Page 301 of Rosetti Family New York

"Focus," he commands, hands tightening over mine on the keyboard. "They're adapting to our countermeasures. We need to escalate."

The screens show our enemies changing their tactics, probing new weaknesses with relentless persistence. It's hard to concentrate on warfare when his breath brushes against my neck and his heartbeat drums against my back like war drums.

"The heat's getting worse," I say, using practical concerns to hide how his closeness affects me. Sweat forms between my breasts, soaking the fabric clinging to my hot skin.

"Take off the sweater," he says without looking away from the screens, his tone carrying a casual authority that makes my pulse skip.

"What?"

"The cashmere. It's too heavy for this temperature." His voice lowers, more commanding. "Take it off."

The request is reasonable, a practical adjustment to the rising temperature in the sealed room. But the way he says it, like an order expecting immediate obedience, turns a simple act into something charged with tension.

"You could look away," I suggest, testing boundaries while heat builds in places unrelated to the room temperature.

"I could," he agrees, hands still moving across keys with deadly precision. "But I won't."

His casual refusal to allow even basic privacy stirs both outrage and arousal in my chest. He's going to watch me undress because he wants to, because he can, because my comfort matters less than his desire to see skin he considers his.

I will refuse. I will keep my dignity and boundaries and the pretense that I have choices in this dynamic.

Instead, I find myself pulling the sweater over my head slowly, very aware of his attention on every inch of revealed skin. The silk camisole underneath clings to curves that feel sensitive under his gaze, nipples hardening despite the room's warmth.

"Better?" The question comes out breathier than I intended.

"Much." His voice is filled with satisfaction that makes me want to arch into him like a cat seeking attention. "Now we can focus properly."

But focusing becomes impossible as his hands guide mine over the keyboard, skin touching skin sending sparks up my arms. His thumb traces patterns on my wrist, more like gentle caresses than instruction.

"I want you to help me win," he says, fingers still moving with mine across interfaces that respond to our combined touch. "Whatever that requires."

The admission hangs between us. It's not just about asking for cooperation, but about giving in. It's not just partnership, but recognizing that his victory is more important than my comfort.

And, God help me, something deep inside me responds to that demand with a heat unrelated to room temperature.

"Show me what to do," I say, surrender hidden as strategy.

The next hour blurs by in a close cooperation that feels more dangerous than any physical threat. His hands guide mine, his voice whispers softly in my ear, his presence wraps around me as we move across virtual battlefields.

Every success fills us with satisfaction. Not just professional pride, but a shared triumph that feels as intimate as touch. When we finally push their surveillance out of our systems, locking them out for good and changing our digital signature so they can't get back in, the victory feels as sweet as wine.

"We got them," I say.

"We did." His arms tighten around me. "You were perfect."

The praise fills me with warmth, not because of the success, but because I've earned approval from a man whose respect is as precious as diamonds.

"The feeds are secured?" I ask, even though the green lights replacing red warnings on his displays already tell me.

"Completely. They're locked out, traced, and marked for elimination." His breath stirs my hair as exhaustion finally catches up with adrenaline. "We can go back out there."

But neither of us moves. The crisis is over, the immediate danger is gone, yet we stay pressed together in this small space that's seen the most intimate cooperation of my life.

"Mara," he starts, his voice rough.

The way he says my name, like a prayer, a claim, and a question, breaks something open in my chest. For the first time since waking up in his penthouse, I'm not thinking about escape routes, testing boundaries, or fighting his control.

I'm enjoying it. Enjoying him. Enjoying how he controls my body's reactions while keeping me safe with ruthless skill. The realization scares me more than any outside threat.