The limousine glided away from the fundraiser, leaving behind flashing lights, gossiping guests, and a ballroom still echoing with their dance.
Inside the car, silence stretched like a tight wire.
Arielle sat with one leg crossed, her dress riding high, revealing just enough thigh to make a saint forget his prayers. She didn't look at Dominic—but she could feel him. Every breath he took, every shift of his powerful frame beside her.
He hadn't said a word since they got in.
She hated that it made her feel… watched.
Desired.
Cornered.
"So that's it?" she finally said, her voice thick with irritation and something needier. "You put on a show, leave me breathless, and now you sit there like nothing happened?"
He didn't answer right away.
Just turned his head, eyes dark with something dangerous.
"You looked breathless," he said, voice low. "But not satisfied."
She scoffed. "Is that your job now? Satisfying me?"
He leaned in slowly. "Not my job. But it's definitely within my skillset."
Her pulse jumped.
His fingers brushed her knee, deliberate, trailing upward in a line of fire. She caught his hand—more out of reflex than objection.
"Careful," she warned, "I bite."
His smile was lazy. Arrogant.
"So do I."
Her grip on his hand loosened.
But he didn't move further.
Didn't touch more.
Instead, he leaned closer—so close she could feel his breath fan against her cheek, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"You spent the whole night teasing me, Sinclair. In front of the entire city," he murmured. "Now you're quiet. Why?"
She turned her head slowly, their noses almost brushing.
"Because if I speak," she said, "I might ask you to do something we can't undo."
That got him.
His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide.
And then his mouth was on hers.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
It was not a kiss—it was a challenge. A war cry. Their lips clashed, teeth grazing, tongues tangling with a heat that shattered the quiet luxury of the limo. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her onto his lap like she belonged there.
She gasped into the kiss but didn't stop him. Didn't want to.
Her fingers tangled in his dark hair as he kissed her deeper—harder—like he'd been dying to since the moment she walked into his office with that arrogant little strut.
He tore his mouth from hers just long enough to growl, "You're reckless."
"And you're obsessed," she shot back, breathless.
His hand slid up her thigh.
She shivered.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
She stared at him, fire in her eyes.
"Make me."
That was all he needed.
The car's interior darkened as they passed beneath streetlights, each flash of gold slicing across their bodies like a spotlight. Arielle was perched on Dominic's lap, her hands braced against his chest, her lips swollen from the kiss that still burned between them.
Dominic's hand slid higher along her thigh, grazing bare skin beneath silk.
"This dress," he muttered, fingers tightening just above her knee, "was made to drive me insane."
She tilted her head, breath catching as his lips brushed her jawline.
"I wore it for me," she said, voice trembling with defiance—and anticipation. "But I don't mind the side effects."
He laughed under his breath, low and dangerous. "You're trouble."
"And you're bored of women who aren't."
Their mouths met again—this time slower, deeper. His hand slid around to the small of her back, pulling her closer, anchoring her to him. She could feel him—every hard inch of him beneath her. It made her dizzy.
Her hips shifted instinctively. He caught her with a groan, holding her still.
"Don't start what you can't finish," he warned against her lips.
She smiled wickedly, nose brushing his. "Oh, I never finish first."
That broke him.
He growled—an actual, low-throated growl—as he surged forward, kissing her like he needed to erase every trace of her arrogance with his mouth. His hands roamed, firm and possessive, mapping out every curve like she was his and had always been.
She gasped when his lips found her neck, biting just enough to make her arch against him.
"You like control," she whispered, nails scraping across his shoulder blades. "But you lose it around me."
"Don't flatter yourself," he rasped.
But his grip betrayed him.
He wanted her.
So badly, it burned through his composure.
Outside, the windows had fogged completely. The driver up front didn't dare speak. It was just them, tangled in heat and pride, breathing each other in like they were addicted.
Dominic's lips hovered over hers. "You should hate me for this."
Her eyes met his—dark, daring, wanting. "I think I do."
His thumb brushed across her lower lip. "Then why are you still on top of me?"
She leaned in until their foreheads touched.
"Because you make it hard to leave."
The car slowed.
They didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
The driver's voice crackled through the intercom. "Sir… we've arrived."
Reality slipped back in like cold air.
Dominic exhaled slowly.
Arielle climbed off his lap, fixing her dress with shaking hands. Her lipstick was smudged. Her eyes? Smoldering.
He watched her.
Composed. Barely.
But his eyes betrayed him. They still burned.
She reached for the door but paused. "You coming?"
He stood, adjusted his jacket, and leaned in, whispering low.
"Not yet."
She smirked.
And walked inside first—knowing full well he was right behind her.
The elevator doors opened directly into Dominic Raine's penthouse—sleek, modern, and dark like the man himself. Black marble floors gleamed under dim lights, the open layout whispering wealth without needing to scream it.
Arielle stepped in first, her heels clicking with bold confidence, but her heart pounded beneath that polished exterior. She didn't look back, but she could feel Dominic behind her—his presence like a second skin.
The elevator slid shut with a soft chime. The sound echoed. Trapped them.
She walked deeper into the space, letting her fingers trail along the glass bar counter, the edge of the steel kitchen island. Everything in here was cold, minimalist, controlled.
Except her.
"You live like a Bond villain," she said casually, stopping by the massive window wall that overlooked the glittering city.
Dominic shrugged out of his jacket behind her. "Maybe I am."
She turned. He was rolling up his sleeves, forearms flexing, his jaw sharp enough to cut. "Where's the shark tank? The laser trap?"
He moved toward her slowly. "You already walked into it."
Her breath caught. "That supposed to scare me?"
He stopped in front of her—close, but not touching.
"No," he said, eyes dark. "It's supposed to warn you."
She stared up at him, head tilted like a dare. "And if I like danger?"
He leaned in, hands bracing the counter behind her, caging her in without a single touch. "Then I'll stop playing nice."
Her pulse leapt.
"You think this is you playing nice?" she asked.
He dipped his head closer, breath brushing her lips. "You have no idea what I'm capable of, Sinclair."
She swallowed, but didn't back down.
"Then show me."
Something in his eyes flickered—restraint crumbling like glass.
And still, he didn't kiss her.
Instead, he stepped back.
Arielle blinked, confused, frustrated.
He turned toward the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the bar. "Wine?"
She exhaled—half a laugh, half a curse. "You're such an ass."
He poured two glasses without flinching. "Discipline, Arielle. It's not just for you."
She walked over and snatched the glass from his hand. "Fine. You win. Again."
He raised a brow. "You think this is about winning?"
She sipped. "Isn't everything?"
He didn't answer.
Just stared at her, glass untouched.
"You're not like anyone I've ever met," she admitted softly, avoiding his gaze. "And that pisses me off."
He stepped closer again, slow, deliberate.
"And you're exactly the kind of girl I should stay away from."
She lifted her eyes to his.
"So why don't you?"
His hand brushed her jaw, finally touching her.
"Because I'm already in too deep."
And then, just before their lips met again, he whispered, "And I think you are too."