Page 4 of His to Command (Obsessed #7)

four

. . .

Hudson

My phone buzzes. "She's on her way up, sir," my doorman informs me.

"Thank you, Edward." I end the call, adjusting my cuffs one final time.

The elevator to my penthouse requires a special key.

Only I have it—and now Robin, for tonight.

I've arranged everything so she has no excuse to leave early.

The Westfield proposal is complex, will take hours to review.

I've ensured the driver won't return until I call.

I've had her assistant's credentials revoked, so she can't access the documents remotely from home.

Watching her today was exquisite torture.

The way she jumped slightly whenever I entered the room.

How her cheeks flushed when I stood too close.

The subtle catch in her breath when my fingers brushed hers.

Each reaction cataloged, filed away for future use.

Each boundary noted so I can systematically dismantle it.

The elevator chimes. I stand in the foyer, hands in pockets, the picture of casual authority. The doors slide open.

Robin steps out, clutching her portfolio to her chest like armor.

She's still in her work clothes—a gray pencil skirt that does nothing to hide the generous curve of her hips, a blue blouse buttoned to her throat.

Her hair falls in dark waves around her shoulders, and I see her fingers twitch as if longing to tie it back, to hide behind that severe bun.

"Mr. Roth," she says, her voice carefully professional.

"Hudson," I correct, stepping closer. "We've been through this." I take her portfolio from her hands, our fingers connecting in a touch that lasts two seconds longer than necessary. "You look tired. Have you eaten?"

She blinks, thrown by the question. "I—no. I thought we were reviewing the Westfield proposal?"

"After dinner." I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her deeper into the penthouse. I feel her stiffen beneath my touch, but she doesn't pull away. Progress.

Her eyes widen as she takes in my home. Sixty floors up, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Manhattan at dusk, the city transforming into a grid of lights beneath us.

Minimalist furniture in black and gray, original artwork on the walls, no personal photographs or mementos.

Nothing that reveals anything about me—except now, the fact that I want her here.

"This is..." She struggles for words.

"Home," I supply, watching her face. "For now."

I lead her to the dining room where dinner waits. Her step falters when she sees the elaborate spread, the bottle of wine already open and breathing, the candles.

"This isn't a business dinner," she says, a slight tremor in her voice.

"Everything I do is business." I hold out her chair. "Sit."

She hesitates, and I see the calculation in her eyes—weighing professionalism against self-preservation. Professionalism wins. She sits, allowing me to push in her chair, trapping her at my table.

I pour wine into her glass, then mine, taking the seat adjacent to her rather than opposite. Close enough that our knees could touch if I shifted slightly.

"To new arrangements," I say, raising my glass.

She lifts hers reluctantly, takes the barest sip. "Mr. Roth?—"

"Hudson."

"Hudson." She places her glass down carefully. "I appreciate the dinner, but I'm confused about my role here. If you wanted an executive assistant, there are people with far more experience?—"

"I didn't want an executive assistant," I cut her off. "I have those. What I wanted was you."

The bluntness of my statement silences her. A flush crawls up her neck, disappearing beneath her buttoned collar. I imagine following it with my fingers, my mouth.

"Try the sea bass," I say instead, nodding to her plate. "It's excellent."

Dinner proceeds with surface-level conversation. I ask strategic questions about her background, her education at NYU, her career aspirations. Each answer reveals another piece of the puzzle that is Robin Hastings. Each revelation makes me want more.

"Why marketing?" I ask as we finish the main course.

She twirls her wine glass, looking thoughtful. "I like understanding what makes people want things. What convinces them to make choices."

"And what do you want, Robin?"

Her eyes dart to mine, then away. "Professional success. Security."

"Lies," I say softly. "You're too intelligent for such generic answers."

The flush deepens on her cheeks. "I'm not sure what you're looking for, Mr. Roth."

"Honesty." I lean closer. "And I told you to call me Hudson."

I stand, collecting our plates in a domestic gesture that visibly confuses her. "We'll have coffee in my office while we review the proposal."

She follows me to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway as I rinse dishes—a task my housekeeper would normally handle, but I've ensured we're completely alone tonight.

"I can help," she offers.

"No." I don't turn around. "Watch."

I feel her eyes on me as I move efficiently around the kitchen, preparing coffee, placing cookies from a local bakery on a small plate. Every movement calculated to seem casual while reminding her that she's in my domain, subject to my rules.

We move to my home office—another meticulously designed space with a desk big enough for two to work side by side. The Westfield documents are arranged precisely as I want them, requiring us to sit close, to lean in together, to occasionally touch.

"These projections don't match the market research," she notes, frowning at a spreadsheet. She's kicked off her heels, tucked one leg beneath her on the chair. Getting comfortable despite herself.

"Show me," I say, rolling my chair closer until our shoulders touch.

She tenses but doesn't move away, pointing to specific numbers, explaining the discrepancy. I lean in, not to see the document but to breathe in the scent of her hair—vanilla and something uniquely her.

"What would you recommend?" I ask, my voice low near her ear.

"A complete recalculation based on the actual demographic data." She turns her head to emphasize her point and finds our faces inches apart. Her pupils dilate, her lips parting slightly.

"Do it," I instruct, holding her gaze.

She swallows and turns back to the laptop, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard.

I don't move away, remaining close enough that she must feel my breath on her neck.

She makes small, involuntary movements—tucking hair behind her ear, shifting in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

Each betrays her awareness of me, her body responding even as her mind resists.

We work for hours, the pretense of business providing cover for my real purpose—keeping her here, watching her, testing her reactions.

When she reaches for her coffee cup, I do the same, our fingers brushing.

When she points to something on screen, I lean in closer than necessary.

I create a thousand small moments of contact, building a current between us that will eventually, inevitably short-circuit her resistance.

At 10:30, she glances at her watch. "It's getting late. I should probably go."

"We're not finished." I nod to the documents still spread before us.

"We could continue tomorrow at the office."

"This is sensitive material. It doesn't leave this room." I stand, rolling my shoulders as if stiff from sitting too long. "More coffee?"

She hesitates, then nods. "Just a little. Then I really should call a car."

"My driver is at your disposal whenever you're ready," I lie smoothly, knowing I've instructed him not to return until called. I take her cup, letting my fingers brush against hers.

In the kitchen, I grip the counter, momentarily closing my eyes.

I've built empires, demolished competitors, made and broken millionaires without my pulse rising above its resting rate.

Yet this woman—this soft, curvy, infuriatingly reserved woman—has me counting seconds until I can return to her presence.

When I return with fresh coffee, she's standing at the window, staring out at the city below.

The lights play across her face, illuminating features that have been haunting me since I first saw her.

Without her noticing, I take a photo with my phone, needing to capture this moment—Robin in my space, where she belongs.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" I say, approaching with her coffee.

She starts slightly. "Yes. It's like seeing the city as you must see it—from above, everything laid out before you."

"Is that how you think I see the world?"

She accepts the cup, careful not to touch my hand this time. "Don't you? From up here, everyone else must seem very small."

The insight surprises me. "Not everyone," I murmur.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the pretense falls away. She sees me looking at her—not as a CEO at an employee, but as a man at a woman he desperately wants. Fear and something darker flash in her eyes.

"I should go," she whispers, setting down her untouched coffee.

"One more document," I counter, guiding her back to the desk with a hand at the small of her back. "The pricing structure needs your input."

She allows herself to be led, but I feel resistance building in her posture, her movements. She's realizing this isn't normal, that no business meeting requires this level of isolation, this much proximity.

We return to work, but the easy rhythm is broken. She sits straighter, maintains distance, answers in monosyllables. When I deliberately brush her hand reaching for a document, she pulls back as if burned.

"Robin." My voice cuts through the tension. "Look at me."

She raises her eyes—those remarkable hazel eyes with flecks of gold that seem to ignite when she's agitated.

"Are you afraid of me?" I ask for the second time today.

"Should I be?" Her voice is steady despite the pulse visibly racing in her throat.

"No." I lean back, giving her space. "Never."

"Then why am I here, Hudson? Really?"

The sound of my name in her mouth sends satisfaction coursing through me. "Because I want you here."

"Why?" She presses, bolder now. "There are dozens of women in the company better qualified for this position. Women who would be thrilled to work directly for you."

"I don't want dozens of women." I lean forward, holding her gaze. "I want you."

The bluntness silences her. Her lips part, then close. She looks down at her hands, then back at me.

"I'd like to go home now," she says quietly.

Something dangerous stirs in me at her rejection, but I master it. This is a chess game, and I'm playing for the long win. I've made enough progress tonight. Pushed enough boundaries. Tomorrow, I'll push more.

"Of course." I stand, offering a hand she doesn't take. "I'll call the car."

While we wait for the elevator, she stands with careful distance between us, her body language closed, defensive. But she can't hide the flush on her cheeks, the slight tremor in her hands, the way her breathing quickens when I move closer.

"Thank you for your work tonight," I say formally as the elevator arrives. "We'll continue tomorrow."

She steps inside, turning to face me. "Goodnight, Mr. Roth."

"Hudson," I correct one final time as the doors begin to close.

Just before they shut completely, I see her lips form the word. "Hudson."

Alone in my penthouse, I pour a whiskey and return to the chair where she sat. It still holds her warmth, her scent. I close my eyes, replaying every reaction, every unguarded moment.

She's fighting her attraction, holding onto her boundaries. But I saw the cracks forming. Tomorrow I'll widen them. The day after, break through completely.

I pull out my phone, looking at the photo I took of her silhouetted against the city lights. My city. Soon, my woman.

I change her schedule for tomorrow—early meeting in my office, lunch with me, afternoon conference that will run late. I book a hotel suite in the building in case we "work too late to go home." I schedule a car to pick her up from her apartment, ensuring she has no transportation independence.

Small, strategic moves. Cutting off exits. Creating dependency. Building inevitability.

Robin Hastings thinks she's maintaining professional boundaries. She doesn't realize yet that I've already decided: she's mine. The only choice she has is how long she fights it before surrendering to the inevitable.