The black slip dress stared back at me like a dare.
It wasn't the kind of dress a girl like me wore. It was the kind of dress women wore in movies before they destroyed men with a single look. It whispered things — promises, warnings, secrets.
And it was from him.
I didn't need a note to know Dominic Blackwell had picked it. He had a signature: dark, dangerous, and undeniably seductive. Just like the man himself.
I hesitated. My fingers brushed the silky fabric, and I felt a thrill chase down my spine.
I shouldn't wear it.
I shouldn't want to impress him.
I shouldn't even want him.
And yet here I was, sliding it on, the silk molding to my skin like it had been made for me — or worse, like he'd had it made for me.
The slit rode high when I walked. The neckline dipped scandalously low. My skin buzzed where the cool fabric kissed it. And when I caught my reflection in the mirror, my breath caught.
I didn't look like the girl who came from nothing.
I looked like his.
The thought made my chest tighten.
A knock sounded — not a polite one. A slow, authoritative knock like the person on the other side already owned the room.
Owned me.
"Lila," Dominic's voice was low, rough silk against the door.
I froze.
I wasn't ready for him to see me like this.
"Come in," I said before I could stop myself.
The door creaked open.
And then he was there.
Dominic Blackwell.
Tall. Brooding. Dangerous. In a black dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, tailored slacks hugging lean muscle, and that storm in his eyes only I seemed to stir.
His gaze dragged over me slowly — starting at the delicate straps on my shoulders, lingering at the curve of my breasts, dipping to the exposed length of leg.
Heat bloomed in my cheeks — and lower.
"I take it the dress fits," he said, his voice low and thick.
"It's indecent," I replied, hating how breathless I sounded.
"Good," he said, walking toward me like a storm cloud made of silk and sex. "That was the point."
He stopped just inches from me. I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and I hated how small he made me feel — how excited that made me.
"You like making me uncomfortable, don't you?" I asked.
He smirked. "No, Lila. I like watching you realize how much you want me."
God, I hated him.
And God help me, I wanted him.
"I'm not some toy you can dress up and show off," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"No," he said, lifting his hand to brush my collarbone — slow, deliberate. "You're the woman who walked into my world like she didn't need anyone. But I see the way your breath catches when I'm near. The way your body reacts even when your mouth denies it."
My heart pounded.
"Dominic—"
His fingers slipped behind my neck, drawing me closer. My breath tangled with his, and for a second, I forgot why I was resisting.
"You should stay away from me," I whispered, voice barely audible.
He leaned down, lips brushing my ear. "You keep saying that. But here you are — in my dress, in my home, letting me touch you."
My knees went weak.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice cracking.
He stepped back, finally giving me room to breathe — though my lungs still refused to work properly.
"Because I want you," he said, simply. "And I always get what I want."
His words echoed in the silence after he stepped back.
Because I want you.
He said it like a promise. Like a threat. Like he already owned me.
I took a shaky breath, forcing my head high.
"Well," I said, swallowing down the heat rising in my chest, "if you're done making your point, I assume I'm dressed like this for a reason?"
His smirk was maddening. "Dinner. Downstairs. Ten minutes."
"Dinner," I echoed. "Is this your idea of a date?"
He laughed — low, dark, and amused. "No, Lila. When I take you on a date, you'll know."
Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the scent of his cologne clinging to the air — and the mess of my thoughts behind.
The dining room looked like something out of a luxury magazine. Crystal, candlelight, wine that probably cost more than my yearly income. And him — sitting at the head of the table like a king.
He stood when I entered.
I hated how good he looked. And worse, I hated how his eyes burned when they landed on me.
"Sit," he said, pulling out the chair beside him instead of across from him.
Of course.
I sat, feeling the way the silk dress kissed every inch of skin. I could barely shift without feeling exposed — and he knew it.
The waiter poured the wine and disappeared.
"You look stunning," he said, voice lower now, intimate.
"You make it hard to believe you don't enjoy playing with people."
"Only the ones who challenge me," he said, lifting his glass. "You're not like anyone I've met, Lila Harper."
"And what exactly do you think I am?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
He studied me — slow, indulgent, and infuriating.
"Untouched territory," he said. "Rough, honest, infuriating. And underneath all that fight? A fire you're terrified to let anyone see."
My pulse stuttered. I hated how accurate he was.
Before I could answer, a couple entered the dining room. Older, polished, clearly important — and clearly surprised to see me sitting next to him.
Dominic rose again, shaking the man's hand, kissing the woman's cheek. "Lila, this is Charles and Irene Blackwell."
I blinked.
His parents?
I stood awkwardly. "Hi," I said, offering a polite smile.
Irene's eyes slid over me — not quite disapproving, but assessing.
"You're the one Dominic's been keeping all to himself," she said smoothly.
Charles gave Dominic a knowing look. "Didn't think you had it in you, son."
Dominic slid an arm around my waist without asking, fingers splaying possessively across my hip. "Lila's not like anyone else. I like to keep her close."
The words sent a shiver down my spine — not just from the heat of his touch, but from the message behind them.
You're mine. And they'll know it.
As dinner went on, I said all the polite things, made all the right small talk — but I couldn't shake the electricity humming under my skin. Dominic never let his hand drift far. A brush of fingers here. A slow circle of his thumb there.
No one else could see it — but I felt everything.
When dessert came, Irene excused herself for a phone call, and Charles stepped out to take a message.
We were alone again.
Dominic leaned in, voice low and full of sin. "You did well."
"What is this, a test?"
"No," he said, eyes dark. "Just wanted to see how long you'd last before cracking under pressure. I must say…" His fingers skimmed the inside of my thigh beneath the table, right where the slit opened dangerously high. "…you've got a hell of a poker face."
I stiffened. "You're out of line."
He smirked. "You're blushing."
"Because you're impossible," I hissed.
"I'm careful," he corrected. "Calculated. And right now, I'm calculating exactly how long it'll take me to get you out of that dress."
I gasped softly — but not from shock. From how fast heat coiled in my belly.
"You really think you can have everything you want?" I challenged, voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned in, brushing his lips just barely against my ear.
"Darling," he murmured, "when it comes to you… I will."