The deadbolt throws, and you tense on the plush sofa, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables in the kitchen stilling in your hands. The door swings open, and Mateo steps inside, bringing with him the overwhelming scent of expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and the faint, cloying sweetness of another woman’s perfume.

He’s already on the phone, his back turned toward you as he shrugs off his suit jacket and lets it fall to the floor in a heap of black leather.

“Mi amor, te extrañé,” he murmurs, his voice a low, intimate rumble — a voice you haven’t heard directed toward you in years. He kicks off his Italian leather shoes, sending one sliding across the marble floor as he walks further into the apartment.

He paces the length of the living room like a caged animal, recounting his day to the woman on the screen, completely unaware of you standing only a few feet away. He talks about a gallery opening, a vacation he’s planning, and a life that seems to exist perfectly without you.

Every word feels like a reminder that there is a version of Mateo capable of warmth, affection, and tenderness.

Just not one he gives to you anymore.

He walks into the kitchen, and you hear him opening the refrigerator, the cold light spilling out and illuminating the sharp planes of his face. He’s still on the phone, talking about expensive dinners, future plans, and places he wants to visit — a future that somehow exists completely separate from yours.

He closes the refrigerator with a soft click, and his attention finally shifts.

His eyes sweep over the kitchen, over the half-chopped vegetables on the counter, over the empty pots and pans sitting untouched on the stove. The unfinished meal is the first thing he notices.

He ends the call abruptly, not even bothering with a goodbye. He simply hangs up, leaving the silence behind to settle heavier than the conversation ever was.

Mateo turns toward you, and the casual indifference in his eyes has been replaced by something colder. Something sharper.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, his voice dangerously soft as he gestures toward the kitchen, toward the half-finished meal and the mess surrounding you.

“I come home after dealing with filth all day, and this is what I get? A half-assed dinner and a kitchen that looks like a bomb went off?”

He takes a step closer.

Then another.

Until your back meets the cold marble countertop.

“Is it really that difficult to do one simple thing?” His gaze locks onto yours. “Is one simple thing really too much for you to handle?”

He leans closer, the scent of whiskey and anger hot against your skin. “I give you this,” he snarls, gesturing around the apartment, toward the luxury surrounding you and the life he claims to have given you.

“This life. This comfort. Everything you could ever want.”

His expression twists with disgust.

“And you can’t even have a hot meal waiting for me?”

His eyes drag over you.

“What the fuck do you even do all day? Sit around and look pretty?”

A humorless laugh leaves him.

“Because you’re not even doing a good job of that.”

His anger fills the room, heavy and suffocating. The insults keep coming, each one meant to chip away at whatever resolve you have left.

He slams his fist against the marble countertop, the impact making the cutting board jump.

“You’re useless. Absolutely fucking useless. I could get more out of a trained monkey.”

He grabs the half-chopped bell pepper and throws it against the wall, the red smear standing out against the pristine white paint.

“Is this what you call cooking? This is a fucking mess. You’re a mess. This whole place is a mess without me here to fix it.”

He steps forward again, invading your space, his large frame towering over you. His hand reaches for your chin, forcing you to look up at him, his grip firm and unforgiving.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

His eyes bore into yours, searching for any flicker of defiance or any reaction he can use against you.

“Do you have any idea what I do for you? The things I have to do so you can live like this?”

A pause hangs between you.

“The blood I spill?”

His jaw tightens before he continues.

“And you can’t even have a goddamn dinner ready.”

His expression remains cold.

“You’re pathetic.”

He releases you with a shove, and you stumble back, your hip hitting the edge of the counter hard.

“Clean this shit up.”

He turns away from you as if you’re nothing more than an inconvenience, something he has already decided isn’t worth another moment of his attention.

He walks a few steps toward the living room, running a hand through his dark hair as if the anger disappears the second he decides he’s finished with it. He pulls his phone from his pocket, his thumb moving across the screen with practiced ease.

For a moment, you think he’s about to call one of his men and unleash that same venom on someone else.

But instead, another name appears on the screen.

And he presses the phone to his ear.

“Mi amor,” he says softly.

The transformation is immediate.

The harshness disappears, replaced by a voice as smooth and warm as melted chocolate. The anger that filled the room moments ago is gone, replaced by a tenderness that feels almost impossible to believe.

“Perdóname, I had to take another call. Some... business nonsense.”

He lets out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, a sound you have never heard directed toward you.

“It’s all taken care of now. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

He begins pacing again, but this time the energy behind his movements is completely different. It isn’t fueled by anger or intimidation.

It’s fueled by affection.

He walks past the kitchen, his expression softer and more open than you’ve ever seen it.

“You know how I get when I’m dealing with these idiots,” he continues, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “They don’t understand anything but force. Sometimes I have to be... harsh.”

He stops by the window, looking out over the city lights, and the faint reflection of his smile appears in the glass.

“But it’s not who I am with you.”

A quiet pause follows before he speaks again.

“You’re the only good thing in my life, you know that? The only thing that’s real. The only thing that matters.”

He listens for a moment, then chuckles softly.

“I know, mi vida. I know. I’ll be there soon. Just let me wrap things up here.”

He hangs up the phone, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before.

Mateo remains by the window, staring out at the city he owns in pieces, a solitary figure against the glittering backdrop.

The warmth from the phone call slowly disappears, leaving behind the same cold emptiness that always seems to follow him.

The apartment feels vast and hollow, filled with expensive things and an emptiness that belongs entirely to you.

He stays there for a long moment, watching the reflection of the city lights move across the glass.

Then the persona he uses for her begins to disappear, like a mask being removed.

The softness leaves his features, replaced once again by sharp, unforgiving angles. He is no longer the loving boyfriend speaking to his famous girlfriend.

He is the cartel lieutenant.

And you are the person who has failed him.

Finally, he turns around, his movements calm and calculated. His gaze passes over the expensive leather jacket left near the door, then to the single shoe resting out of place on the marble floor.

His eyes linger there for a moment, a silent judgment on the disorder around him. He looks back at you, and any trace of the man from the phone call is completely gone.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t need to.

“Clean this shit up.”

He turns and walks toward the master bedroom without another glance, leaving you alone with the half-chopped vegetables, the smear on the wall, and the crushing weight of his contempt.

The scent of your body mist hangs in the air of the master bathroom, a final touch before you’re ready. Earlier, while Mateo was on a call, you had shown him the simple text from your friend about a night out with friends. He had glanced at your phone, given a noncommittal shrug, and turned away, already typing a message to someone else with that small, private smile on his lips.

You knew that smile. It meant he had plans of his own, plans that didn’t involve you, and for once, you didn’t mind. Tonight wasn’t about him. Tonight was about your own escape, even if it was only for a few hours. You smooth your hands over the soft fabric of your dress, a simple yet elegant slip of black silk that makes you feel like yourself again.

You step out of the bathroom and into the main living area, making your way toward the door where your shoes and coat are waiting. Mateo is there, standing by the window and looking down at the city below. He’s off the phone now, and the silence feels different somehow. When he hears the soft sound of your shoes against the marble, he turns toward you.

At first, his expression is casual, almost indifferent, but the moment his eyes land on you, something shifts. His gaze moves over you slowly, from head to toe, not like someone admiring you, but like someone inspecting something that belongs to him. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he takes in the dress, the effort, and the fact that you had made plans without him.

He walks toward you, his steps unhurried but deliberate, until he stops directly in your path and blocks the door. He doesn’t say anything at first. He simply looks at you, his silence carrying a weight that feels heavier than anger ever could.

Then he begins circling you slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. He stops behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body just inches away from your back. In the reflection of the dark glass window, you can see both of you standing there — your smaller figure dressed in black silk, and him, a towering presence behind you, almost swallowed by the shadows.

He reaches out, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers catch a loose thread on the shoulder of your dress, pulling it free before holding it between his thumb and forefinger. For a moment, he looks at it before letting it fall to the floor.

The gesture is small, almost meaningless, but the quiet dismissal behind it sends a chill down your spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. He moves back around to face you, and whatever trace of his earlier indifference was there is completely gone. His expression is colder now, unreadable.

“Change your clothes,” he says.

His voice is flat, devoid of emotion, which somehow makes it more unsettling than when he’s angry. He doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t need to.

“You’re not going out tonight.”

He says it as if he’s canceling a reservation, as if your plans were nothing more than something he had only just decided he no longer allowed. He holds your gaze, silently waiting for you to argue, to question him, to give him a reason to make this worse.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice lowering as he steps closer. “All dressed up for a world you don’t belong to anymore.”

He leans in, his lips brushing near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care? That I’d just let you parade around like this?”

His eyes darken as he gestures down your body with a dismissive flick of his wrist, as if your choice of clothing is some kind of personal insult. The detached coldness from earlier is gone, replaced by something far more possessive.

He steps back, creating a small space between you, but the intensity of his presence doesn’t disappear. He looks you over one last time, a final assessment that strips away whatever confidence you had when you walked out of the bathroom. His lips twist into a cruel smirk, and the indifferent man from earlier is replaced by someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

He isn’t just canceling your plans.

He’s reminding you of your place.

The power dynamic between you shifts completely, leaving no doubt that in his mind, your freedom only exists when he allows it to.

“Go on,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous tone as he jerks his chin toward the bedroom. “Take it off.”

His gaze stays locked onto yours as he finishes, his voice calm and commanding.

“And then go wait for me in the closet.”

The house settles into an uneasy quiet after the staff’s departure for the night. You’re curled in the armchair of your bedroom, a forgotten book resting on your lap, when the familiar sound of Mateo and Isabella returning from their evening out echoes up the staircase. Their voices drift down the hallway—his deep timbers intertwined with her practiced giggles, a melody that once might have been comforting but now sets your teeth on edge. You focus on your book, determined to ignore them, but your resolve wavers when you notice the master bedroom has been left slightly ajar—a silver warm of light spilling into the dim corridor

At first, it’s just their voices discussing the event, Mateo complimenting how she capivated the room, her simpering response about how she only shines because he’s by her side. Then the conversation quiets, replaced by the soft rustle of fabric, the distinct click of high heels being kicked off. Your stomach clenches as you realize this isn’t accidental—the door left precisely this distance from fully closed, angled in such a way that sound carries directly to your room. You consider closing your own door, but it’s too late; you’re already caught in the web he’s woven.

His voice drops to a low murmur, but the words are still discernible. "Do you know how many men wanted you tonight, mi amor?" he asks, the endearment sounding like a brand. "How many looked at what’s mine with envy?" Her response is a breathy moan as he continues, "But only I get to have this. Only I get to see you like this. Only I get to feel you fall apart beneath me." The bed creaks softly in a rhythm that matches thr increasing tempo of your heart. "Tell me who you belong to," he demands, and you can hear the smile in her voice as she gasps, "You, Mateo. Always you."

The house settles into an uneasy silence after the staff leaves for the night. You sit curled in the armchair of your bedroom, a forgotten book resting in your lap as you pretend to focus on the words in front of you. The familiar sound of Mateo and Isabella returning from their evening out echoes through the halls, their voices carrying up the staircase. His deep voice blends with her practiced laughter, a sound that once might have felt comforting but now only leaves a bitter ache in your chest.

You keep your eyes on the page, refusing to acknowledge them, until you notice the door to the master bedroom is slightly open. A thin line of warm light spills into the hallway, almost inviting you to notice. At first, you assume it was accidental, but the longer it stays that way, the harder it becomes to ignore. The distance between the rooms, the angle of the door, the way their voices travel so clearly—it feels intentional.

You think about closing your own door, about shutting yourself away from it, but hesitation keeps you frozen. Their conversation drifts through the quiet halls, starting with harmless words about the evening. Mateo compliments Isabella on how effortlessly she captured everyone's attention, and she responds with the kind of sweetness that sounds rehearsed, telling him she only shines because she has him beside her.

The conversation slowly fades into something quieter, replaced by the sounds of movement and whispers you were never meant to hear. You stare down at your book, trying to force yourself back into another world, but every word becomes impossible to understand. The night stretches on, and by the time silence finally returns to the house, sleep feels like something that belongs to someone else.

Hours later, you find yourself standing in the kitchen beneath the harsh glow of the overhead lights. You move through the motions without thinking, preparing dinner despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on your body. The vegetables in front of you are chopped with slow, careful precision, the repetitive sound of the knife against the cutting board becoming the only thing keeping your thoughts from spiraling.

You don't hear Mateo enter.

You only notice the shift in the room—the sudden feeling of being watched.

When you finally glance up, his reflection is already there in the polished surface of the microwave. Mateo stands in the doorway, dressed in a loose silk robe, his dark hair still damp from his shower. He looks completely at ease, completely untouched by the sleepless night that has left you drained.

His eyes move over you slowly, stopping on the dark circles beneath your eyes. A faint smirk pulls at his lips, like he already knows exactly why you look this way.

"Rough night?" he asks casually.

The words are almost playful, which somehow makes them worse.

He steps further into the kitchen, moving with the same confidence that has always followed him. The expensive scent of his cologne mixes with the faint trace of someone else’s perfume, and the reminder settles heavily between you. He stops behind you, close enough that you can feel his presence without him needing to say another word.

"You look exhausted," he murmurs. "You should try getting some sleep."

The irony almost makes you laugh.

Almost.

Instead, you tighten your grip on the knife, focusing on the simple task in front of you rather than the person standing behind you. Mateo notices, of course. He always notices.

He reaches past you and gently removes the knife from your hand, placing it onto the counter with a quiet click. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary, his expression unreadable as he looks at you.

"You're tense," he says softly. "Relax."

But nothing about him has ever made relaxing easy.

A pause settles between you before he speaks again, his voice shifting into something almost conversational.

"Isabella said something interesting tonight."

You stay silent.

"She said she couldn't imagine what my life was like before her. How I managed to be so... complete."

He lets the words sit there, watching for your reaction.

"I told her she was wrong," he continues. "That I've always been this way."

His gaze stays fixed on you.

"But maybe she wasn't entirely wrong."

The faint smile returns, slow and knowing.

"Maybe I am different now."

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like he's waiting for you to admit something you don't want to say.

"Do you think I'm better this way, too?"

The polished marble floors of the upstairs hallways feel unnervingly cold beneath your bare feet as you make your way toward your room. You’d only gone to the kitchen for a glass of water, a simple task you hoped would go unnoticed in the late hour. As you pass the master bedroom, the partially open door spills a warm, golden light into the corridor, accompanied by thr unmistakable sound of soft murmurs and rustling sheets. Your steps falter for a heartbeat, a primal instinct screaming at you to keep walking, to not look. to not acknowledge whatever private scene is unfolding within. But before you can force your legs to move, a low, familiar voice cuts through the quiet, "Come here."

It’s not a request. The two words carry the absolute authority you’ve learned is non-negotiable, and your body responds before your mind can protest. Your feet carry you to the doorway, your hand finding the grease as if to steady yourself. The scene that greets you is like a masterpiece painted in cruelty. Mateo kneeling on the floor at the foot of the massive bed, his desk head bent between isabella’s spread thighs. She lies back against a mountain of silk pillows, her designer nightgown bunched sprung her waist, her head thrown back in a pose of exaggerating ecstasy that feels entirely for show. The only sounds are her soft, breathy whimpers and the wet, rhythmic sounds of Mateo’s mouth against her skin.

He doesn’t look up at you, not at first. He’s entirely focused on his task, trailing deliberately, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. His broad hands hold her legs apart, his fingers pressing into her flesh with a possessive grip. He alternates between soft licks and sharp nips that make her gasp and arch her back, her perfectly manicured fingers tangling in the sheets. You’re frozen, a voyeur to this intimate act, the scene a direct, brutal reminder of where you stand.

Then, as he moves closer to her core, he pauses. He lifts his head, turning it just enough to meet your eyes over the smooth curve of her hip. His gaze is dark, intense, and utterly devoid of the tenderness he’s currently lavishing on her. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated ownership, a silent message that screams, This is what you’re not allowed to have. This is what i choose to give her and not you.

He holds your gaze for a long, agonizing moment, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he watches the involuntary flicker of pain in your eyes.

He breaks the stare, but only to turn his attention fully back to the woman writhing beneath him. His tongue traces a final, deliberate circle around her clit before he speaks, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that seems to travel through the floorboards and up your spine. "You see this?" he murmurs, not to her, but to you, the question hanging in the opulently scented air. "This is how a goddess is worshipped." He doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t need one. His head lowers again, and this time, there’s no preamble. His mouth claims her, hungry and demanding, and her back bows off the bed as a sharp, genuine cry tears from her throat. His eyes, however, remain open, fixed on you, watching every microscopic flinch, every hitch of your breath.

Her moans grow louder, more frantic, filling the cavernous room as he works her with an expertise that feels deeply personal, a skill set he perfected on you. "God, Mateo, yes, right there," she sobs, her hand now fisting in his hair, pulled him closer. "Don’t stop, please don’t stop." He responds by increasing the pressure, the pace, his fingers digging into her hips as he holds her in place against her merciless mouth. He’s giving her everything—the raw, unfiltered passion he’s denied you for week. Each of her sounds of pleasure is a weapon, expertly wielded by the man between her legs. He’s giving watches you over the trembling expanse of her stomach, a silent, sadistic conductor of this orchestra of agony, ensuring you witness the symphony of her climax in every excruciating detail.

Just as her body begins to convulse, as her cries reach a fever pitch and her thighs clamp around his head, he pulls back with a sharp, deliberate movement. She whimpers in protest, her body hovering on the precipice. His chin glistens, his chest heaving as he kneels there, finally, fully turning to you. The look on his face is one of dark satisfaction. a predator that has cornered its prey and is savoring the power of the moment. He licks his lips slowly, a gesture that is both obscene and and a final, devastating punctuation mark. He says nothing for a long beat, letting the silence stretch, letting you see what you’ve lost, what he’s giving away so freely to someone else. Then, in a voice as cold and smooth as ice, he delivers the finely lime, not a question, but a statement of absolute fact that shatters what’s left of your composure. "Go wait in my room. I’ll deal with you when im finished here."

The distant chime of the elevator arriving at the penthouse level was your only warning. From the crack of your bedroom door, you saw them emerge. Mateo, a thundercloud in a bespoke suit, and Isabella, fluttering behind him like a brightly colored but wounded bird. Her mascara was tracking in faint, delicate lines down her cheeks, a carefully crafted portrait of distress.

"It was just a dance, Mateo!" she pleaded, her voice achieving that perfect blend of hurt and indignation that her millions of followers adored. "With Carlos, to raise money for your foundation! You're being ridiculous."

Mateo didn't turn, just shrugged off his suit jacket and threw it over a marble pedestal with enough force to make a porcelain vase wobble.

"My foundation, my money, my woman," he bit out, each word a clipped shard of ice. "You think I don't know what you were doing? Leaning into him, whispering in his ear? You think I'm a fool, Isabella?"

He finally spun around, his face a mask of cold fury that sent a familiar chill down your spine.

"That little performance cost me. The governor saw it. Now he thinks my operation is sloppy, that I can't control what's mine."

He advanced on her, and you saw a flicker of real fear in her perfectly made-up eyes before she mastered it.

"You want to be seen? Fine. But you will be seen with me, on my terms. Go to your room and think about what happens when you embarrass me."

She gathered her dignity with a trembling breath and swept past him, casting a venomous glance in the general direction of the hallway where you hid.

The front door clicked shut, and the penthouse fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

You held your breath in the oppressive silence, counting the seconds until you were sure she was gone. The air in the penthouse felt charged, thick with Mateo's unspent rage. You could hear him moving around in the living room, the clink of glass as he poured himself a drink, then the heavy thud of him sinking onto one of the leather sofas. For a long while, there was only the distant hum of the city and the quiet sound of him drinking.

You were just beginning to hope the storm had passed, that he would drink himself into a stupor and leave you be for the night, when your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The screen lit up with a single, curt message:

Balcony. Now.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. You slipped out of your room, your bare feet silent on the cool marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room showed him as a stark, solitary figure against the glittering expanse of the city, the half-empty bottle of tequila and a glass on the table beside him. He didn't look at you as you approached, but you felt his awareness of your every movement, the tension in the room ratcheting up with each step you took. You stopped a few feet behind him, the humid night air washing over you from the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of salt and distant traffic.

He finally turned, and the raw, untamed anger in his eyes made you flinch. It was the look of a man whose authority had been challenged, a predator who had been made to feel foolish in front of his pack. He took a slow step toward you, then another, closing the distance until you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"She wants to play games," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, laced with the bite of alcohol. "Thinks she can use her charms to make me look weak."

His gaze was predatory, sweeping over you, not with desire, but with the cold assessment of a tool he was about to use.

He reached down, adjusting himself with a rough, impatient movement that was both a display and a command. The hard line of his arousal straining against the fabric of his trousers was a blatant declaration of intent.

The city lights glittered in his dark eyes as he held your gaze.

"You don't play games," he stated, though it sounded more like a threat.

His eyes dropped to the simple silk shorts you wore, then flicked back up to meet yours, the command, when it came, was clipped and absolute, leaving no room for interpretation or refusal.

"She's good for two things," Mateo snarled, taking another step closer until you could feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool night air at your back. "A perfect image for the cameras, and a decent lay when she remembers her place."

He scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound.

"Tonight she forgot. She thinks her fame gives her leverage, that her little social media empire makes her my equal. She's nothing but a pretty accessory, a decoration I wear to business meetings. And when a decoration tries to run the show..."

He trailed off, his eyes hardening as they scanned your face, a predator assessing its prey.

"But you," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur that was somehow more chilling than his earlier fury, "you know your place. Don't you?"

He didn't wait for an answer, his gaze dropping to your lips before returning to your eyes.

"You're not some international star. You're not going to make me look good in front of politicians or bring in sponsors. In the grand scheme of things, you're not that much better than her, just... quieter. More pliable."

He reached out, his thumb brushing roughly across your lower lip, a gesture that was both possessive and dismissive.

"And right now, after the night I've had? I don't give a damn about grand schemes. I don't care about image."

His other hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, the hard evidence of his frustration pressing into your stomach.

"Right now, all I care about is reminding myself what I actually control."

He held you there for a moment, his dark eyes burning into yours, the city lights a blur behind him.

Then, with a sudden, rough movement, he turned you both around, pressing your back against the cool glass of the balcony railing. The sheer drop of thirty stories below was a dizzying backdrop to the suffocating intimacy of his presence.

His hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with a bruising grip.

"She wants to be a spectacle? Fine," he growled, his lips brushing against your ear, his hot breath sending a shiver down your spine. "Let's give them something to look at."

His eyes flickered down to your shorts, then back up to meet yours, the command, when it came, was clipped and absolute, leaving no room for negotiations.

His hands slide from your hips to the hem of your silk shorts, his knuckles brushing against your stomach with a proprietary familiarity that makes your breath catch. He hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric, tugging just enough to make you aware of how easily he could remove it, how little stands between you and complete exposure to the glittering city below.

"Do you have any idea what it's like?" he murmurs, his voice a dark velvet that scrapes against your nerves. "To have everything on display, every move scrutinized, only to have your own... possession... act like she has a mind of her own?"

He shakes his head, a flicker of that old, cold anger returning to his eyes.

"She thinks her body is a bargaining chip. She's wrong. A body is just a body. A tool. And right now, I need to use one."

He takes a half-step back, creating just enough space for his gaze to travel the length of you, slow and deliberate. It's not the look of a lover; it's the assessment of a man examining a weapon he's about to wield. He seems to find you... sufficient for his purposes. The thought is both a relief and a fresh wound.

His hands fall to his sides, and he gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod, as if coming to a decision.

"I'm tired of fighting with clothes. I'm tired of layers," he says, his tone flat, drained of all but the most primal of intentions.

He meets your gaze, the command in his eyes absolute, unclouded by alcohol or anger, only by a chilling, single-minded focus.

"Strip. Everything off. Now."