🔥 The Rothko 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Power Play

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You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve lived through Elena and Sarah’s journey from the elevator to the boardroom to Perry Street. Thank you for giving their story a chance. This exclusive chapter is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

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⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains explicit FF sexual content including oral sex, fingering, power exchange, D/s dynamics (kneeling, praise kink, blindfold), desk sex, possessive dirty talk, crying during orgasm, edging, mutual orgasm, and emotional vulnerability that will wreck you. Intended for readers 18+ only.

The Rothko

Set one year after Elena and Sarah become co-CEOs.
Elena’s POV.

The painting arrived on a Tuesday in February — one year to the day since we’d walked into the corner office for the first time.

I hadn’t told Sarah. That was the point — the surprise, the secret, the particular thrill of knowing something she didn’t. Sarah Jenkins, who read people the way other people read headlines, who noticed everything, who’d once identified my reading speed from the sound of turning pages — that woman had no idea what was waiting on the forty-fourth floor behind a drop cloth and a closed door.

The painting was a Rothko. Not the Rothko — not Joan’s, which was Margaret’s gift and had traveled with them to Connecticut where it now hung above a fireplace in a house where two women in their sixties painted terrible watercolors and drank wine and had been in love for forty-one years. This was a different Rothko. Smaller. A study from the 1960s — two fields of color, deep burgundy over midnight blue, separated by a trembling edge that wasn’t a line but a vibration. A frequency where two things met and neither surrendered.

I’d found it at auction in November. Bid on it in December. Won it in January. Hung it this morning at seven a.m. while Sarah was in the Tokyo conference call that I’d strategically scheduled to run long by asking Yuki to walk through the Singapore pipeline in detail.

The wall wasn’t blank anymore.

I stood in the corner office at six p.m. on a Tuesday — the floor empty, the city going gold through the wraparound windows, the painting glowing on the west wall in the late winter light — and waited.

She saw the painting. The coffees stopped mid-air. The contracts slipped in her grip. She stood in the doorway and looked at the wall where a blank space had lived for twelve months and now held a painting of two colors meeting in the dark.

“Elena.” Her voice was barely there. “Is that — ”

“A Rothko. Our Rothko. Not Joan’s — ours.” I took the coffees from her hands before she dropped them. “Happy anniversary.”

“You bought a Rothko,” she said. “For our wall.”

“It was worth every cent because you’re standing in front of it with that expression on your face, and that expression is priceless.”

Sarah closed the distance between us. She took my face in her hands — thumbs on my cheekbones, the gesture that had started everything — and she kissed me. Soft. Reverent.

“Lock the door,” she said.

I locked the door. She pulled a slim black box from her desk drawer. Inside: a custom blindfold. Midnight blue silk — the same shade as the bottom half of the Rothko.

“Color?” she asked. Our word. Our system.

“Green,” I whispered. “So green.”

“Then kneel.”

I knelt. It was easy now — not because the vulnerability had diminished, but because the fear was gone. Replaced by something my mother might have called fiducia. The trust of a woman who’d fallen and been caught so many times that falling had become its own form of flight.

The silk settled over my eyes. Darkness. Complete. What remained was sound and sensation — Sarah’s breath close to my ear, the warmth of her body behind mine, the silk against my eyelids.

She undressed me from behind. Slowly. One button at a time. Each new inch of exposed skin grazing against her fingertips. I was naked except for the blindfold and my grandmother’s earrings.

“Walk forward. Three steps.”

I walked. Three blind steps of absolute trust. My fingers found smooth, cool wood. The desk. Our desk.

“Bend over,” Sarah said. “Hands flat. Like last time.”

I bent over the desk. Palms flat against the walnut. Without sight, every other sense detonated — Sarah’s breathing faster now, the cedar in the ventilation, the devastating anticipation of not knowing what she would do next.

“A year ago,” Sarah said, her fingers trailing up my inner thigh, “you told me you didn’t know how to need someone.” Her fingertips stopped one inch from where I was aching. “Do you know now?”

“Yes,” I choked. “God, yes. Sarah, please — ”

“Say it properly.”

“I need you inside me. Please. I need your fingers inside me while I’m bent over this desk where we run our company and I need you to fuck me until I can’t remember my own title.”

“Good girl.”

The words detonated like they always did. And then Sarah’s fingers were inside me — two, deep, curling — and I screamed against the walnut desk. She drove into me with a relentless rhythm, her free hand gripping my hip, the desk actually sliding on the carpet with each thrust.

Her thumb found my clit. The orgasm was ferocious — fast, total, consuming. I convulsed around her fingers and screamed a frequency that had nothing to do with language. Sarah didn’t stop. She eased the pace, drew out the aftershocks, then built again. “I want another one. Give it to me.”

The second orgasm crested deeper, slower — rolling through me in waves while tears leaked from beneath the silk blindfold and the Rothko glowed on the wall above us like a benediction.

Sarah untied the blindfold. The first thing I saw was the painting. The second thing I saw was her — naked, eyes bright, fiercely proud.

“Your turn. Sit in the chair, Jenkins.”

I climbed into her lap. Straddled her. Kissed her deep enough to taste myself on her lips. My hand found her drenched. Two fingers inside her. The sound she made — low, broken, stripped of composure — was the sound I lived for.

I fucked her in the CEO chair with the Rothko glowing above us and a year of love between us — messy, imperfect, extraordinary love, the kind that survives boardrooms and breakdowns and cold wars and accusations. “Look at me,” I said. Sarah came looking directly at me — quiet, shaking, tears she wasn’t trying to hide.

I held her through the aftershocks. The two colors on the wall — burgundy and midnight blue, vision and strategy — met at their trembling edge and held.

“Happy anniversary,” Sarah said into my neck.

“I love the painting.”

“I love you more.”

“I know that too.”

We got dressed, turned off the lights, locked our office, and walked out into the February night holding hands. Perry Street was waiting. Home was waiting. We went there together.

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Aurora North