The rain tapped softly against the tall glass windows of Tyrone’s penthouse office the following evening. The city below buzzed with light, but the interior was hushed, low-lit—like a den designed for seduction and strategy in equal measure. Tyrone stood shirtless behind his desk, jacket slung over his chair, muscles on full display as he skimmed over new contract drafts.
He was waiting for someone.
He didn’t know it yet—but not the person he expected.
A subtle chime echoed.
His door opened.
And in walked her.
Dr. Isolde Lang, the storm in a silk dress.
She was unforgettable. Early 40s, Scandinavian-German mix, with long platinum hair, glacial blue eyes, and a commanding presence that wrapped itself around you like cold perfume. A global branding consultant—brilliant, manipulative, devastating in both business and bed.
Tyrone hadn’t seen her in over a year. Their last meeting? In Prague. A penthouse. A week of unrelenting sex, arguments, bruises, and contracts signed in blood—or so it felt.
She walked in slowly, dripping wet from the rain in a slit black dress, heels clicking like a metronome.
“I was in town,” she said, voice cool and dangerous. “And I needed something… sharp. Something real.”
Tyrone straightened up, smirking. “You always did prefer me to your analysts.”
“You’re the only man who ever made me tremble,” she replied, pulling off her gloves one finger at a time. “And then made me beg for more.”
They didn’t speak another word.
He crossed the room. She didn’t back away.
Their mouths met like a slap—urgent, violent. His hand slid into her hair, gripped tight, pulling her head back as she let out a breathless laugh.
“I see you still take what you want,” she whispered against his lips.
“And you still love being taken.”
Meanwhile: Daniel’s Return
Daniel had left something.
He hadn’t told Tyrone, but he’d forgotten a leather portfolio in the office during yesterday’s project review. He had been hesitant to return—things between them were already… confusing.
Tyrone had been magnetic. Overwhelming.
Daniel had thought of him all night.
His body.
His voice.
His control.
He told himself it was professional admiration. Respect. That’s all.
So now he returned, quietly, assuming the office would be empty.
But as he stepped through the hallway, something stopped him.
Voices.
Muffled, low.
Then a moan.
Daniel’s eyes widened as he moved closer—footsteps soft—reaching the slightly ajar glass door.
He should’ve turned around.
But he didn’t.
Inside the Office
Isolde was bent over the desk, her silk dress hiked up, sheer stockings stretched tight, heels still on. Her cheek pressed against the cool surface. Tyrone stood behind her, pants undone, his powerful form locked in motion—strong, methodical, unforgiving.
He had one hand on the back of her neck, pinning her, the other gripping her hip like he owned it.
Isolde gasped, lips curling in delight.
“You missed this,” he growled into her ear.
“I need this.”
“You don’t deserve it,” he hissed. “Not yet.”
And then—he pulled out the black silk necktie she’d always kept in his drawer, looped it around her throat, and drew it tight. Not enough to choke—but enough to remind her.
She moaned low, needy.
Daniel’s mouth parted.
He should look away.
But he couldn’t.
Tyrone’s face was wild with focus and power, dominating every inch of the moment—completely, utterly in control.
Daniel felt heat flush through him. Down his neck. Into his core.
Tyrone…
His breath caught.
And then—
“Daniel,” Tyrone’s voice came, without looking.
Daniel froze.
Tyrone didn’t stop moving. Didn’t stop taking.
Just turned his head slightly, eyes still dark and steady, and said again, “Close the door.”
Daniel’s heart thundered. He stepped forward, hesitated—and did.
He closed the door.
On himself.
On them.
On everything he thought he understood.
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