She tastes my name like it’s aged whiskey. Smooth. Familiar. Dangerous. I’m across the room in three strides, hands locking around her waist before I even breathe. Her perfume’s already threading through my bloodstream like opium—wicked, slow, and lethal.
“You played Chopin,” I growl. My voice scrapes like gravel.“You played that piece.”
Her lashes lower, mocking. “You always were predictable,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Still are.”
I grip her chin—firm. Not cruel. But enough to force her gaze up. Enough to remind her exactly who she’s facing. “Look at me when you lie,” I whisper.
The moment hangs there, electric and perilous. I can feel her pulse beneath my fingers. Fast. Not scared. Aroused. Shewantsthe game. Wants to burn. She always did.
“I should bend you over that piano,” I murmur, eyes locked to hers. “Make you play while I—”
She inhales. Sharp. Controlled. But her pupils betray her. Dilated. Drowning in it. I lean in, breath brushing her lips—but I don’t kiss her. Instead, I say it low, right against her mouth, the promise wrapped in warning:
“Play for me… or I’ll make you beg.”
She blinks once—slow. Smirks. Then peels herself from my grip like silk slipping through clenched fists. “I don’t perform encores for men still fantasizing about an opening act.” She plucks a champagne flute from the table beside us without missing a beat. Takes a slow sip, eyes glittering with sin and smirk. Then she turns, hips swaying like a death sentence, and tosses over her shoulder— “My fans are waiting.”
The door clicks shut behind her. And I’m left hard, furious, and more certain than ever—She’s here for a reason. And she’ll be under me again before this is over.
