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My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s rougher, lower, and stripped of restraint, reason and mercy.

Chapter 8

MAKSIM

“Get on your knees.”

For a second, I think I misheard him, and for a moment, the words don’t register as an order. They land somewhere deeper than that, somewhere in the space I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist for years.

Tristan Sinclair does not lose control. He doesn’t snap. He doesn’t unravel, not in the courtroom, not in arguments, and especially not with me.

Not ever since that night.

That one reckless, dangerous night two years ago when he touched me like I was something he needed and then walked away from my life as if I was nothing.

Now here he is, dick out, eyes dark and fractured, finally losing that goddamn control I’ve been chipping at forever. Hunger claws at my gut, hot and vicious, mirroring the strain in his jaw, the way his chest heaves as if he’s one breath from snapping.

The command hangs in the air between us, thick and electric, and my pulse slams so hard against my ribs that it almost hurts. I’ve imagined this—God, I’ve imagined him breaking like this more times than I’d ever admit. Imagined the careful mask slipping.

I stay on the floor for a second longer than necessary, staring up at him, waiting for the moment to pass, for him to catch himself, zip up, straighten his tie, and rebuild the walls I’ve been clawing at for years. Part of me expects it. I almost brace for it. Because that’s what he does. He retreats. He regains composure. He chooses control over me every time.

But he doesn’t move.

His jaw is tight, yes, but not distant. His breathing is uneven. His hands flex at his sides as if they don’t know what to do with the intensity flooding through him. There’s no indifference or dismissal in his eyes.

There’s only hunger.

And it’s aimed directly at me.

My anger—the fury I carried into his office, the resentment, and the jealousy melts into something raw. I’ve been fighting him because I needed proof that I wasn’t the only one wrecked by that night, that I wasn’t the only one still burning.

Now I have it.

His control is gone. He’s hard, furious, and looking at me like I’ve finally pushed him far enough.

My face still burns faintly from where he slapped me, and it’s nothing but bliss to me because I love it. The sting is nothing compared with what’s happening in my chest.

I push myself upright slowly, refusing to scramble or rush. I settle onto my knees in front of him, my spine straight, my hands resting on my thighs. It’s not submissive in defeat but steady in choice.

And God.

The look on his face when I do. It isn’t smug triumph. It isn’t cruelty. It’s something dangerously close to awe.

The floor’s hard against my shins, but I barely feel it, too focused on him towering over me, trousers open, his dick thick and heavy, veins pulsing.

Fuck, he’s huge. Always was.

His fingers slide into my short hair, gripping hard and tilting my head back. The pull stings, perfectly possessive, as his thumb brushes my scalp like he’s memorizing the feel. A small gasp escapes me as my body arches into it, surrendering to the yank.

Yes. Control me Tristan, break me.

He guides his cock forward, grabs the base, and smacks the thick length lazily across my cheek—once, twice. Wet slaps echo loud in the quiet room, and his pre-cum streaks my skin, warm and sticky. The humiliation burns sweet, making my cock stiffer than necessary.

I look up at him through my lashes and see the hunger crack his restraint. Fuck, it’s a sight I want to paint, memorize and worship.

He looks dangerous like this. Devastatingly handsome. All hard lines and unraveling control.

All fucking mine.