Page 5 of Obedience

Her intention was to redress the balance of last week’s slip-up. She would dominate Remi until their hierarchy was restored, a visceral reminder of precisely who held the control. The terms of their two-year agreement remained absolute. She would make Remi ache for a climax, push her until she was almost blind with it, and then she would deny her. There would be no more deviations.

With one hand holding her champagne flute at her dark red lips, the other hand on her hip, Greta scanned her reflection. She didn’t care that her hips and her curves were fuller than they once were, or that her stomach wasn’t the washboard it used to be in her twenties. Her satin and lace-clad breasts admittedly sat a little lower than they once did without support, but whose didn’t at almost fifty with no cosmetic help? She loved her body, and she knew Remi did too. She’d seen the way Remi stole furtive glances when she thought she wasn't looking and how she would try to snag her gaze when they fucked, searching for something soft that she would never find.

Her dark, glossy waves hung loose, a look she suspected Remi particularly enjoyed. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, one of which seemed to always be slightly raised, framed her deep brown eyes and long, naturally curled eyelashes. Between her jet-black mascara and smoky charcoal eyeshadow, she was more than ready. Newly manicured nails matched her dark red lips. She looked especially good tonight; managing to bury the week’s fatigue under her immaculately polished veneer—as per usual.

***

Drawing in a long, stuttered breath Dylan stared at the hotel room door. The silicone pushing against the inside of her trousers was Dylan’s nemesis; maintaining any semblance of composure while it thrummed over her clit as she fucked Margot deserved a national accolade of some sort. A medal perhaps, or at the very least, a formal mention in the King’s Christmas Speech. Huffing out some air, Dylan tried her best to move into Remi’s headspace. Raising her hand, which was usually steady and firm but to her shock was now trembling, she rapped three slow knocks on the door.

***

Pulled from her reflection by three knocks at the door, Greta gave her image a final, unhurried once-over, checking for lipstick marks with a bared-teeth grin before moving to the centre of the room. With one hand anchored on her hip and the other arm hanging loose at her side, the champagne flute dangling from her fingertips by its rim, Greta squared her shoulders and set her jaw. Drawing in a long, steadying breath, her eyes softly closed. With the exhale, she allowed Margot to take over.

‘Come.’ Her loud command cut through the anticipation and stillness.

The door pushed open, and Remi stepped in, a soft whimper escaping her the moment her eyes landed on Margot standing in the centre of the room. Margot’s breath caught as Remi’s gaze swept over the maroon satin and the height of the killer heels before she hurried inside and closed the door behind her.

‘Turn around,’ Margot barked, before taking a slow sip of champagne.

Remi obeyed instantly.

Allowing her gaze to travel slowly over the tailored blue trousers, she admired how the fabric clung to the powerful muscles of Remi’s legs and her incredible arse. Then, caught between her week of exhaustion and the sudden rush of heat, she exhaled a long, heavy sigh of genuine longing.

Fuck.

‘I hope you don’t expect there to be any deviations this week, Remi?’ she said immediately. Her voice was low and thick with deliberate confidence. She was overcompensating, and she knew it…she just needed Remi not to.

‘Of course not, Marg—’

‘Miss Grenson,’ she corrected sharply.

‘Of course not, Miss Grenson.’

The clink of glass on glass as Margot placed her champagne flute on the table and the sound of her own approach were unnaturally loud in the silence. As the sharp angle of Remi’s jaw came into view, Margot smiled, watching the muscles twitch and bounce in her cheek. Stopping agonisingly close to Remi—leaving only centimetres between them—Margot caught the familiar scent of bergamot, oud and spice. Her eyes softly closed as the smell she hadn't even known she craved hit her harder than she expected, invading every corner in her head.

Exhaustion, loneliness and fierce desire surged at once. Suddenly unsteady, her eyes flew open to find both hands already reaching for Remi’s back. Remi’s reaction was instant as her breathing fractured into a sharp inhale, then a shaky breath out. Immediately turning the stumble into an intended caress, Margot’s palms slid down the firm columns of muscle flanking Remi’s spine, before she snaked them around her waist. Lust flooded Margot’s chest, manifesting as a radiating heat as her breast pushed against the silk of Remi’s waistcoat.

Still facing the door, Remi remained obediently still, every muscle visibly taut. Margot could feel the tension beneath her own hands, see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, hear it in every swallow and careful breath Remi fought to control. The closeness of Margot’s mouth hovering over Remi’s ear seemed to make her shift her weight uncomfortably, her head dropping forward as she drew in a steadying breath through flared nostrils.

‘Did I say you could move?’ Margot’s voice was barely there, she cleared her throat

Remi stiffened. ‘No Marg—No, Miss Grenson.’

‘Straighten up.’

Immediately doing as instructed, Remi snapped her head up, pulling her spine back into a perfect vertical line. With her body fused to Remi’s back, Margot’s hands roamed over her chest. Her lips drifted slowly to the nape of Remi’s neck, earning her another heavy, audible gulp. A smirk ghosted across Margot's face. She wanted to prove she could be this close without succumbing. To show Remi that her lips could hover over her soft skin without a desperate need to taste it, making last week a moment that meant nothing, so that it could be buried and forgotten about.

Or so she told herself.

As Margot’s hand shifted, fingers hooking firmly under the angle of Remi’s jaw to tilt her head back, Remi didn’t resist; she knew better. The movement, devoid of any tenderness, forced Remi’s throat into a long, exposed line. A small sigh fell from Margot’s lips as Remi’s hard swallow pushed against her palm. Pressed to Remi’s shoulder blades, Margot’s chest betrayed her as it heaved. A vice-like tightness gripped her chest, as she struggled to draw in air that had grown thick with an obvious mutual desire.

The stomach muscles beneath Margot’s palm were suddenly rigid as she trailed her hand down Remi’s belly; a reaction that sent a dangerous rush of excitement through Margot. Galvanised by the tremor vibrating through Remi’s body, Margot’s hand dipped lower, over the front of her trousers, resting above the strap concealed beneath the navy fabric. With some gentle manipulation, she knew exactly where she could make the flared base sit. With a smirk, Margot began a slow, rhythmic movement.

‘Fuuuck!’ Remi ground out on a sigh, her chin dipping toward her chest.

‘Excuse me?’ Margot said sharply, pulling Remi’s head back so their cheeks were touching.

‘Nothing, Miss Grenson.’