The scent of espresso and sweat still clung to the sheets when Tyrone rose, slow and deliberate, the early sun painting gold across his inked skin. Daniel and Rook were still asleep—twisted in his sheets, marked, satisfied, submissive.
Tyrone stood nude at the edge of his massive glass windows, sipping black coffee. The city sprawled beneath him.
Then his phone chimed.
“I’m in your city. Your penthouse or mine?
— C”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
She arrived unannounced—but expected. That was Celeste’s style.
The elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse, and there she stood: towering heels, black silk pants hugging every curve, a white blouse unbuttoned just enough to hint at danger. Her lipstick was a deep, blood-wine red.
Tyrone didn’t move from the kitchen island, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants. Still damp from his post-run shower. His chest glistened. His muscles flexed subtly as he set down his glass.
“Celeste,” he said, voice even, low.
She didn’t smile.
“Still delicious,” she said, eyes raking over him. “Still arrogant.”
He met her halfway. Inches apart. No hug. No kiss.
Just heat.
“You didn’t call.”
“You wouldn’t have answered.”
“You think you’re still owed something?” he asked, tilting his head.
She leaned in. “Not owed. Claimed.”
She didn’t stay long. Not at first.
Just a drink. A conversation. Tension that crackled like static between them.
Celeste spoke in double meanings. Her words dripping with innuendo. The way she swirled her wine glass. The way her tongue grazed her lip when she spoke about market penetration, about deep restructures, about internal discipline.
Tyrone didn’t flinch. But his eyes darkened with interest.
When she left, she kissed the rim of her glass and whispered over her shoulder:
“I’ll be back when I feel like you’ve earned it.”
She didn’t wait long.
Tyrone had just finished bending Daniel over the kitchen island—slow, controlling, driving deep as the intern moaned helplessly—when the door buzzed.
Celeste. Again.
In a sheer black dress this time. No bra. No panties. Just skin under silk.
Tyrone didn’t flinch.
Daniel, half-naked and red-faced, looked up wide-eyed.
Celeste only smirked. “Oh,” she said. “Did I interrupt something?”
Tyrone held Daniel by the waist, one palm flat on his back.
“Stay exactly like that,” he murmured.
To Celeste: “Come in.”
She circled them both slowly. Her heels clicking against the concrete. Her voice purring.
“I remember when you used to fuck me like that. Used to growl like a beast when I told you to slow down.”
Tyrone met her eyes over Daniel’s trembling back. “I still do.”
She moved closer.
Tyrone pulled out of Daniel slowly, without breaking eye contact. Daniel whimpered but stayed still, obedient.
Celeste ran her fingers over Tyrone’s chest, dragged her nails down his abs.
“You gonna tame me again, Tyrone?”
“I’m not here to tame you,” he said. “I’m here to own you.”
Celeste undressed slowly. One strap at a time. Her body was a symphony of soft curves and lethal edges. Her breasts were full, high, and her hips flared like a promise. A tattoo peeked out from just above her hip bone—old, black, and familiar.
Tyrone took her against the glass wall, his massive hands gripping her ass, pressing her to the view. The city lights below blurred into stars as he filled her, made her gasp, made her cry out his name.
She was loud. Brazen. Wild.
She clawed at his back, bit his shoulder, told him to take more, deeper, harder. And he did—until her knees buckled and her voice cracked from screaming.
When she collapsed, he didn’t stop.
He pulled her into the bedroom, where Daniel still lay on his stomach, watching with awe and arousal.
“On your back,” Tyrone told Celeste.
He lifted her effortlessly, placed her beside Daniel, then looked at the intern.
“Now you learn how to worship a Queen.”
Daniel leaned in, hesitant, and Celeste watched him with half-lidded eyes and a smirk.
“Oh, Tyrone,” she purred, running her fingers through Daniel’s hair. “You always knew how to pick your toys.”
By morning, the three of them were tangled in silk sheets.
Tyrone slept in the center—his chest rising and falling, muscles marked by nails and lipstick. Celeste rested against one side, her thigh draped over his hip, eyes open and watching Daniel.
Daniel was on his stomach, cheek resting against Tyrone’s abs.
There was no more rivalry.
Only a shifting power dynamic—fluid, electric, intoxicating.
And as the sun rose, Celeste whispered into Tyrone’s ear:
“You’ve made me curious again.”
He smiled without opening his eyes.
“Good,” he said. “You’ll stay.”
Tyrone’s Page