Her eyes widen slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not a man who loses control, Sophie. Ever." I tighten my grip fractionally. "My entire life, my success, has been built on control. Discipline. Restraint."
"I know," she says softly.
"Do you?" I challenge. "Because right now, my control is hanging by a thread. And you're the cause."
The confession costs me something—pride, perhaps, or the illusion of invulnerability I've cultivated for years. But it's necessary. She needs to understand what she's dealing with. Who she's dealing with.
"I don't understand what you want from me," she says, though her dilated pupils and quickened breath suggest she understands perfectly well.
"Everything," I tell her simply. "I want everything you're willing to give. And I'm prepared to take it."
The bluntness of the statement makes her breath catch. Not in fear—her fingers tighten around mine, a subconscious reaction of desire, not retreat.
"That's a dangerous thing to say," she murmurs.
"I'm a dangerous man to want," I counter. "You should know that before this goes any further."
Her free hand rises, hesitates, then touches my face—a fleeting, butterfly contact that burns like fire. "Dangerous how?"
"I don't share," I tell her, leaning into her touch. "I don't compromise. When I want something—someone—I pursue it with single-minded focus until it's mine."
"People aren't possessions, Christian," she says, but the objection lacks conviction.
"Aren't they?" I turn my face slightly, pressing my lips to her palm in a kiss that makes her fingers curl against my cheek. "We belong to what we choose. To what claims us."
Her eyes darken at the implication. "And you're claiming me?"
"I've been claiming you since the moment I bid on that dance," I admit. "The question is whether you're willing to be claimed."
The car slows, approaching an intersection where the driver will need direction—right toward her shop and apartment, left toward my penthouse. The choice looms, immediate and unavoidable.
Sophie's gaze drops to our intertwined hands, then back to my face. I can see the war within her—desire versus caution, attraction versus self-preservation.
"I need to know where we're going," I say quietly. "Your decision, Sophie."
It's the closest thing to yielding control I've offered anyone in years. Her choice now will determine much more than just our destination tonight.
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders slightly—a small gesture of courage that makes something in my chest tighten.
"I need to go home," she says finally.
Disappointment flares sharp and immediate, until she continues:
"But I don't want to go alone."
Understanding dawns. Not a rejection—a compromise. Her territory, not mine. Safer ground for her, even if less convenient for me. I can work with that.
I press the intercom button, giving the driver her address without breaking eye contact with her. The heat in her gaze tells me everything I need to know about where this night is heading.
"You should know," I say as the car turns right, heading toward her shop, "that once I cross that threshold with you,everything changes. There's no going back to vendor and client. No pretending this is just business."
She swallows hard, but holds my gaze. "I know."
"Do you?" I lift our joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Because I meant what I said, Sophie. You've awakened something dangerous in me. Something possessive. Something I'm not entirely sure I can control once unleashed."
The warning is fair. Necessary. She deserves to know exactly what she's inviting into her home. Into her life.
