The elevator doors opened directly into his world—polished concrete, floor-to-ceiling glass, Manhattan a glittering prize at his feet. Leo stood silhouetted against the skyline, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze stripping her black dress away before she'd taken three steps. Her pulse hammered in her throat, a frantic counter-rhythm to the cool jazz floating in the air. When he spoke, his voice was a low vibration in the space between them. "Take off your shoes. Then kneel." Her body obeyed before her mind could protest, the cold floor a shock against her bare knees, her submission already a sweet, sharp ache between her legs.

He didn’t move. He watched. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the city and the sound of her own breathing, too loud in her ears. The marble was unforgiving. She felt the chill seep into her bones, a grounding counterpoint to the heat pooling low in her belly. She kept her eyes on his shoes, polished black leather, immaculate.

"Look at me."

Her gaze lifted. He had turned from the window, the skyline now a halo of fractured light behind him. His face was in shadow, but she felt the weight of his assessment. It traveled over her knelt form, the line of her spine, the way her hands rested, palms up, on her thighs. A silent offering.

He took a slow sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking. "You came back."

It wasn't a question. It was an excavation.

"Yes." The word was a breath, barely there.

"Why?"

Her mind scrambled for the curated answer, the intellectual justification about stress and release, about the gallery and the constant performance. The truth was simpler, animal. It lived in the ache. "I wanted to."

A faint, almost imperceptible shift in his stance. Approval, or its darker cousin. He set the glass down on the steel console with a definitive click. The sound echoed in the vast space. He began to walk a slow circle around her. She felt his presence like a change in atmospheric pressure—a tightening, a focus. The fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose.

His footsteps were silent on the rug. She could only track him by the displacement of air, the faint scent of him—whiskey, clean wool, and something colder, metallic. Like the city at this height. He completed his circle and stopped before her again. His hand entered her field of vision. He didn't touch her. He simply held it there, palm down, an inch from her lips.

Her breath hitched. Understanding was a liquid pull deep inside her. She leaned forward, just enough to press her mouth to his skin. A kiss of fealty. His skin was warm, smooth over hard bone. She tasted the faint salt of him, inhaled the scent embedded in his wrist. A tremor ran through her.

"Good." The single word was a rumble. His hand moved, not away, but to cradle her jaw. His thumb pressed against the hinge, a firm, possessive pressure that made her mouth fall open on a soft gasp. His gaze dropped to her lips. "This is what you want. To be emptied of choice. To feel the shape of my will."

She couldn't speak. A helpless nod, her skin moving against his hold.

His thumb stroked once, a rough caress over her bottom lip. Then his hand was gone, the loss of contact a sudden chill. "Stand. Keep your eyes down."

Her knees protested as she rose, the muscles trembling. She fixed her gaze on the knot of his tie, a dark slash of silk. He closed the distance between them. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the precise weave of his suit jacket. His fingers came to the thin strap of her dress at her shoulder. He didn't push it down. He hooked a single finger beneath it, testing the give of the fabric, the tension against her skin.

The strap held. He applied a slow, steady pressure. The delicate material bit into her flesh, a sharp, sweet pain. She held still, her breath shallow in her chest. He watched her face, watched the flutter of her lashes, the parting of her lips. The strap snapped with a quiet, definitive pop.

The sound was obscenely loud. The dress loosened, the bodice slipping a crucial inch. Cool air kissed the newly bared skin of her shoulder and the upper swell of her breast. Arousal, hot and slick, flooded her. Her nipples tightened painfully against the silk of her dress.

He said nothing. His finger traced the red mark left by the broken strap, a slow, deliberate path. Then his hand slid behind her neck, into her hair. His grip fisted, not yanking, but claiming. He used it to tilt her head back, forcing her eyes to his. His were dark, fathomless, reflecting the pinprick lights of the city. "The rest," he commanded, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in the hollow of her throat. "Take it off. Slowly. And kneel again."