sketch.
She turned her eyes back to him, her gaze colder than the marble beneath her feet.
"What are you still doing here?" Her voice thundered through the room, exploding the quiet. "Get out!"
Greg jumped to his feet so fast he stumbled, nearly tripping over the rug. His face burned red, blotchy and miserable, but Dominika didn't give him a second glance. She had already dismissed him in her mind, and that was far more permanent than words. He scampered out of the room like a frightened rabbit, practically sprinting to the door, fumbling with the handle, then vanishing down the hallway as if the air in her presence was poison. The door slammed shut.
Only then did Dominika exhale slowly, with a deep, simmering irritation.
"I'm done with CEOs at this point," she thought, letting herself sink back onto the bed. The sheets were cool against her legs, a stark contrast to her rising annoyance, because I think it's a thing for them to direct all their energy into work and forget to leave some for the other room, which is the most important thing. She scoffed aloud, running a hand through her hair.
All of that chiseled torso,all that confident posturing and for what? To shake like a malfunctioning robot after two minutes? What a waste. A tragic, exhausting waste.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned against the velvet headboard. She replayed the night, Greg's bravado, his promises, his overconfidence and then the swift, predictable downfall. It was always the same story. Always the same fragile male ego dressed in expensive suits and expensive cologne. Dominika smirked despite her frustration. She should have known better. She did know better. But sometimes she lets herself experiment… for entertainment, if nothing else. But tonight's experiment has been a complete failure.
She was sinking deeper into her thoughts when she heard a knock. Firm. Familiar.
She opened her eyes lazily but felt a ripple of anticipation spark beneath her ribs.
"Ma'am, it's me, Douglas."
His voice was smooth, steady, and threaded with confidence he didn't need to pretend to have. A slow smirk spread across Dominika's face, one of satisfaction, one of certainty. She didn't rise from the bed. She simply let her head rest back and allowed her eyes to half‑close, her voice rolling out in a slow, velvet purr:
"You know what to do."
The knock ceased. The handle turned. And the door swung open. Douglas stepped inside.
The room was already dim before Douglas entered, but his presence made the shadows feel intentional, as if the darkness itself stepped back to make space for him. The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing the charged air between these two creatures who knew each other's edges far too well.
He moved with the controlled confidence of a man carved from storms: chiseled jaw catching the faintest slice of light, eyes sharp enough to silence chaos, the strong line of his nose giving him a perpetually unforgiving expression. His shoulders carried an athletic strength he never bothered to hide, even when fully clothed. Tonight though, he wasn't planning on staying clothed for long.
His dark hair was neatly arranged, almost too neatly for the wickedness lurking in his smirk. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, giving him the sort of rugged charm that was less appealing and more warning. He stepped farther into the room, and Dominika felt her pulse shift, a low, simmering thrum that matched the rhythm of his footsteps.
She didn't let it show.
Not yet. But her body felt it, despite her will. She felt him.
Douglas's hands found the hem of his shirt, and without breaking eye contact, he pulled it over his head. The fabric slipped away, taking any remaining pretense of restraint with it. His torso was a hard map of muscle and control, the kind of body sculpted by discipline, not vanity. Light glided over him like it recognized an old friend.
The silence between them deepened.
His trousers followed, deliberate and slow, pooling around his ankles before he stepped out of them. The room's air changed, or maybe it was Dominika who did because suddenly everything around her felt awake. A hush of heat pulsed under her skin, betraying her.
And when he shed the last barrier between them, Douglas stood with bold, unapologetic confidence, a man unashamed of his power, aware of the effect he commanded.
A smile flickered genuinely, dangerously across Dominika's lips.
It never stayed long; smiles never did with her. But the brief curve was real. It surprised her, the way her own body betrayed her.
Minutes ago, Greg had suffocated her entire mood, left her repulsed in that special way only foolish men managed. But Douglas changed the atmosphere simply by existing. He didn't even need to touch her; he seldom did before she started unraveling.
Her lower lip caught between her teeth, a slow bite she allowed herself purely because Douglas earned reactions most men could never dream of.
But just like that, the smile vanished.
Dominika reassembled herself.
She shifted on the massive bed, moving with an elegance sharpened by danger, sliding from one edge to the very center. Her body carried that feminine arrogance she had perfected, the walk of a woman who had ended men with nothing more than a glance.
She moved like someone prepared to be torn apart and feared nothing about the idea.
Dominika never wanted softness. Not from him.
Not from anyone.
She liked things rough, unfiltered, merciless, because she was those things first. Emotionless, hardened, the sort of woman whose heart had been buried so deeply even she no longer remembered where. Douglas, unfortunately for her defenses, was the only man who knew how to find the cracks.
He approached with that look, the fierce one she both dreaded and craved. His eyes grazing her shape like he was already touching her. Every step brought the air closer, tighter, more electric.
Her breath betrayed her again.
His hands were the first to reach her. They rested on her inner thighs, firm, directive, claiming the space that was once hers alone. He parted her legs without a word, without hesitation, a command disguised as a gesture.
Douglas always knew exactly where he intended to end up.
The devil only enjoyed the journey.
His hand traveled, not to the place she expected, but to her stomach, fingers tracing the curve around her navel, that one spot he had learned was her weakness. His touch was a slow threat, deliberate, almost mocking in its tenderness.
Dominika's spine tightened.
Her breath quickened just slightly, not enough to expose her, but enough for him to notice.
Because he always noticed.
His hand dragged downward, promising contact she desperately anticipated… only for him to pull away sharply before reaching her center, his lips curving into a cruel, knowing smirk.
He reveled in her frustration.
She hated that she loved it.
Dominika didn't voice the need burning through her. Her eyes, however sharp, predatory, flickered with hunger she couldn't fully disguise. Douglas saw it. He reveled in it.
His hands then went to her chest, and he touched her in a way that drew breathy hints of sound from her throat. Not moans, not quite. Just the sound of a woman losing her composure inch by inch.
By the time he knelt between her legs, anticipation had already hollowed out her strength.
He leaned in, closing the space between them.
And when his mouth met her heat, Dominika's head arched back with a smile she couldn't fight this time.
A smile of pure, vicious satisfaction.
It wasn't the act itself, it was what it meant.
That he had finally "answered the call" she had been silently dialing, refusing to admit she needed.
The room filled with sounds she normally forbade herself to make. Breathy, shaking, sharp with pleasure she couldn't temper. Her legs trembled, a storm rolling through her body. The walls, thick and old, absorbed her voice until it lived in their bones.
Douglas didn't stop.
He wouldn't until she was almost taking her last breath.
And when he finally rose from between her thighs, his eyes held that predatory gleam she secretly worshipped. He grabbed her legs with command, shifting her body into the position he wanted, the one that always stole what little control she cling to.
Pain tugged at her muscles, but she would never voice it. Not with him.
With Douglas, she obeyed without question. The only time in her life she surrendered anything.
He noticed anyway.
A silent adjustment of the pillows.
A small act of care he would deny if confronted.
But for her, he did it.
When she was positioned perfectly, his hand reached down, teasing, tormenting her with slow, precise strokes that made her entire body shiver. He played along her most sensitive point without giving her the thing she couldn't bring herself to beg for.
Until she did.
Her voice broke first.
The word cracked out of her, alien to her tongue:
"Please…"
Only Douglas ever pulled that word from Dominika. Only him.
Outside this room, she was the goddess men crawled for, feared, worshipped.
But here, he was the one she knelt to.
"Please?" he echoed, tilting his head like he genuinely didn't understand. His voice carried a dark amusement. "What exactly are you begging for, Dom?"
Her breath shook.
Her eyes fluttered.
"I want it… I want you."
"I didn't hear you."
His voice dropped lower.
"Say it again."
She fought for composure, losing catastrophically.
"Please, Doug… I want all of you inside me."
The look he gave her in that moment could have extinguished nations.
He finally moved.
The shift of his body, the alignment, the moment just before contact, it alone made her gasp. Her fingers clawed into the sheets, knuckles white, breath fractured. Shadows slid over the wall in sharp strokes as he guided her through a rhythm that broke every last remnant of her control.
He watched her face the entire time.
Watched the way she bit her lip, eyes half-closed, breath catching as her voice cracked around each sound she tried to swallow.
He pushed her further.
And further.
The faster the rhythm, the louder her world became.
The mansion was enormous, built for queens, killers, and gods. But tonight it existed solely to contain the sounds she never let anyone hear. Her workers, seasoned and numb to her storms, had already braced themselves the moment Douglas entered her room.
Time blurred as it always did with him.
Minutes felt like hours; each movement felt like a lifetime.
And then… he found that one place inside her, the place that turned Dominika, the untouchable ruler of her kingdom, into a trembling, undone woman desperate for the next second.
Her entire body convulsed.
Douglas froze with her, sensing the shift instantly. Her breath vanished for a beat, and heat flooded through her in a fierce, unstoppable wave. He pulled back at the exact moment her body broke open, letting her fall apart without restraint.
Dominika collapsed against the sheets, chest rising sharply.
The world after pleasure always returned her to herself. Cold, sharp, untouchable.
She grabbed the duvet, dragging it over her body, her face resettling into its usual icy calm.
"Go clean up in the bathroom," she ordered without looking at him.
"And get out."
Her voice was steel again.
Her expression was carved stone.
Dominika, the real Dominika was back.