The steam curled around me like a shroud as I stepped out of the bathroom, the scent of sandalwood and fresh water replacing the musk of the previous night. I had scrubbed until my skin tingled, my mind focused on one singular goal: Total Subjugation.

To own the streets, I had to own the woman who ran them, and my only weapon was the raw, unyielding power of my cock.

​Monet was waiting. She was sprawled in the center of the bed, her dark limbs stark and beautiful against my white sheets. Her legs were draped over the side, her heels digging into the mattress as she arched her back, the crimson lace of her bra straining against her chest.

​She smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her red lips. "You surely took your time," she purred.

​"I wanted to give you my body at its best, Monet," I replied, my voice a low, resonant thrum.

​She didn't stay on the bed. She slid off the mattress with the fluid grace of a shadow, her silk gown fluttering behind her like a cape. She met me halfway across the room, the heat radiating from her skin clashing with the cool air of the apartment.

​"Those are some really sexy abs you've got," she whispered, her voice trembling with a rare touch of vulnerability. She placed a hand on my stomach, her fingers tracing the hard, defined ridges of my core before sliding upward, her palm grazing the hair on my chest. "Fuck, Druski. You're a fucking hunk. The cameras don't even do you justice."

​"And you're a goddess," I growled, my hands finding the curve of her waist. I didn't just touch her; I claimed her, my fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her hips as I pulled her flush against me.

​"You have no idea how long I've waited to feel your hands around my body," she breathed, her head tilting back to look into my eyes. "To feel your touch... your breath on my skin. I've watched you give it to a hundred other women, and every time, I wondered what it would feel like to be the one you were trying to break."

​Her eyes were dark, swirling with a cocktail of raw lust, pent-up frustration, and a hunger that went back to the day she saw me on that chair in the warehouse.

​"I've wanted to fuck you since that day, too, Monet," I said, and for the first time, it wasn't just a line. There was something about the danger she carried that made my blood boil.

​I pulled her tighter, her small, firm breasts crushing against my chest, the lace of her bra acting as the only barrier between our heat. I leaned down, and our lips met—not with a tentative kiss, but with a collision of deep, desperate hunger. It was a clash of egos and appetites. She tasted of smoke and expensive wine, her tongue flickering against mine with a frantic, rhythmic demand.

​Her hands moved to my shoulders, her nails digging in as she fought for control of the kiss, but I held her firm, my dominance absolute. The tension that had been building for months between the "Asset" and the "Owner" was finally exploding.

​She pulled back for a second, her breath hitching, her red lipstick smeared and her eyes glazed.

​"The bed, Druski," she gasped, her voice breaking. "Take me to the bed and show me why they call you the King. I want to feel every bit of that legend inside me."

I scooped her up in one motion, her light frame feeling deceptively fragile against my raw strength. Her legs locked around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back as I carried her to the bed, our mouths still fused in a war of tongues. I dropped her onto the silk sheets, following her down instantly, pinning her beneath the weight of my chest.

​The kiss grew even more feral, a calculated fire meant to burn away the "Big Mom" persona until only Monet was left. I reached for the front clasp of her crimson bra. With a sharp flick, the lace gave way, and the cups fell aside.

​Her breasts were masterpieces—small, firm, and sculpted with high-set perfection. Her skin was a deep, flawless mahogany that seemed to drink in the dim light of the room. Her nipples were dark, wide, and already standing at full, pebble-hard attention, pointing upward like they were reaching for me.

​I reached out, my large hands nearly swallowing them as I squeezed. "Wow... they're small and perfect, Monet," I growled, rolling the hard tips between my thumbs and forefingers. "They feel exactly right. Like they were made to be crushed in my hands."

​She let out a sharp, jagged moan, her back arching off the mattress. "Fuck, Druski... just like that. Don't stop."

​I trailed my lips down from her throat, over the valley between her breasts, and moved lower. I kissed my way across her flat, toned stomach, my tongue tracing the line of her abs. She was trembling now, her composure shattering with every inch I claimed.

​I reached for the thin, delicate string of her G-string. I hooked my thumbs into the crimson silk and pulled it down slowly, dragging it over the smooth curve of her hips and tossing it onto the floor.

​She lay there completely exposed, the Queen of the Streets stripped of every bit of power except for her own raw, pulsing desire. Her legs fell open naturally, an invitation I had no intention of ignoring. I moved my head down, positioning myself between her thighs. The scent of her—sweet, musk, and pure arousal—was intoxicating.

​I didn't dive in yet. I used my hands first, my fingers tracing the soft skin of her inner thighs before moving upward to tease the very edges of her heat. I flicked the hood of her clit with a light, agonizingly slow rhythm, watching her hips begin to buck involuntarily.

​"You've been watching me through a screen for months, Monet," I whispered, looking up at her from between her legs as she gripped the headboard for dear life. "Now you get to feel what it's like when the King decides he wants to make you scream."

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