The first time Wilson Fisk made love to Vanessa, he knew she didn't love him.
He was no fool; she was intrigued by him, found him attractive even - but it wasn't love.
That didn't matter, the first night they went back to his penthouse. He would have her, whether she loved him or not.
She may have thought she held the power in their budding relationship, simply because he was so obviously besotted with her.
She was wrong.
Fisk was undeniably a powerful man, and the bedroom was every bit as much his dominion as anywhere else in Hell's Kitchen.
Vanessa may have expected lovemaking, tentative and sweet, their first time together, but that isn't what she got.
He had her off-balance from the minute the bedroom door swung shut behind them. He had planned this, no doubt, meticulously, as he planned most things; that didn't make it any less exciting, for either of them.
She quickly found herself helplessly aroused, hands bound above her head, wearing nothing but her La Perla thong and her Louboutin stilettos, lying in Fisk's bed as he busied himself between her thighs.
Nothing in her considerable sexual experience had prepared her for the way it would feel to become Wilson Fisk's lover. The passion behind that carefully composed facade was incredible; his creativity seemingly boundless.
Certainly nothing had prepared her for the way it would make her feel when, afterwards, instead of holding her as she fell asleep, he dressed her and sent her home to her own bed.
She had thought herself prepared for the evening, but the balance of power shifted that night.
Wilson Fisk knew Vanessa didn't love him, that first night. But she would.