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My voice shook on the last words, memories of his lips, his hands, flooding back. He didn't answer right away, just watched me, his gaze sliding over my face like he was memorizing it.

Then he leaned forward, voice low and magnetic. "Tell me, Cassie," he said, "what do you want? A safe little life? Or…" His eyes dropped to my lips, then back up. "An adventure?"

My pulse spiked. His words, his stare—they were stripping me bare, digging into the part of me that had been screaming for more. His hand crossed the table, not gently, but firm, grabbing my wrist. His grip was strong but careful, his thumb brushing my pulse point, sending shivers through me.

"You want to be taken, don't you?" he said, his thumb circling my wrist. "To let someone else call the shots, to break free from that boring, safe little world you've built."

I wanted to pull away, but I didn't. Worse, I didn't want to. "You're full of shit," I said, but my voice was weak, unconvincing.

"I don't bullshit," he said, his tone dark and certain. "I see you, Cassie. You crave danger, excitement, someone to shatter your perfect little life. And I," he added, his eyes like a storm, "can give you that."

His thumb kept circling, marking me, claiming me. My body was on fire, and he was right—damn him, he was right. Those nights I had spent glued to my phone, heart racing, body aching from his words. The way he had flipped my world upside down in that hallway with just a kiss. He was already giving me what I had been craving.

But I wouldn't let him win that easily.

"Pretty sure of yourself, huh, Gennady?" I said, letting my wrist relax under his grip, his touch sending sparks through me. "You think you've got me all figured out?"

He paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He hadn't expected me to push back. "Okay," I said, leaning forward, my voice low and daring. "If you're so sure you know what I want, what's your next move? You gonna sit here and talk me to death?"

His breathing hitched, his eyes darkening. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, voice rough.

Gotcha. I smiled, slow and teasing. "You know, Gennady," I said, my voice soft but edged with challenge, "you're so busy trying to read me, control me. But maybe you're the one losing it."

Under the table, I slipped off one shoe and dragged my toes up his calf, slow and deliberate. His body went rigid, his breath catching. Oh, this was fun.

"Cassie," he warned, voice hoarse, "what are you doing?"

"Proving a point," I said, circling my toes higher, watching him fight to stay composed. "You're not as in control as you think."

The restaurant hummed around us, oblivious to the war we were waging. "Stop," he said, but his eyes screamed "Don't. "This is a public place."

"I know," I said, batting my eyes innocently. "Doesn't that make it hotter?"

His jaw tightened, his hand twitching on his glass. I could see the strain in his face, the way he was fighting to keep it together. Good. He wasn't the only one who could play dirty.

Then I "accidentally" dropped my fork. It clattered on the floor, breaking the rhythm he was trying to hold onto. "Oops,"I said, fake-embarrassed, and bent down to pick it up. My loose hoodie slipped, the neckline falling open to reveal the lacy bra underneath. I knew he was looking—I could feel his eyes burning into me, hear his sharp intake of breath.

When I sat up, his composure was cracking. His pupils were blown, his breathing uneven, those green eyes like a stormy sea. "Now," I said, my voice sweet but triumphant, "who's really running this show, Gennady Sokolov?"

He stared, his gaze pure fire, his body tense like a coiled spring. "What do you want?" he asked, voice low and raw.

I paused, letting the question hang, savoring his anticipation. "I want out of here," I said, my tone firm and inviting. "Take me somewhere we can really play this game."

His eyes flashed, hungry and predatory. "You sure?" he asked, voice rough with restraint. "Once we leave, there's no going back."

I stood, his gaze raking over me. "I've never been more sure," I said, holding out my hand. "Take me."

The elevator doors closed, and all bets were off.

He slammed me against the wall, his lips crashing into mine with a hunger that was almost brutal. It was all teeth and heat, like he was trying to consume me. I tasted wine on his tongue, felt the raw power in his grip, and I was lost, kissing him back just as fiercely.

"Fuck," he growled against my lips, "you know what you're doing to me?"

"I know," I said, diving back into the kiss, my hands clawing at his shoulders.

The elevator dinged at the twenty-eighth floor, and we stumbled into his presidential suite. It was insane—plush carpets, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering below—but I didn't care. All I wanted was him.

He carried me to the bedroom, setting me down on a bed so soft it felt like a cloud. Moonlight spilled through the windows, painting his body in silver as he loomed over me. "You sure?" he asked, his voice strained, like he was barely holding back. "Cassie, if you want out, I'll take you home. Right now."