Page 8 of His to Command (Obsessed #7)

seven

. . .

Robin

I avoid Hudson all day, ducking into bathroom stalls when I hear his footsteps, rescheduling meetings that would put us in the same room.

My body still aches from yesterday—pleasant soreness between my thighs, fingertip bruises on my hips—physical evidence of what happened in my new office.

Evidence I need to forget if I'm going to survive this job, this life, with my sanity intact.

This morning, I arrived early and left a note on his desk:

Need time to think. Professional boundaries must be maintained.

Such clinical words for what's happening between us. Like putting a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound. But I need distance. Space to breathe. To remember who I was before Hudson Roth decided I was his.

He's responded with a barrage of emails—meeting requests, document reviews, budget questions.

All perfectly professional on the surface.

All requiring my presence. I answer each one remotely, citing other commitments, sending work through assistants.

It's cowardly, but necessary. If I see him again, if he touches me, I'll shatter.

By three o'clock, my nerves are frayed to breaking. Every ping of my computer makes me jump. Every shadow passing my frosted glass door sends my heart racing. I pack my laptop, tell my assistant I'm working from home, and slip out through the service elevator, feeling like a fugitive.

The subway ride to Brooklyn is a blur. Only when I unlock my apartment door do I finally exhale, shoulders dropping as the lock clicks behind me.

My apartment is small but mine—the first place that's ever felt like a true sanctuary.

Soft gray walls, overstuffed couch, bookshelves crammed with paperbacks.

Nothing like the chrome and glass sterility of the Roth Enterprises executive floor.

I kick off my heels, peel away the professional mask I've worn all day.

In the bathroom mirror, I study my reflection—the woman Hudson wants so desperately.

My hair falls in messy waves around my face.

I've stopped confining it in that severe bun, his preference apparently overriding years of habit.

My cheeks hold a persistent flush these days, like my body's constantly aware of him even when he's not present.

I strip, step under the shower's hot spray, hoping to wash away the memory of Hudson's hands on me, his mouth claiming mine, the way he growled "mine" against my throat.

But the water only makes me more aware of my body—the curves he praised instead of shamed, the softness he grasped so hungrily.

I close my eyes and his face appears behind my eyelids, those steel-gray eyes watching me with predatory focus.

Clean but not cleansed, I pull on leggings and an oversized NYU sweatshirt—clothes that feel like me, not the corporate armor I wear at work. I pour a glass of wine, curl on my couch, and stare at the wall, trying to make sense of the tornado that's become my life.

One week ago, I was invisible. Forgettable Robin Hastings, the competent but unremarkable marketing assistant. Now I'm... what? Hudson Roth's latest obsession? His employee-with-benefits? The woman he's reorganized an entire corporation to keep close?

It's too much, too fast. The intensity of his focus terrifies me. Not because I'm afraid of him—though perhaps I should be—but because of how desperately I want it. How right it feels when he claims me. How completely I've surrendered each time, despite my protests and boundaries.

I've never been wanted like this. Never been seen like this. It's addictive. Dangerous. If I give in completely, what will be left of me?

The knock startles me so badly I spill wine on my sweatshirt. Three sharp raps, authoritative, demanding. My stomach drops. I know who it is before I even check the peephole.

Hudson stands in my hallway, still in his work suit, holding a brown paper bag that smells heavenly. His jaw is clenched, body tense with barely restrained energy.

I consider pretending I'm not home. But that's pointless. He probably has the building security footage on his phone, tracking my arrival.

When I open the door, he doesn't wait for an invitation. He steps inside, filling my small apartment with his presence, making it shrink around him.

"You're avoiding me." Not a question. An accusation.

"I left a note." My voice comes out smaller than I intend.

His eyes rake over me—the wine-stained sweatshirt, leggings, bare feet, damp hair. Something in his expression softens minutely. "You look different here."

"This is who I really am." I gesture to the apartment, to myself. "Not the executive you created overnight. Not the woman you bent over a desk yesterday."

He flinches almost imperceptibly at my crudeness, then holds up the paper bag. "You didn't eat lunch. I brought dinner."

Of course he knows I skipped lunch. Of course he's tracked my eating habits. I should be horrified. Instead, my traitorous stomach growls.

"Hudson, why are you here?" I cross my arms, trying to establish some boundary, however flimsy.

"Because you ran." He sets the bag on my kitchen counter, starts opening cabinets like he belongs here. "Nobody runs from me."

"I'm not running. I'm... processing."

He finds plates, sets them on my tiny dining table. "Process while you eat."

The domestic normalcy of Hudson Roth unpacking takeout containers in my kitchen is so surreal I almost laugh.

He's wearing a suit that probably costs more than three months of my rent, standing in my IKEA-furnished apartment, plating what appears to be perfectly seared salmon and roasted vegetables.

I sit because standing feels too confrontational, too charged. He sits opposite me, loosens his tie slightly. It's the most casual I've seen him outside of... intimate moments.

"Eat," he commands softly.

I take a bite. It's delicious, of course. Everything in Hudson's orbit is the best, the most exclusive, the most perfect.

"Why did you leave that note?" he asks after I've taken several bites. His own food remains untouched.

I put down my fork, steadying myself. "Because this is insane, Hudson. A week ago I was a marketing assistant. Now I'm some made-up executive having sex with the CEO in office hours."

"Special Projects Director isn't made up. Your work yesterday on the Anderson merger saved us millions."

"That's not the point! You can't just... rearrange your entire company because you want to sleep with me."

His eyes darken. "Is that what you think this is? Sex?"

The raw emotion in his voice catches me off guard. "What else could it be? You don't even know me."

"I know everything about you." His voice drops, intimate, certain.

"I know you hide your intelligence because you're afraid of standing out.

I know you wear clothes two sizes too big because you think your curves invite the wrong attention.

I know you bite your lip when you're thinking hard, touch your left collarbone when you're nervous, and make a small sound in the back of your throat when you come. "

Heat floods my face, my neck, spreads down my chest. How can he see so much?

"That's... observation. Physical details. Not knowing me."

"What else should I know, Robin?" He leans forward, elbows on my small table. "Tell me. I want all of it."

The intensity in his eyes makes me look away. "Why? Why me? I'm nobody special."

"That's the first lie you've told me." His hand shoots out, captures mine before I can pull away. "You're extraordinary. And you'd know that if you ever stopped hiding."

Something breaks loose in my chest—anger, frustration, fear. "I'm hiding? You're the one who built a billion-dollar fortress around yourself! Who keeps everyone at a calculated distance! Who doesn't have a single personal photograph in that sterile penthouse!"

Instead of bristling at my outburst, he looks... pleased. Like he's finally getting what he wants. "Yes. Now we're talking truth."

I pull my hand away, standing abruptly. "Truth? You want truth? The truth is I'm terrified, Hudson. Not of you—of this. Of whatever is happening between us. It's too fast, too intense. You've taken over my life in a week. My job, my career, my body. What will be left of me if I keep giving in?"

He stands too, coming around the table, backing me against my kitchen counter. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Everything," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Everything will be left, Robin. I don't want to erase you. I want to see you. All of you. The parts you show the world and the parts you hide."

"And then what?" My voice catches. "When you've seen everything? When you get bored?"

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "You think this is temporary. A conquest."

I look down, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. "Why wouldn't it be? Men like you don't stay with women like me."

"Men like me don't exist," he says with such certainty I have to look up. "And neither do women like you. This—" he gestures between us, "—has never happened to me before. Never."

"Hudson—"

"No. Listen to me." His hands come up to frame my face, gentle despite the fierceness in his eyes.

"I've never wanted anyone the way I want you.

Never reorganized my life around someone else's presence.

Never missed someone's voice when they've been gone for only hours.

Whatever this is, it's not temporary. It's not a game. "

The sincerity in his voice, in his touch, makes my eyes sting with unshed tears. "I'm scared," I whisper, finally admitting the truth.

"Good," he murmurs, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "So am I."

The confession of vulnerability from this titan of industry, this man who seems to bend reality to his will, undoes me completely. I lean into his touch, letting my forehead rest against his chest. His arms come around me, strong and sure.

"Stay," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises against my hair. "Not tonight. Not ever."

We stand there in my tiny kitchen, food forgotten, the world outside fading away. And I realize what terrifies me most isn't Hudson's intensity or his possessiveness or even the speed of whatever is happening between us.

It's that for the first time in my life, I want to be possessed. Want to be seen. Want to belong to someone else so completely that the boundaries between us blur into nothingness.

And that—that surrender of self—is the most frightening thing of all.