"You think you're in control," he murmured, his lips barely grazing mine, "And that amuses me."
A shiver ran down my spine at the closeness, but I didn't move—not backward, not forward. I stood there like I was carved from stone, even though my heart was pounding so loudly I was certain he could hear it.
His hand lifted, brushing a knuckle slowly down my cheek. It was almost gentle—almost. But there was something too precise, too calculated in the way he touched me, as if he was measuring how far he could push.
Then, in that same quiet, powerful voice, he said, "Take it off."
My throat closed. Not in surprise—I'd seen this coming the second I stepped through that door. No, it was the raw weight of it. The command. The way he said it like it wasn't even a question.
I held his gaze, lips tilting just slightly in that smirk I'd been practicing, the one I thought made me look untouchable. "You really don't waste time, do you?"
But my fingers… they betrayed me. When I reached for the hem of my top, they trembled. Just slightly. Barely noticeable. But enough.
Enough to remind me that I wasn't used to this. That underneath all my sharp words and practiced confidence, I was a girl standing in front of a man who could tear me apart with just a look.
The silk slid up my skin, and I forced my hands to move steadily, despite the chill that spread across my body the moment I exposed more skin. I was hyperaware of everything—my breathing, the air brushing my bare stomach, the weight of his eyes trailing every inch of me.
I unhooked the clasp behind my back. It took me two tries—my fingers clumsy, uncooperative. My heart was hammering now. This was stupid. This was crazy. But I didn't stop.
I wouldn't stop.
The top slid off, pooling at my feet like a blood-red surrender. I stood before him, my chin lifted high, even as goosebumps danced across my skin.
Lucian's eyes never left me. They didn't flash with hunger or approval. No. They stayed cool. Assessing. Like I was just a subject beneath a microscope.
His silence made the air feel thicker, and I found myself speaking just to fill it. "You gonna stand there and judge, or…?"
He stepped closer before I could finish. One finger hooked under the waistband of my skirt, tugging—not hard, not demanding, just enough to let the implication settle.
"Off," he said again. Just that one word. Nothing more.
And there it was again—that war between pride and panic. My insides were twisting themselves into knots, but my face… I kept it unreadable. Detached.
Still, when I reached for the zipper, my breath hitched. My hands faltered. Not from hesitation, I told myself. Just nerves. Just adrenaline.
The leather peeled down my legs inch by inch, slow, calculated—because that's what he would expect from me. No rushing. No stumbles. Only control, even when I was losing it inside.
Now, I stood before him in nothing but black lace. I could feel the way the cool air kissed my skin, how exposed I was, how vulnerable. My spine stayed straight. But my legs… they were so damn close to buckling.
He circled me slowly, like a predator studying his prey, and I hated how aware I was of every movement, every breath. I hated how badly I wanted his approval—even as I loathed myself for it.
"You wear fear like perfume," Lucian said at last, his voice brushing against my ear from behind me. "You think it's hidden. But it's not."
My breath caught.
But I didn't reply.
I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
Even if my shaking hands already had.
He stopped in front of me again. Close. Too close.
His gaze dropped down my body like a physical touch, dragging heat in its wake, then slowly rose to meet mine.
And when our eyes locked—his were different.
Clouded. Dark. A storm barely held at bay.
Lust. Raw and barely leashed.
His jaw clenched once, and for a moment I saw it. The war inside him. He wanted to touch me, wanted to ruin me. And yet... he didn't.
Instead, he stepped back, his breath sharp through his nose as if he needed the space to keep control.
For a beat, he said nothing.
Then his voice came low, rough—soaked in that same thick tension that coated the air between us.
"My driver will take you home."
A dismissal
But I knew it wasn't over.
He didn't look back as he walked away, leaving me half-naked in his private lounge, my body pulsing with adrenaline, heat, and confusion.
And still, despite everything—despite the shaking in my hands and the pounding in my chest—I couldn't breathe properly until the door clicked shut behind him.