The kind who ruins you and makes you beg him to do it again.
He's tall and broad-shouldered. Built like a fighter who knows how to hurt people and enjoys it. A monster with a perfect tie.
“So,” he says calmly. “You’re the professional.”
I clear my throat. “I…sure am.”
Wow. Eloquence. Bravo.
One dark eyebrow lifts. Amusement flickers.
He circles me slowly, shoes silent against the floor. I track him with my eyes, refusing to look away even when instinct screams at me to drop my gaze.
He steps closer.
“Sit still.”
Not a request.
I do.
Christmas lights glow faintly behind him. Outside, sleet and snow tap against the glass.
Reality hits me. He’s testing me. Waiting.
My eyes catch on the glint at his wrist.
"Audemars Piguet," I murmur.
His brow lifts. Like I've cracked a code he didn't expect me to know. Like I've just made myself interesting.
"You're a watch aficionado?"
"Not exactly. But in my time with the company, I've developed an eye."
His attention settles more fully on me, the air tightening.
“Most women notice the diamonds,” he says. “You notice the mechanism.”
There’s something almost like respect in the way he says it, like we’ve both just admitted we prefer the moving parts to the pretty surface.
The slightest tick of a smile ghosts across his mouth. Gone as fast as it appears. But it's enough to tell me I've impressed him.
Enough to tell me I might survive this.
"Turn your chin," he says softly.
I do.
He doesn’t touch me.
Doesn’t circle.
Doesn’t rush.
That restraint is worse than hands.
Instead, he inhales slowly.
