Her answer comes in a whisper, but with no hesitation: "Show me."
Two words. A permission. An invitation. A surrender.
And as the Bentley carries us through the snowy night toward her apartment, I intend to do exactly that.
The Bentley pulls up outside Sophie's shop, snow collecting on the cheerful Winter Wishes sign above the darkened display window. I help her from the car, keeping her hand firmly in mine as I instruct my driver to wait. The sidewalk is slick with fresh powder, giving me the perfect excuse to slide my arm around her waist, supporting her as we navigate to the side entrance that leads to her apartment. Her body trembles slightly against mine—from cold, from anticipation, perhaps both. She expects me to follow her upstairs. Expects this night to end in her bed, with me claiming her completely. I've decided on a different strategy.
The staircase is narrow, forcing Sophie to precede me. I watch the sway of her hips in the emerald dress, the elegant curve of her exposed back, the way snowflakes glisten like diamonds in her hair before melting. Desire pulses through me, primal and demanding. It would be so easy to give in, to takewhat she's offering tonight. But I've built an empire on delayed gratification, on knowing when to withhold to increase value.
And Sophie Winters is the most valuable acquisition I've ever pursued.
We reach her door—the same forest-green door with the snowflake knocker I observed earlier tonight. A lifetime ago, it seems. She fumbles slightly with her key, nervous energy making her fingers less precise. I place my hand over hers, steadying her. The touch is innocent but charged with everything unsaid between us.
The lock clicks. She pushes the door open, turning to face me with an expression of shy invitation. The interior of her apartment is dark beyond her, a metaphorical threshold in more ways than one.
"Would you like to come in?" she asks, her voice soft, uncertain. "For coffee, or..."
The "or" hangs in the air, heavy with possibility. I step closer, not crossing the threshold but eliminating the space between us. My hands rise to cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones with deliberate gentleness. Her pupils dilate, lips parting slightly in anticipation of a kiss.
I don't kiss her.
Instead, I hold her gaze, letting her see exactly what it costs me to maintain control in this moment. Let her see the hunger, the possession, the absolute certainty that she will be mine. Not just for tonight. Not just for a fleeting encounter that could be dismissed as a momentary weakness. Mine completely.
"Christian?" Confusion colors her voice, her hands rising to rest against my chest.
"If I come inside," I tell her, my voice low and controlled, "I won't leave until morning. And we both know exactly what would happen between now and then."
She swallows hard, color rising in her cheeks. "I invited you."
"You did." I trace the curve of her lower lip with my thumb. "And I want nothing more than to accept. To take you to bed and show you exactly what you've awakened in me."
"Then why...?" The question trails off as understanding begins to dawn in her eyes.
"Because when I have you," I continue, "it won't be after a night of champagne and mistletoe games. It won't be something you can dismiss as getting caught up in the moment."
Her breath catches. I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear rather than her mouth.
"When I have you," I whisper, "it will be because you've accepted that this isn't temporary. That I'm not a passing phase or a casual encounter."
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes again, my hands still framing her face. I can feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips, see the conflict and desire warring in her expression.
"You're mine now, Sophie," I tell her, the words both a promise and a claim. "Whether you're ready to admit it or not."
Her lips part, whether to agree or protest I don't know. I don't give her the chance to speak. Instead, I press a single, chaste kiss to her forehead—the restraint nearly breaking me—before stepping back.
"Sleep well," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Dream of me."
The confusion and frustration on her face is exactly what I wanted to see. She's been so careful tonight, so measured in her responses despite the attraction between us. Now I've disrupted her careful control, left her off-balance and wanting. Exactly where I need her to be.
"Christian—" she begins, a note of protest in her voice.
"Goodnight, Sophie." I cut her off gently but firmly, already turning to descend the stairs. "I'll call you tomorrow."
I don't look back, though it costs me physically to walk away from her. Each step down the narrow staircase is an exercise in control. But I can feel her watching me, can almost hear the rapid beat of her heart, the shallow cadence of her breathing. Can picture with perfect clarity the expression on her face—confusion, frustration, desire.
By the time I reach my waiting car, the snow falling more heavily now, I'm certain of one thing: Sophie Winters won't sleep easily tonight. She'll lie awake thinking of me, of my words, of the kiss that didn't happen. By morning, the wanting will have crystallized into something stronger, more defined. More difficult to deny.
The game has shifted tonight. I've made my opening moves, established the parameters. Shown her exactly what I want while making it clear I'm prepared to wait until she's ready to give it—all of it. Herself. Completely.
