The private jet touched down on a sleek, snow-dusted runway just outside Stockholm. Tyrone Dominian stepped into the icy Scandinavian air with the kind of swagger that turned heads even in subzero temperatures. Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a cashmere overcoat that hugged his muscular form, he moved like a man born for luxury—and used to taking what he wanted.
Sweden had invited him—specifically, a high-profile Nordic tech conglomerate seeking Tyrone’s unique blend of vision, dominance, and business instincts to shake up their outdated brand. They’d been courting him for weeks. But he hadn’t just flown in for a handshake.
He came to conquer.
His hotel suite at the Grand Hôtel overlooked the Royal Palace, a blend of old-world elegance and modern opulence. Gold fixtures. Crisp black-and-white marble floors. A bed that could swallow three lovers whole.
Perfect.
Within an hour of his arrival, the meetings began. The boardroom was glass-walled and pristine, the executives icy and immaculate—until Tyrone started speaking. His voice, deep and deliberate, carried across the long table like heat rolling over snow. The Swedes were reserved, but they watched him. Listened. Leaned in.
Especially the women.
There were three of them on the executive team. All statuesque, blonde, and devastatingly busty—like something out of a Norse fantasy. But one in particular caught Tyrone’s attention.
Astrid Lindholm.
She was in her late thirties, with arctic blue eyes and curves that defied the stiffness of her tailored suit. Her blouse strained slightly across her full chest, and her pencil skirt clung to her hips like it had been poured on. She didn’t smile much, but her eyes did. Especially when they lingered on Tyrone’s hands… or the way his muscles flexed under the sleeves of his shirt.
After the meeting, she lingered behind.
“That was… persuasive,” she said in a voice like snowmelt and silk.
Tyrone stepped closer. “You didn’t ask a single question.”
“I didn’t need to,” she replied. “I like men who speak with authority.”
He watched her lips move, eyes sliding over the soft swell of her breasts. “And I like women who know when they’re ready to submit.”
Astrid didn’t flinch. Her gaze locked with his. “You’ll have to prove you’re worth kneeling for.”
Tyrone’s smile was slow. Dangerous. “I don’t prove. I demonstrate.”
That night, an invitation arrived at his suite—a formal dinner, hosted in Astrid’s personal residence outside the city. Private. Exclusive.
And very intentional.
He arrived to find a villa bathed in candlelight, nestled against the edge of a frozen lake. Astrid answered the door in a black velvet dress with a plunging neckline that framed her full chest like a masterpiece. Her lips were painted deep red, her hair twisted up in a messy knot, exposing the long, pale line of her neck.
Inside, the house was warm and intimate. A fire crackled. A record player whispered slow jazz. And there were only two place settings.
“I thought we’d skip the pretense,” she said, handing him a glass of aquavit. “You’re not here for small talk.”
“No,” Tyrone agreed, eyes heavy on her curves. “I’m here to own the deal. And maybe…” he stepped closer, “…devour a little Nordic hospitality.”
Astrid’s breath caught. “Then stop talking and show me what ‘Dark Chocolate’ can do.”
He kissed her—hard, hot, possessive. Her moan was immediate, her body pressing into him, desperate and confident all at once. He lifted her in one fluid motion, her legs wrapping around his waist, the hem of her velvet dress riding up to her hips.
He carried her through the house, into a sunken living room lit only by the firelight. There, he laid her back on a plush bearskin rug and knelt between her legs, tearing her panties with one sharp pull.
“You’re soaked already,” he growled, fingers dragging through her folds.
“I’ve been soaked since you walked into the boardroom,” she whispered, cheeks flushed.
Tyrone didn’t ease into it. He devoured her, tongue lapping, sucking, dominating her with every stroke. Her hands clawed at his scalp, her body writhing beneath his mouth, cries echoing off the wooden beams.
When she came, it was a scream—raw and guttural, hips bucking against his face.
He didn’t let her rest.
He stripped, his body a sculpture of power and lust, cock hard and heavy as he slid on top of her.
“Ready to kneel yet?” he growled.
“Never,” she gasped.
He drove into her with a punishing thrust, stretching her wide, making her whimper. Again. And again. Each thrust a statement. Each moan a negotiation.
By the second hour, she was begging.
By the third, she was on her knees.
And when morning came, she lay sprawled across her bearskin rug, lipstick smeared, thighs trembling, whispering things in Swedish that he didn’t need translated.
Back in his suite, Tyrone poured himself a drink and looked out over the city.
Another deal closed.
Another body conquered.
But Tyrone wasn’t done with Sweden.
There were more meetings to come. More executives. More boardrooms. More fantasies wrapped in snow and satin.
And when he returned to the States, Juliette would still be waiting.
But Tyrone Dominian?
He belonged to no one.
He took what he wanted.
And the world kept offering.
Tyrone’s Page