Page 10 of His to Command (Obsessed #7)

nine

. . .

Robin

I wake in Hudson's bed, morning light spilling across sheets that cost more than my monthly rent.

His arm lies heavy across my waist, his breathing deep and even against my neck.

It's been a week since that night in my apartment—a week of living in this penthouse, sleeping in this bed, surrendering to the inevitable gravity between us.

I should feel trapped. Should feel consumed by his overwhelming presence.

Instead, I feel... found. Like I've spent my whole life scattered in pieces, and Hudson is finally putting me back together.

His grip tightens reflexively as I shift, even in sleep unwilling to let me go. The possessiveness that once terrified me now feels like safety. Like certainty in a world of maybes.

"You're thinking too loudly," he murmurs against my hair, voice rough with sleep.

I smile, pressing back against the solid warmth of him. "Just processing."

"Regrets?" The question holds a vulnerability that still surprises me coming from him.

"No." I turn in his arms to face him, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with my fingertip. "The opposite."

His eyes, heavy-lidded and intent, search mine. Whatever he finds there satisfies him. He captures my wandering finger, brings it to his mouth, bites gently. The small pain shoots straight to my core, igniting the constant simmer of desire that exists between us.

"I want to try something," he says, releasing my finger.

"Okay." My agreement comes without hesitation. This, too, is new—this immediate trust, this certainty that whatever he wants will be what I need.

He sits up, sheet pooling at his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen. I follow the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the fabric, remembering how it feels against my skin.

"I want to tie you up," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "Spread you out on my bed. Make you completely mine."

My breath catches. We've been wild together—bent over desks, pressed against windows, taken hard against walls—but this is different. This is deliberate surrender.

"You're afraid," he observes, reading my expression with unnerving accuracy.

"Not afraid." I sit up too, letting the sheet fall away, baring my breasts to his gaze. His eyes darken appreciatively. "Just... it's a lot of trust."

"Yes." He cups my cheek. "It is."

That he acknowledges it, understands it, makes the decision easy. "Yes," I say simply.

His smile is wolfish, triumphant. "Now?"

I nod, pulse quickening with anticipation rather than fear.

He kisses me once, hard and possessive, then rises from the bed in all his naked glory. I watch hungrily as he moves to a dresser, retrieves something from a drawer. When he turns back, he holds four long strips of black silk.

"Lie back," he instructs. "Arms above your head."

I comply, arranging myself in the center of his massive bed. The position makes me feel exposed, vulnerable. My generous hips, soft belly, full breasts—all on display with nowhere to hide.

"Beautiful," he breathes, returning to the bed. "My beautiful Robin."

The first touch of silk against my wrist makes me shiver. Hudson binds me with careful precision—firm enough to hold, gentle enough not to mark. First my right wrist, tied to the bedpost. Then my left. He tests each bond, ensuring I can't pull free.

"Okay?" he asks, hands moving to my ankles.

"Yes." My voice emerges husky, affected.

He spreads my legs wide, tying each ankle to opposite bedposts. When he's done, I'm completely open to him—arms stretched above my head, legs spread in an obscene V, every intimate part of me accessible to his gaze, his touch.

Hudson sits back on his heels, surveying his work. The look on his face—raw hunger tinged with something almost reverent—makes me squirm against my bonds.

"Don't move," he commands softly.

I go still, watching as he leaves the bed again, returning with a small bottle. Massage oil. The scent of sandalwood fills the air as he warms it between his palms.

"I'm going to touch every inch of you," he tells me, voice dropping to that register that makes heat pool between my legs. "And you're going to lie there and take it. No hiding. No control. Just surrender."

The first touch of his oil-slicked hands on my shoulders makes me gasp. He works methodically, massaging my arms, my hands, my collarbone. His touch is expert—firm where I need pressure, gentle over sensitive spots.

But this isn't just a massage. This is worship. This is Hudson Roth claiming my body one nerve ending at a time.

He moves to my breasts, cupping their weight, thumbs circling nipples until they peak hard against his touch. I arch into his hands as much as my bonds allow.

"So responsive," he murmurs appreciatively. "So perfect for me."

His hands continue their journey, sliding down my ribs, mapping the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips. Places I've spent a lifetime trying to minimize, he pays special attention to—the softness of my belly, the fullness of my thighs.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" he asks, positioning himself between my spread legs. "How many nights I've dreamed of you tied to my bed, completely at my mercy?"

The raw need in his voice makes me whimper. I pull against the silk restraints, not to escape but to reach for him. The bonds hold firm.

"Hudson, please..." The plea escapes unbidden.

"Please what?" His hands slide up my inner thighs, thumbs pressing into sensitive flesh, stopping just short of where I need him most. "Tell me what you want, Robin."

"Touch me." I'm beyond shame, beyond reservation. "Inside me. Please."

His smile is predatory, satisfied. "Not yet. First, I want to taste you."

He lowers his head, maintaining eye contact as his mouth descends. The first swipe of his tongue makes my entire body jerk against the restraints. He groans against my flesh, the vibration intensifying the sensation.

"So sweet," he murmurs, before devoting himself completely to my pleasure.

With my legs spread wide and secured, I can't close them, can't control the pace or pressure. Can only lie there and receive what he gives—the expert flicks of his tongue, the careful suction of his lips, the occasional graze of teeth that sends shockwaves through my system.

"Hudson!" I cry as he slides one finger inside me, then another, curling them against that spot that makes sparks explode behind my eyelids.

"Look at me," he demands, pausing his ministrations. "Watch me taste you."

I force my eyes open, looking down my body to where he kneels between my spread thighs. The sight of him there, those steel eyes locked on mine as he lowers his mouth again, is almost unbearably erotic.

His fingers thrust in counterpoint to his tongue, building a tension in my core that borders on painful. I strain against the silk bonds, seeking a release that seems just out of reach.

"Please," I beg. "Please, Hudson. I need?—"

"I know what you need." He pulls away abruptly, leaving me trembling on the edge. "And I'll give it to you. When I decide you're ready."

The loss of his mouth is a physical pain. I watch as he positions himself over me, his cock hard and ready, the tip glistening with evidence of his own arousal. He nudges against my entrance but doesn't push forward.

"Say it," he commands, voice taut with restraint. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You," I gasp, beyond pride or hesitation. "I'm yours, Hudson. Only yours."

He rewards me with a single deep thrust that seats him fully inside me. We both cry out at the sensation—the perfect fullness, the intimate connection.

"Mine," he growls, beginning a rhythm that's deep and measured. "Say it again."

"Yours." The word falls from my lips like a prayer. "Completely yours."

With each thrust, each possessive declaration, something shifts inside me—a final surrender of self-protection, of boundaries. I've spent my life making myself smaller, less noticeable, less demanding. Now I arch into Hudson's possession, greedy for more, shameless in my need.

"That's it," he encourages, pace increasing as he reads my surrender in my eyes. "Give me everything, Robin. Everything."

His hands grip my hips, lifting them for deeper penetration. The new angle hits something inside me that makes lights burst behind my eyes. I pull hard against the restraints, not to escape but to ground myself in the rising tide of sensation.

"Hudson, I'm?—"

"Not yet," he commands. "Wait for me."

He slides one hand between our bodies, fingers finding my clit, circling with devastating precision. The dual stimulation is almost too much—his cock stretching me, his fingers working me, his eyes devouring me.

"Now," he finally says, voice breaking with his own approaching climax. "Come now, Robin. Let me feel you."

The permission unlocks something primal within me. My orgasm crashes over me in waves so intense I scream his name, inner muscles clamping around him, drawing him deeper. Hudson follows immediately, his rhythm faltering as he empties himself inside me with a guttural moan that might be my name.

For long moments, there's only the sound of our ragged breathing, the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through my bound body. Hudson collapses beside me, not withdrawing, keeping us connected as he fumbles with the restraint on my right wrist.

"Let me," he murmurs, freeing first one arm, then the other.

I immediately wrap my arms around him, needing the contact, the closeness. He reaches down to untie my ankles, then gathers me against his chest.

"Okay?" he asks, pressing kisses to my hair, my temple, the corner of my mouth.

"Perfect," I whisper, boneless and sated in his embrace.

His arms tighten around me possessively. "Mine," he says again, but this time the word holds something beyond ownership—a tenderness, a wonder.

"Yours," I agree, pressing a kiss over his heart. "And you're mine."

He stiffens slightly at the reciprocal claim, then relaxes with a small laugh. "Yes," he admits. "Completely."

We lie tangled together as morning light fills the room, neither willing to break the spell with movement. His hand traces idle patterns on my back, my hip, my thigh—not to arouse but to maintain connection.

"Robin." The way he says my name—reverent, certain—makes me look up. His expression is more open than I've ever seen it, the usual mask of control completely absent. "This is real. What's happening between us. It's not just sex or obsession or temporary insanity."

"I know." And I do. Whatever this is—this consuming need, this recognition, this inevitable gravitational pull—it transcends normal categories. It's not just love, though that word hovers unspoken between us. It's deeper. More primal. More necessary.

"I've never felt this before," he confesses, voice rough with emotion. "Never wanted to."

I reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip. "Me neither."

His hand captures mine, brings it to his mouth for a kiss. "I was dead before you. Just going through motions. Building. Acquiring. Existing."

The vulnerable admission makes my heart clench. "And now?"

His eyes—those steel eyes that first captured mine across a conference table—hold an emotion I never expected to see there. "Now I'm alive. Because of you."

I kiss him then, pouring everything I can't yet say into the press of my lips against his. He responds with equal fervor, equal emotion.

When we finally part, I rest my forehead against his, breathing him in. "I thought obsession was something to fear," I tell him. "Something unhealthy. Dangerous."

"And now?" His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my face to meet his gaze.

"Now I think maybe it's just how some people love." I smile, watching his pupils dilate at the implied confession. "Completely. Eternally. Obsessively."

His answering smile is like the sun breaking through clouds—rare, brilliant, transformative. "Yes," he agrees, pulling me closer. "That's exactly what it is."

And in the circle of his arms, bound not by silk but by something far more permanent, I finally understand what I've been running from all along.

Not Hudson's intensity. Not his possession.

But the terrifying, exhilarating certainty that I'm exactly where I belong—claimed, seen, cherished in a way I never thought possible.

Not just his. But his forever.