Five
CHRISTIAN
The orchestra transitionsto something slower, more intimate. Perfect timing. I lead Sophie onto the dance floor, my hand firm at the small of her back. The warmth of her skin radiates through the velvet dress, a constant reminder of what's beneath—what I haven't yet claimed but intend to. Every man who's looked at her tonight, every predatory glance, every disrespectful comment has only strengthened my resolve. By the end of this dance, no one in this room will have any doubt about who Sophie Winters belongs to.
Daniel's blatant challenge still burns in my mind. The man has always pushed boundaries, but tonight he crossed a line he can't uncross. Not just a professional line, but something deeper, more primal. He touched what's mine. He looked at Sophie with hunger so obvious it might as well have been a brand on his forehead. And he did it deliberately, knowing I was watching.
I pull Sophie closer as we reach the center of the floor, positioning us where we'll be most visible. Most of these corporate events blur together in my memory, tedious obligations I endure rather than enjoy. Not tonight. Tonight, Iwant to be seen. I want every eye in the room on us—on her, on me, on the unmistakable connection between us.
"Christian?" Sophie's voice is soft, uncertain. She can sense the change in me, the predator lurking beneath my usual control.
"Just follow my lead," I tell her, placing her left hand on my shoulder, capturing her right one in mine.
I draw her against me, closer than propriety dictates, close enough that I can feel every curve of her body, every breath she takes. Her eyes widen slightly at the intimacy of the position, but she doesn't pull away. Good. She's learning.
We begin to move. The dance is a simple waltz, but I infuse it with something more possessive than the traditional steps would suggest. My hand spreads wider across her back, fingers grazing the bare skin exposed by the dress's low cut. She shivers beneath my touch—not from cold, but from something else. Something she's not ready to name but can't deny.
"Everyone's watching," she whispers, a blush coloring her cheeks.
"Let them," I reply, my voice low enough for only her to hear. "Let them see exactly who you're with tonight."
Her pupils dilate, the deep blue of her irises nearly swallowed by black. I've spent years reading people, calculating their desires, their weaknesses. Sophie might claim independence with her words, but her body betrays her at every turn. The quickened pulse at her throat, the parting of her lips, the way she unconsciously leans into my touch—her body knows what she wants before her mind is ready to admit it.
"You're very good at this," she says, nodding slightly toward our dancing.
"I'm very good at everything I do," I tell her, not boasting, simply stating fact. "Especially the things that matter to me."
Her breath catches. "And this matters?"
"You matter." The words come out more intensely than I intended, revealing more than I typically allow.
We turn, and I catch sight of Daniel watching from the edge of the floor, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes burning with resentment. James stands near the bar, his gaze following Sophie's every move. Around the room, other men watch with varying degrees of subtlety, some with their own dates or wives standing oblivious beside them. Their attention fuels something dark and possessive inside me.
I pull Sophie even closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. Our bodies press together from chest to knee. She makes a small sound of surprise but adapts quickly, her hand tightening on my shoulder.
"Christian," she breathes, half warning, half question.
"Tell me you want me to stop," I challenge, my lips close to her ear. "Tell me you don't feel it too."
She doesn't reply, which is answer enough. Instead, she allows her body to melt against mine, surrendering to the rhythm and the heat building between us.
The room falls away. The music continues, but I barely hear it. All my senses narrow to the woman in my arms—the scent of her perfume, the softness of her skin beneath my palm, the slight tremble in her fingers where they rest in mine. I've acquired companies worth billions without feeling a fraction of the satisfaction I feel right now, holding Sophie where she belongs.
"I don't understand this," she admits quietly. "Any of it. Why me?"
Why her? As if the answer isn't blindingly obvious to everyone in this room. As if she doesn't recognize her own power, her own magnetism. Her lack of artifice in a world built on facades. Her genuineness in a sea of calculated performances.
"Because you're real," I tell her, the closest I can come to articulating what draws me to her. "In a world of counterfeits, you're authentic."
The music swells around us. I guide her into a turn that puts my back to most of the room, sheltering her from the hungry gazes still following our every move. My hand slides slightly lower on her back, proprietary, Bening territory.
"I thought this was just business," she says, echoing our conversation from days ago. "A professional courtesy."
"Is that what you want it to be?" I counter, holding her gaze.
Her silence speaks volumes.
"I want—" she starts, then stops herself. "I don't know what I want."
