The jade-green dress hugged my body like a second skin. The slit was high enough to tease but not so high that it seemed desperate. Perfect.
I studied myself in the mirror, adjusting the fabric slightly, my fingers gliding over the silky material.
I knew exactly how I would look when I walked into that room. I knew precisely what this dress did to men—how their eyes instinctively traced the places where the fabric ended, how their minds automatically filled in the rest. Men always thought they were the hunters. I knew better.
The restaurant was discreet, luxurious—dark wood paneling, soft lighting that flattered but concealed nothing. I followed the waiter down a dimly lit corridor, deliberately slow, deliberately poised. Finally, he opened a door.
A private room. Completely shut off from the rest of the restaurant. No one would listen. No one would see what happened behind this door.
Samuel Grant was already there, leaning back in his chair, a glass of dark whiskey in hand. The air was thick with spice, with a hint of vetiver. I knew instantly that he was watching me, that his gaze was trailing down my body, following the dip of my neckline where my golden amulet disappeared into my cleavage, his gaze lingering on my bare legs.
He didn't bother hiding it.
I took the seat across from him, crossing my legs, letting the slit of my dress fall open just a fraction too far before subtly fixing it. A game. A dance.
"Claire."
His voice was deep, husky, with the faintest trace of amusement. "I saw your last stream. Captivating."
I leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze, unwavering. "I didn't know Levi was interested in tarot."
His smile was barely there, just a shift of his lips. "Levi has a particular relationship with his fans. One has to be careful about who gets close to him."
A pause. Long enough to matter. "But you... you have something."
I tilted my head slightly, running my fingers over the rim of my glass. "Something?"
He took a slow sip of his drink. Letting me wait.
I hated being made to wait.
But when he finally looked at me, his gaze cut deep, like he could strip me bare with nothing but his eyes.
"Something fascinating."
I smiled—just a beat too slow.
"And why am I here, then? Because of Levi? Or are you just testing how far I'll go? When exactly does he plan to grace us with his presence?"
He leaned in, his hand brushing over mine, fingers warm, firm.
I didn't pull away.
My stomach tightened—not with uncertainty, but with that dark, delicious thrill. I knew this game. I loved it. "You'll meet the maestro soon enough," he murmured. "You know what you're doing. You know how to hold people's attention. I saw it at the party the moment you walked in." He smirked, lopsided, knowing.
"I like that. Would it be so bad if it were both?"
His thumb traced the inside of my wrist, slow, deliberate—a silent promise, a quiet threat.
Heat unfurled deep inside me, burning low in my belly.
I was ready now.
Ready to use Samuel Grant, to play with him, with his expectations, with his power.
I met his gaze, allowed my expression to waver—just for a second.
And in that second, it wasn't Samuel sitting across from me anymore.
It was Levi.
Levi, with his piercing eyes and that dark, impenetrable aura.
The heat inside me flared, the ache between my legs louder than any warning in my head.
I wanted Levi to look at me like that. I wanted him to touch me. And if I imagined that it was him—then that was almost the same thing, wasn't it?
I leaned forward, letting my hand glide across the table until it landed on his. My skin tingled. My breath quickened slightly. His fingers tightened around my wrist, firmer, more demanding. I felt the control in his grip, the promise behind it. A slight pull, a hint of dominance, of possession. His gaze changed. He knew. Of course, he knew.
Abruptly, he pulled me toward him, across the table, until I was sitting on his lap, my dress riding up, his hand on my thigh, right at the border between fabric and bare skin. I lowered my eyes, let myself sink into it. I swallowed, but it wasn't reluctance stirring inside me—it was desire. Pure, raw hunger.
His hands immediately moved possessively upward, his fingers pressing into my thighs exactly where the fabric of my dress ended. I felt the heat of his skin through the thin material, the tension in his trained legs beneath me. A soft sigh vibrated in my chest, barely audible. His mouth found mine, ruthless and demanding, his lips pressing against mine with an urgency that left no room for doubt.
His breath was hot, his taste dark—whiskey and something else, something rough that made my head spin. His tongue pushed between my lips, as if he always just took what he wanted—as if he was devouring me, as if I was something to be owned.
And I let him.
I kissed him back, opened myself to him, surrendered to the pace he set. His fingers dug into my hips, pulling me even closer. My breath hitched. I could feel it—how much I turned him on, how his body reacted to me. Hard and insistent between my legs, pulsing through the fabric of his pants. It was a moment of pure power.
He tore his mouth from mine, his lips trailing along my jawline, his hot breath at my neck, then his tongue—demanding. His hand slid under the slit of my dress, his fingers grazing my bare skin, moving higher until they dug into my thigh again. I moaned louder. He liked it this way—this subtle aggression, this raw taking. And I liked it because I knew I was the one driving him to this point. I was the one making him this hungry.
"Just like that."
His whisper was hoarse, dark, his voice vibrating against my neck. His teeth found my jaw, almost hesitant, almost as if he had to hold himself back from biting too hard. I tilted my head, offered myself to him, let him take more. My hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer as I moved against him, pressing my body against his hardness, a deliberate tease. His nails pressed lightly into my skin, just enough to send a sharp jolt through my body.
My heart raced. My breath came faster.
I could feel it—the heat building between my legs, the way my body responded to him. I wanted to drive him insane. I wanted him to reach the point where he couldn't hold back anymore. And damn, I could feel he was close.
I shoved him back with one hand, got up, and slowly, deliberately, sank to my knees in front of him. My fingers traced along the fabric until they reached the waistband of his pants, feeling the heat beneath. The unspoken demand.
"Well then," I murmured, "I guess I'll show you exactly how captivating I can be. And that I'm a very, very trustworthy fan."
I undid one button, then the next, savoring the slight, almost imperceptible tremor of his muscles under my touch. He stayed still, but I could feel how much effort that cost him.
But I wasn't in a hurry.
I opened the fabric, let my fingers wander lower, finally feeling him without the barrier in between. Hard and hot in my hand. A sharp curse escaped him as I ran my fingers slowly along his length, up and down with just the right amount of pressure.
His hand shot down, gripping the back of my neck and into my hairline, but I lifted my gaze, locking eyes with him—letting him know that I was the one in control here. A warning—I didn't take orders. Not from him. Not from anyone.
I leaned forward again, letting my lips trace the line of his abs, feeling the way his body tensed, the way his nails dug into my skin, as if he was afraid I might drive him insane if I took my time any longer.
His eyes were almost black with desire, his lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling faster. I could feel how tightly wound he was, how his grip in my hair tightened, almost painfully, how every inch of him reacted to me.
A slow smile played at my lips as I moved lower, feeling the heat, the pulsing hardness, the uncontrolled twitch as my tongue flicked over his sensitive tip.
His head fell back with a hoarse groan as my mouth took him in, deeper and deeper, my tongue pressing against his aching need.
And I let myself sink further, savoring the way he lost control—piece by piece.