Page 5 of His to Command (Obsessed #7)

five

. . .

Robin

The executive floor is ghostly quiet this early.

My heels click against marble, each sound amplified in the silence.

I settle at my desk, breathing in the lingering scent of Hudson's cologne that somehow permeates even this outer office space.

My body remembers it from last night—that proximity, the heat of him beside me, the deliberate touches disguised as accidents.

I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face—that predatory focus, the slight curl of his lips when he caught me reacting to him.

Worse, when I finally did sleep, my dreams were filled with those hands on me, that mouth against my skin, those eyes watching me come undone.

I woke tangled in sheets, breathless, aching for something I shouldn't want.

The outer door opens precisely at 7:30. Hudson strides in, suit immaculate, expression unreadable. He stops at my desk, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

"You're early," he observes.

"Yes, I—I wanted to organize for the day."

His eyes narrow slightly. He knows I'm lying. "My office. Now."

I follow him through the inner doors, notepad clutched in white-knuckled fingers. He doesn't sit behind his desk but stands at the window, city spread before him like a kingdom.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks without turning.

The question feels invasive, as if he knows about my dreams. "Fine, thank you."

Now he turns, eyes scanning me from head to toe. "Liar."

Heat floods my face. "Mr. Roth?—"

"Hudson."

"—I don't think this is appropriate workplace conversation."

He steps closer. "You didn't sleep. Neither did I."

My heart stutters. "We have a 9 AM meeting with legal," I say, desperate to return to professional ground.

A slight smile curves his mouth, knowing, triumphant. He lets me redirect, but his eyes promise this conversation isn't over.

The day unfolds in a series of charged moments.

During the legal meeting, Hudson sits beside me rather than at the head of the table, his thigh occasionally pressing against mine beneath the polished surface.

In the elevator between meetings, he stands too close, his breath stirring the hair near my ear.

At lunch in his private dining room, he watches me eat with an intensity that makes swallowing difficult.

Each moment builds on the last, creating a current of tension that hums beneath my skin. I try to focus on work, on the actual responsibilities of my job, but his constant proximity makes it impossible. My body betrays me, hypersensitive to his every movement.

By evening, I'm exhausted from the effort of maintaining composure.

The office empties gradually, until it's just us on the executive floor.

Hudson has been in back-to-back meetings all afternoon, and I've used the reprieve to catch up on actual work, to remember that I'm more than this bundle of nerves and inappropriate desires.

At 8:45 PM, his office door opens. "Robin."

I look up from my computer. He's removed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves. The formal armor stripped away, revealing the dangerous man beneath.

"I need you to take notes while I prepare for tomorrow's board meeting."

I should say no. I should cite labor laws, reasonable work hours. Instead, I gather my tablet and follow him into his office like a moth drawn to destroying flame.

He's arranged documents across the conference table in his office rather than working from his desk. Another strategy—sitting side by side instead of across from each other, eliminating the barrier between us. I take the seat he indicates, careful to maintain space between us.

"The Anderson merger," he begins, sliding a folder toward me. "I need all the weaknesses identified and countered before I present to the board."

We work together in a rhythm that would be comfortable if not for the undercurrent of awareness that makes my skin prickle.

He's professional, focused, brilliant in his analysis.

I match him point for point, finding flaws in the proposal that even he missed.

For brief moments, I forget the tension as we engage intellectually, challenging each other's thinking.

Then he reaches across me for a document, his arm brushing my chest, and electricity jolts through me.

"Sorry," he murmurs, not sounding sorry at all.

Hours pass. The city lights blur outside the windows.

We order dinner, eating as we work. I grow increasingly aware of small details—the way his jawline tightens when he's thinking, the precise movements of his hands as he arranges papers, the slight indentation between his brows when he concentrates.

"You're staring," he says without looking up.

I flush, caught. "I wasn't."

Now he does look up, eyes locking with mine. "More lies, Robin? I thought we were past that."

"I don't know what we are past," I say, frustration finally breaking through. "I don't know what this is, what you want from me. One minute you're my boss, the next you're...something else. I can't work like this."

His expression darkens. "Can't? Or won't?"

"Does it matter? This is inappropriate. I'm your employee."

"Is that all you are?"

The question hangs between us, dangerous and laden with possibility.

"Yes," I say firmly, though my racing pulse betrays my uncertainty. "That's all I can be."

Hudson stands abruptly, pacing to the window and back. The controlled exterior cracks, revealing something volatile beneath. "You don't believe that."

"It doesn't matter what I believe. There are rules?—"

"I make the rules," he growls, stopping directly in front of me.

I stand too, refusing to let him loom over me. "Not for me. Not for this."

We're inches apart, both breathing hard, the pretense of professional distance finally shattered. His eyes drop to my mouth, and something molten pools in my belly.

"Tell me you don't want this," he challenges, voice low. "Tell me you don't think about it. About me. Tell me you don't feel this...thing between us."

I open my mouth to deny it, to recite HR policies and professional boundaries, but the lie sticks in my throat.

Because he's right. I do think about it.

About him. About his hands on me, his mouth claiming mine.

I've thought of little else since that first moment in the boardroom when his eyes found mine.

My silence is answer enough.

"Robin," he says, my name both question and demand.

And then his mouth is on mine, hard and hungry and claiming. His hands cup my face, holding me still for the onslaught of his kiss. For one second, I'm frozen in shock. Then something inside me breaks loose—all the desire I've been suppressing, all the need I've been denying.

I kiss him back. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He growls against my mouth, the sound primal and possessive. His tongue demands entrance, and I grant it, letting him taste me, devour me. We're both beyond restraint, beyond reason.

He backs me against the conference table, lifting me onto it with embarrassing ease. Documents scatter, flutter to the floor. I don't care. His hands move to my waist, my hips, spanning them with possessive heat.

"Do you know," he says against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to do this? Since that first moment in the marketing meeting. You looked up, and something in me just...recognized you."

His words unlock something in me—permission to admit my own obsession. "I couldn't stop thinking about you," I confess, breathless. "Even when I tried."

He groans, capturing my mouth again. His hands find the buttons of my blouse, impatient, tearing one in his haste. The sound of it popping free, skittering across the table, should alarm me. Instead, it inflames me further.

"I'll buy you a hundred more," he promises, pushing the fabric from my shoulders.

I should be embarrassed—my practical cotton bra is nothing like the lingerie women probably wear for men like him. But the sound he makes when he sees me, the naked hunger in his eyes as he takes in the curves I've kept hidden, erases any self-consciousness.

"Beautiful," he breathes, hands cupping my breasts through the fabric. "So fucking beautiful."

His mouth moves to my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my chest above my bra. Each kiss brands me, marks me as his. I arch into him, shameless in my need. My fingers fumble with his shirt buttons, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

"Hudson," I gasp as his teeth graze a sensitive spot on my neck.

"Say it again," he demands, hands sliding beneath my skirt, finding the bare skin of my thighs.

"Hudson," I repeat, the name a plea on my lips.

His hands tighten on my thighs, spreading them wider so he can stand between them. The position is wanton, exposed, thrilling. I feel the hard length of him pressing against me through layers of clothing, and primitive need courses through me.

"I've imagined this," he confesses roughly, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear. "You, spread out for me. Wanting me."

"I do," I admit, past the point of pride or pretense. "I want you."

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—triumph, possession. He captures my mouth again as his fingers push aside the fabric barrier and find the wet heat of me. I cry out at the contact, hips bucking involuntarily.

"So responsive," he murmurs against my throat. "So perfect."

His fingers stroke, explore, learn what makes me gasp and tremble. I cling to his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt as pleasure builds, tightens. It's too much, too fast, too intense.

"Hudson, please?—"

"Please what?" His voice is dark with need. "Tell me what you want, Robin."

"You," I manage, beyond shame. "Inside me. Now."

He groans, forehead pressing against mine. "Protection?—"

"I'm on the pill," I gasp. "Clean. You?"

"Clean," he confirms, hands already working at his belt.