Perfect.
The word smolders in my chest. My skin buzzes where he touched me. My brain scrambles to reboot. And beneath the heat and the want and my resting level of anxiety, a single, unnerving truth rises like a warning bell:
I am in so much trouble.
Three
“So,” I say, voice higher than I’d like, “you do exist.”
The corners of his mouth curl into a devastating smile. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
Iabsolutelyam not.
I just wasn’t prepared for him to be real in the kind of way that’s ruining every coherent thought in my head.
He studies me for a beat, gaze unreadable, like he’s trying to decide if I’m what he expected or maybe just how much troubleI’llbe. Then, without a word, he tilts his head toward the roped-off hallway behind him. Tufted leather panels line the walls like the inside of a very expensive coffin.
“Come with me.”
Of course he has a private room. A man like Declan Thorne—the co-owner of this club and the kind of guy who swoops in, buys majority control of a good-but-struggling business, and turns it into amoney-printing machine—doesn’t lounge on the main floor with the rest of us commoners sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to people watch. He disappears into places no one else enters without invitation. Places with locks and passwords and consequences.
I trail him, trying very hard not to stare at his ass. But holy hell, the way he moves. Fluid, composed, like the air bends around him. His shoulders shift with an easy, rolling rhythm beneath the precise lines of his tailored suit, spine a perfect arrow. Even the movements of his hands, swinging loosely at his sides, seem choreographed.
We reach a tall, black door at the end of the hall, and he opens it with the barest flick of his wrist.
I have the sinking, thrilling sensation that he’s the kind of man who barely has to touch anything to make it his. A man who gets what he wants just by existing in its proximity.
I dig my teeth into my lower lip.
He hasn’t looked at me in a full thirty seconds, and I already know, if he pressed me up against that door right now, I wouldn’t just let him. I’d say thank you.
The door glides open, heavy and silent, and he steps across the threshold without glancing back to see if I’ll follow.
I hesitate for half a second, because that’s what smart people do before walking into the dragon’s den wearing four-inch heels and a dress designed for breathing shallowly. But then I step in after him because I’m not always smart.
As the door eases shut behind us, the thrum of Ember’s main room fades, sealed behind thick walls. Theatmosphere changes. It’s warmer and quieter, intimate in a way that feels both luxurious and a little treacherous.
Candlelight spills across the space in molten waves. Dark crimson walls soak in the glow while the flickering flames dance across the booth nestled in the back corner like a confessional box.
Another sleek black bar stretches along the opposite wall. Behind it, glass shelves hold bottles of amber and jewel-toned liquor lined up like artifacts. Gold accented armchairs flank a low mirrored table that throws the candlelight around the room like a moody disco ball.
The scent here is intoxicating. Cedar, cardamom, a trace of smoke and cinnamon and something spicy that clings to Declan and this space like power in pheromone form.
It’s the kind of room where things begin.
And maybe end.
We close in on the leather booth, and he gestures for me to sit.
My legs ignore every rational directive and opt for immediate, unthinking surrender, and I instantly drop my purse and shimmy in.
He slides in beside me, unhurried and confident, his thigh almost brushing mine. The heat radiating from his body makes it feel like the air between us is thinner—less oxygen, more tension.
“You need a drink,” he says, voice all silk and shadows.
It’s not a question, and part of me likes that he didn’t ask. That he just decided.
