Calculating.
Testing my temperature like she’s deciding if I’m an ally, an asset, or something she needs to bury.
I expected arrogance.
Entitlement.
Maybe cold detachment.
Instead, she’s fire.
Controlled. Contained. Deliciously dangerous.
She steps toward me, extending her hand. That smirk curves deeper, like she wants to see if I can handle touching her without combusting.
Her handshake is firm. Confident. No hesitation.
Her perfume—spiced citrus with something darker underneath, something sexual, something sinful—wraps around me and digs its nails into the base of my spine.
I catch a flash of ink when her sleeve shifts.
Something coiling along her wrist.
A warning.
A promise.
A dare.
A snake?
A symbol?
A secret?
I don’t know yet.
But what I do know—what hits me with the force of a fist—is that I fully intend to find out.
And not just about the tattoos.
About every damn inch of her.
“Ms. Batiste,” I say, letting my voice drag a little over her name. “I’ve heard impressive things about you.”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m sure you’ve heard worse things about my father.”
“I make it a rule to form my own opinions,” I murmur, watching her reaction closely.
She’s sharp. And she wields her control like a weapon.
I wonder how she’ll be in bed. Bossy? Submissive?
I can’t wait to find out.
The faint flush in her neck tells me she’s not immune. She’s curious, too.
