This was only day two. Day two of a month-long, high-stakes production. If this was how tangled I already felt—with my skinflushed, my heart racing, my body betraying every ounce of professionalism I’d built my name on—what the hell was the rest of the month going to look like?
How many times would I have to see him? Stand next to him? Pretend I wasn’t imagining what it would feel like to take that smirk off his face with my mouth?
And God, the sex. It wouldn’t be soft. It wouldn’t be sweet.
It would be war.
Dirty and heated and full of the kind of fury that made your nails dig into flesh and your name come out like a threat. He wouldn’t just take—I’d make him fight for it. And I had no doubt he’d win. No doubt he’d know exactly how to wreck me, slowly, thoroughly, until I forgot every line I swore I wouldn’t cross.
The thought made my thighs clench, heat pooling where reason used to live.
I was in trouble. Big trouble.
His smile was slow. And devastating. “You keep saying that. But you don’t act like it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And you keep acting like you’ve got all the time in the world to get under my skin.”
He gave me a once-over that wasn’t even remotely subtle. “I’m already there, sweetheart.”
I didn’t argue.
Because we both knew he was right.
And we both knew this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
I moved toward the door again, but slower this time. Not because I was second-guessing myself.
Because I didn’t trust how badly I wanted to turn around.
Behind me, he exhaled—a sound like pressure leaving a valve. Controlled, but not calm. Nothing about Silas Dane was calm.
“You’re playing with fire,” he said, his voice like dark velvet scraped over gravel.
I paused, hand on the doorknob. “So are you.”
There was a beat of silence. Then his voice came again, low and electric. “You think I don’t know that?”
I turned, slowly. He was still standing there, his jaw tight, every muscle in his body drawn like a bowstring. Like he was restraining himself with nothing but grit and the last shreds of his discipline.
I stared at him, breath catching again. “Then why are you still here?”
His eyes locked on mine. “Because I don’t want to lie to myself.”
The words landed hard. Too honest. Too exposed. It wasn’t what I expected—not from him.
And something in me buckled.
I crossed the space between us without thinking. Just a step, but it felt seismic. My fingers grazed the front of his shirt—barely a touch—but he inhaled like I’d pressed a knife to his chest.
“I don’t do messy,” I whispered. “I don’t get involved. I don’t fall into bed with men I can’t predict.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower. “But you want to.”
It wasn’t a question. It was fact. Brutal, undeniable truth hanging between us like a match waiting for flame.
I didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
