She won the board call in twenty-one minutes flat.
By the time the line clicked dead, her pulse had settled into something that felt like borrowed calm. It didn't last. The service corridor was the same temperature as before. Cool air, white door, the echo of the building breathing, but the moment she stepped into it, the floor tilted toward him.
Julian was already there. Left cuff still undone. Collar still visible on her. He didn't move to meet her. He let her cross the last foot herself.
"Color?" he asked.
"Green." Steady. True.
"Hands," he said, and her palms found the wall without thought. He stepped in close, heat slipping between blouse and skin, his thumb settling under the leather at her throat.
"Good," he murmured. "Now remember who decides."
He didn't rush. He turned her body by degrees. One knee half a step wider, chin tipped to bare her throat, shoulder blades against painted cinderblock. His other hand slid down her sternum, not groping, just anchoring, reminding. When his breath brushed her cheek, she felt the world narrow to the space between his mouth and hers.
"Ask."
"Please, Sir," she whispered. "Please finish what you started."
He obliged by refusing to hurry. The first kiss he gave her was not a claim; it was a decision. Soft at her mouth, a press that tasted like heat under restraint. The second grazed her jaw, slower, a fraction lower. The third set to the side of her neck made her knees loosen and her hands grip the wall harder.
A nod to a shift. Not mercy. Something more...
Then the coil tightened again.
"Skirt," he said.
She lifted it. Air kissed her thighs. His fingers found her, sure, controlled, mapping pressure she couldn't stop chasing. The sound she made was quiet and indecent; his mouth turned against her throat like he'd expected it.
"Color?"
"Green."
"Hold the line."
He made her do exactly that. The rhythm built under his palm and inside her lungs, breath counted in fours, pleasure rising in measured increments she couldn't rush. Every time she reached for the edge, his hand at her collar drew her back a fraction; every time she steadied, he pushed her forward again. When she trembled, he stilled her with a word.
"Still."
She held. Because he wanted her to. Because she wanted to.
When he finally slid into her, it wasn't a crash; it was a lock. One deep, precise thrust that seated heat against heat and left her gasping into the white paint. His hand braced at her hip, the other at her throat, the collar caught between leather and skin. The pace he set was deliberate. The kind that felt like being written on, line after line, until there was no room for anything but what he was putting there.
"Say it," he said, voice rough at her ear.
"I'm yours," she breathed, breaking already.
"Again."
"I'm yours, Sir."
He held her eyes when he could, forcing her to ride the edge with him, forcing her to know exactly who was taking her apart and putting her back together. The pressure climbed, an ache honed to a point.
"Color?" he asked one last time.
Quiet, absolute, the safety that could end everything.
"Green," she said, wrecked and sure.
"Now."
She came hard and silent, the quake ripping through her so deep her fingers squeaked against the wall. He kept her there, anchored at throat and hip, until the shuddering eased and she sagged back into the lines he'd set. His pace stuttered; he exhaled against her neck; he followed with a low groan that rolled through her like a second aftershock.
Silence held for two breaths. Three. He didn't step back. He pressed one more kiss to the place where collar met pulse.
Soft again, dangerous again, and she felt the difference like a brand.
When he eased out, he straightened her skirt with two precise tugs, then fixed a stray button with the patience of a man who had already decided the outcome. He didn't hide the control; he made it look like care.
"Look at me," he said.
She turned. Gray eyes, calm and bright. The corridor's cheap light made them pale; the heat in them made them dark.
"You're shaking."
"I know." A laugh caught at the edge of the admission. "I can't stop."
"Don't." His thumb slid once under the leather. "Shake in my direction."
It landed like a promise and an order. She nodded, breath evening by degrees.
"Color now?" he asked.
"Green," she said
And then, because she felt it, "and warm."
That drew it: the faintest smile, all ruin and reward, "Good girl."
He smoothed her lapel, set the collar where he liked it, and took a half-step back without breaking the leash between them. "You have twelve minutes before the next session."
"I'll make it in ten."
"You'll text me in nine." His gaze dipped to her throat and back. "Black dot if you want me. White if you need me slower. Red…"
"Stops everything," she finished. "I know."
"I know you know," he breathed,
"I like hearing you say it."
She swallowed. "Stops everything."
"Good."
He was almost gone, already moving toward the door, when he paused and returned that half step to press his mouth to hers again, once, softer than he had any right to be. Mouth. Jaw. Neck. A path mapped not for ownership this time, but for recognition.
Then the door opened, the world rushed back, and he was gone into it, cuff still undone.
Lena stayed with her palms on the wall for one more breath. Two. She straightened and smoothed her skirt. Then checked the mirror near the exit. The collar lay neat and undeniable at her throat. The afterglow was not just heat. It was clarity.
Her phone buzzed.
Julian: Drink water. Win. Come back.
She typed with steady thumbs.
Lena, "Green. Already turning toward you."
She slid the phone away, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the light.
The building hadn't changed.
She had.
End of Chapter 10
Next: Chapter 11: TBD