Tyrone’s downtown office sat high above the city—sleek, masculine, steel-gray and obsidian décor. The windows ran from floor to ceiling, offering a glittering skyline view that looked like it bowed to him.
The city should bow.
Tyrone sat behind his desk, shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, cuffs rolled, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
Across from him: Griffin Hale, a sharply dressed man in his early 40s. Clean-cut, salt-and-pepper hair, striking jawline. Griffin ran a luxury hospitality group with resorts across Europe. He had a polished exterior, but Tyrone saw through it.
That crisp suit couldn’t hide the tension in his shoulders.
That wedding ring couldn’t hide the hunger in his eyes.
“So,” Tyrone said, voice low and rich, “You want to bring Dominian Design into your next resort rollout.”
Griffin nodded. “Your firm’s aesthetic fits perfectly with what we’re building—modern, strong, indulgent…”
Tyrone leaned forward. “But that’s not the only reason you’re here, is it?”
Griffin’s jaw flexed. He tried to keep his eyes locked on Tyrone’s—but they flicked, inevitably, lower. To his chest. His hands. His throat.
“I respect you,” Griffin said. “You’re… magnetic. You lead with authority.”
Tyrone smirked. “You want to be led, Griffin?”
Silence.
Then a nod. Tight. Almost ashamed.
Tyrone stood and circled the desk slowly, letting Griffin sweat.
“On your knees.”
Griffin didn’t move at first. His eyes flicked to the door, the tinted glass walls, the view of the city outside.
“No one will see. No one will hear,” Tyrone said smoothly. “Unless I want them to.”
Griffin sank to his knees.
Tyrone stood above him, broad and commanding. He undid his belt slowly, letting the tension build. Griffin watched, mouth slightly parted, hands folded respectfully behind his back.
He had power in his own world. A CEO. A public face.
But here—here, in Tyrone’s lair—he was nothing but another body aching for control.
Tyrone fed him inch by inch, hand gripping his hair tight. He kept one arm rested against the glass, looking down over the city as Griffin worked below him. Slow. Deep. Hungry.
Griffin moaned softly—until Tyrone slapped him.
“Quiet,” Tyrone growled. “Good boys don’t make noise.”
Griffin’s eyes glazed with submission.
Twenty Minutes Later
Tyrone stood over Griffin, who was now shirtless, his pants around his knees, breath hitching as he leaned forward on the desk.
Tyrone’s hand pressed between his shoulder blades, firm.
“You sure you want this deal?” Tyrone asked.
Griffin’s voice was hoarse. “Yes, sir.”
“Then earn it.”
And he did.
Tyrone claimed him—forcefully, fully—one hand gripping Griffin’s jaw, the other low and punishing. He didn’t whisper sweet nothings. He didn’t offer comfort.
He took.
And Griffin trembled beneath him.
By the time it ended, Griffin was bent over the desk, lips red, hair disheveled, suit ruined.
Tyrone adjusted his shirt, poured himself another drink, and handed Griffin a sleek black folder.
Inside: a one-page contract with a blank signature line.
“I’ll assume you’ll sign.”
Griffin didn’t speak. Just nodded, hands shaking as he scrawled his name.
He left quietly. Shamefaced. Aching.
Five Minutes Later — The Elevator Opens Again
Tyrone didn’t even glance up as he heard the click of heels.
He just smirked.
Celeste DuVall stepped into the office, dressed in a high-waisted pencil skirt, sheer black blouse, and red-soled stilettos. She carried a silk scarf in her hand.
Her eyes flicked to the door.
“You locked it this time?” she asked coolly.
“Didn’t need to,” Tyrone replied. “Griffin begged to leave.”
She arched a brow. “So that’s who I passed in the lobby. Looked like he’d been wrecked.”
Tyrone just sat back, legs wide, and gestured for her.
“You jealous?”
Celeste walked forward slowly, unfolding the scarf between her hands.
“Not jealous,” she said. “Just greedy.”
She dropped to her knees in front of him without another word.
A Second Round, A Deeper Game
Celeste didn’t beg. She didn’t whimper. She devoured.
She looked up at Tyrone with wet, dark eyes as she licked him clean of the last man, as if marking her territory. Her tongue worked with practiced skill—slow, precise, teasing the tip, then swallowing him deep with a guttural moan that made him hiss through his teeth.
Tyrone gripped her by the hair, forcing her rhythm.
She choked—and smiled through it.
He dragged her up by the scarf, turned her, and bent her over the desk still warm from Griffin’s body.
“Who does this office belong to?” he whispered into her ear.
“You,” she gasped.
His hand came down on her ass—loud, stinging.
“Say it louder.”
“You, Tyrone.”
“Damn right.”
He didn’t undress her. He ripped her panties aside and took her like a man claiming his throne—rough, deep, relentless. Her fingers scraped against the desk. The scarf dangled from her neck like a collar.
He gripped it. Pulled her upright by it as he pounded her.
“Griffin was just a client,” he growled. “You’re the one who comes back for more.”
“I always will,” she moaned.
Midnight
Tyrone sat on the edge of his desk. Shirtless again. Whiskey in hand.
Celeste curled at his feet like a cat, face flushed, thighs trembling. She had marks on her neck—his hand, the scarf, his teeth.
“You think Daniel would handle this side of me?” he asked.
Celeste chuckled darkly. “He’d cry.”
Tyrone exhaled slowly. “Maybe I’ll break him in like I did Griffin.”
“And me.”
“And you,” he said, smirking. “But you wanted to be broken.”
She looked up at him, lips swollen, eyes gleaming.
“I still do.”
Tyrone’s Page