MasukHenry always did things on his own terms.The black sedan rolled through the iron gates of the mansion well past sunset, its headlights cutting through the velvety midnight blue of the early evening. The house loomed ahead vast, cold, expensive, exactly the way Henry liked it. Power didn’t need warmth. Power needed space.Inside, Henry Sterling loosened his silk tie, the fatigue of a transatlantic flight etched into the lines of his fifty-two-year-old face.Beside him, Jennifer Sterling née Collins, sat with her hands folded in her lap, her hazel eyes wide and posture straight. She had spent years perfecting that composure, first as his secretary, then as the woman who learned how to stand beside men like Henry without shrinking.
The sound was faint at first, a choked gasp from the ensuite bathroom. Then it came again. Elina’s soft retching dragged Francis out of sleep for the second morning in a row. He was on his feet before his eyes fully adjusted to the pre-dawn gloom filtering through the windows.He found her kneeling on the cool marble tiles, a trembling figure in one of his oversized white t-shirts, one hand braced against the tub, the other fisted in her hair as if grounding herself.“Elina,” he said quietly, already kneeling behind her. He knelt beside her, gathering her sweat-damp hair in one hand and placing a cool, damp cloth on the nape of her neck with the other. “Easy. I’ve got you.”She leaned into him without argument this time, her body sma
Francis wasn’t sated. Even as Elina's breaths evened, he rolled her onto her back again, eyes devouring her flushed form. “Not done yet, angel. These tits need more attention.”His voice was a gravelly command, laced with that unquenchable hunger that made her pulse race despite the exhaustion settling into her limbs. Elina's chest heaved, her massive D-cup breasts still glistening from their earlier frenzy, red marks blooming where his teeth and fingers had claimed them. She looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, her love for this man, a fierce, all-consuming fire, burning brighter than any fatigue.“Francis... you know I’m yours. Do whatever you want to me.”He straddled her waist without a word, his muscular thighs pinning her
Elina’s brows lifted, a playful spark in her eyes as she gazed up at him. “And what exactly are you planning?”Francis stepped toward her, his large hands capturing her waist in a possessive hold, pulling her flush against the hard planes of his body. “Reminding you who fucking own you,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her core.“Possessive much?” she teased, though her breath hitched sharply when his fingers traced the curve of her hip, dipping just under the waistband of her jeans, sending a shiver racing up her spine.“Obsessive,” he corrected, leaning in so close his hot breath fanned her lips. “Very fucking obsessive.”T
Elina stood near the window, clutching the edge of the countertop as dawn light washed over the apartment. The sleek, modern lines of Francis Thorne’s penthouse felt like a gilded cage.“I need to go to work today,” she said, her voice deceptively calm.Francis didn’t look up from the merger contract he was dissecting, though the words had long since blurred. For three days she’d tried the same line. Three days of her insisting, him refusing. Three days of this tug-of-war he had no intention of losing.“Elina.” His tone carried a warning. “We’ve discussed this.”“You’ve discussed it. At me. Repeatedly.” She turned, crossing her
Francis wasn’t even fully awake when he answered the phone.“Yeah?” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.“Sir. It’s Archer.” The voice on the line was taut, a violin string about to snap. “Miss Rossi is in the hospital.”The words ripped him from bed. Francis sat up so fast the sheets tangled around his legs.“Explain.” His voice sharpened.“We found her in the restroom at the event venue,” he explained, breathless as though he’d run. “She’d gone in feeling dizzy. When she didn’t come out, I checked. She passed out in the last stall.”&nbs







