“No,” he says, gaze dragging down my face. “But I have a feeling that you still think about that night as much as I do.”
My breath stutters, just for a second. His smirk doesn’t miss it. I lean back until the wall meets me and fold my arms like ashield. “That’s what this is about? Are you trying to prove you got under my skin?”
“I don’t need to prove shit,” he says, heat curling under every word. “Not when you’re already pressed against the wall like you want me to remind you of how I felt when I was ‘under your skin.’”
I blink. Hard. “You’re dreaming.”
His head tilts, just slightly. “And you’re lying.”
I open my mouth, but he’s already stepping away, calm, controlled.
“You can tip out when you're done,” he says without looking back. “But you’re not walking out of this place until we talk. My people know that.”
Then he disappears down the hall, leaving the scent of him behind—and my pulse drumming against the wall like it knows exactly what the hell I’m still fighting.
I stand there long after he’s gone, breath shallow, skin buzzing with heat I haven’t felt in years. Two years of silence, of distance, of pretending I’d buried him deep enough to forget. But one glance, one command, and the walls I built start to crack. He still carries himself with the same unshakable dominance, still speaks in a voice that cuts through my spine and settles deep in my stomach. And the worst part—the thing I don’t want to admit—he can still undo me. Beneath all the anger and armor, the part of me that wanted him so badly that night has never left.
The music throbs,the bass pounding harder than the blood in my veins. I’m on the balcony overlooking the main floor, a vantage point built for control, and every nerve in my body is lit with fire I can’t extinguish.
She’s down there. My Angel. Dancing for another man.
He’s reclined like a king in one of my chairs, a drink on the table beside him, mouth parted as if he'd been granted an audience with God herself. And she gives it to him, her body rolling with a rhythm that makes every other dancer fade to shadows. The crowd is just background noise. The lights are barely a distraction. But her? She’s the fucking epicenter.
And she knows I’m watching.
Her eyes flick up, finding me through the haze and smoke. It’s a split second before she looks away, bending to sit on his lap. She tips her head back, arching in a way that bares her throat, her lips parting on a sound I can’t hear but imagine all too vividly. My cock aches with the memory of that sound—how it felt ripped from her in a hotel room two years ago when she was mine, only mine.
Heat coils tight in my gut, laced with rage. That bastard’s eyes are on her breasts, on the shimmer of her skin, on the lace she’s stripping away inch by teasing inch. And he’s fucking enjoying every second of it.
But then her gaze slides up. Finding mine again. The noise, the lights, the crowd—it all drops away. It’s just us.
Her lips curve into a ghost of a smile, meant for me alone, before she rises from his lap. She turns, giving me the full view of her ass, the thin strip of her thong useless against pale skin. Her dark hair spills forward as she bends, bringing her mouth to the man’s ear. I see his throat work, his knuckles whitening on the arm of the chair, though I can’t hear a word. Doesn’t matter. It isn’t about what she says—it’s about the act. She turns her head slightly toward me, whispering to him while her eyes stay locked on me.
Heat detonates in my chest, scorching everything in its path. She’s not giving him a show. She’s giving me a warning. A dare.
Her fingers trail down her own body, and I swear she’s touching herself for me. She turns just enough so I can see the smirk that plays at the corner of her mouth—a fucking dagger of defiance. She wants me to unravel. She wants to see how far she can push before I snap.
And I’m seconds away from doing it.
Every muscle in my body is tight, jaw locked. I built this empire to control men like the one below me, to strip them of their power while they drowned in champagne and pussy they could never have. But watching her—my Angel—on display for someone else?
It’s a fucking death sentence.
For him.
For her.
For me.
When she straightens, she doesn’t break eye contact with me. I can see the mischief in her eyes as she dips a fingertip into his untouched drink, the amber liquid catching the light, and drags it over the swell of her breast like she’s marking herself for me.
My throat locks. My lungs seize.
Her mouth parts, her head tipping back as if the touch alone is enough to undo her. She circles her nipple with that glisteningstroke, teasing it to a stiff peak, and then—Christ—she bends and takes herself into her mouth. Tongue swirling, lips closing around her own skin, sucking like she’s desperate.
The crowd erupts, hungry, feral. The man in front of her looks ready to sell his soul for a single taste. But it isn’t for them. It’s me she’s breaking. It’s me she’s baiting.
Then, in one last defiant moment, she lifts her finger to her lips. Her cheeks hollow as she drags it deep, sucking it down to the knuckle. Her eyes flutter closed, lashes trembling, a soft show of pleasure curving her mouth as she pulls off—wet, obscene. Saliva glistens on her skin when she slides her finger free. My cock is rock-hard, straining against the confines of my pants, every pulse a reminder that she’s playing me in front of a room full of people. And right now, I’m fucking done with this game.
