I shouldn’t be staring.
I shouldn’t be drooling.
But my eyes are traitors, and my legs have suddenly forgotten how to fucking move.
The glass in his hand sweats like it’s nervous to be held by him. His fingers flex around it, knuckles white, veins thick, and I swear if he licks that drop off his lip I’m going to scream.
He doesn’t belong here.
He belongs in some forbidden place — some war zone or throne room or the kind of dream you wake up from sweating.
There’s nothing soft about him.
Nothing gentle.
Just coiled power and god-tier genetics wrapped in medals and ink.
And then — fuck.
His head tilts. Just slightly.
He senses me.
And those blue eyes — those eyes I could drown in and thank him for the privilege — find me.
Dead-on.
Locked.
Like he’s choosing me.
I freeze.
Mid-breath.
Mid-thought.
Mid-sin.
Because there’s something feral in the way he looks at me — like a man who’s spent too long denying himself things and just found his exception.
My pulse kicks.
My thighs press.
My fingers clutch the side of my dress like maybe it’ll save me.
But nothing’s saving me now.
Not when he’s still looking at me like I’m not just a girl in a dress, but a goddamn target.
And then — he moves.
Not fast.
Not aggressive.
Just… with purpose.
