LUCIAN CASTELLAN

  I tell myself I've got better things to think about. Bigger things. But the second I'm in the back of the car, silence bleeding through the tinted glass, her face pushes through like a bad habit I don't want to quit.

  I wonder if she'll show up today.

  Not that I'm waiting. I don't wait on anyone. But still—

  There's a part of me that listens for her before I even step into the building.

  I've tried not to think about her. God knows I've tried.

  Because once I start, it spirals. Hazel eyes, sharp as knives and soft as velvet, watching me like she sees something worth studying.

  Like she's not afraid.

  That part gets me.

  People flinch. They fold. They kiss my ring or stab my back.

  She? Told me with her mouth, her eyes, her everything, that she didn't give a damn who the fuck I was.

  And in my world? That kind of courage is rare.

  That kind of defiance, aimed at me, takes guts.

  And I liked it.

  More than I should.

  The building's already humming when I step in.

  Same looks. Same reaction.

  Every damn Monday, like clockwork.

  But I won't lie—today, it's louder.

  Eyes linger longer. Voices dip lower.

  I hear it.

  "Greek god."

  "Sharp as hell."

  "That suit—Jesus."

  Some hushed, some bold enough to pretend I'm out of earshot.

  I smirk. Not because I need the validation. I know how I look.

  I put in effort today—not that I don't always, but this time, it was... deliberate. Sharp. Intentional.

  And I'd rather not name the reason behind it.

  Men look at me and want to be me.

  Women look at me and want to be wanted by me.

  And I move through it all like I don't see a thing.

  Like the world isn't whispering my name when I stride past.

  I make my way to the private elevator. Card swipe, smooth glide, no waiting.

  Not for me. Never for me.

  And if her face is still playing at the back of my mind—

  well.

  That's no one's business but mine.

  ______________

  Three hours in, and I'm buried.

  Back-to-back strategy briefs, security updates, contract revisions—

  The kind of mental load that usually numbs everything else out.

  Not today.

  There's been a low hum under my skin since I walked in. A kind of pressure I've been ignoring by force.

  I don't look up when there's a knock.

  "Come in," I say, eyes still on the screen.

  But the moment the door opens—

  it hits me.

  Not sound. Not movement.

  Scent.

  Vanilla. Subtle, warm, clean. But specific.

  Too specific.

  Only one person wears that scent like it belongs to her.

  My head snaps up. Instinct. No hesitation.

  And there she is.

  Cyrene.

  In a dark red dress that fits like it was made for one purpose—to test every thread of control I have left.

  Thigh-length. Sharp. Professional—but far from forgettable.

  Her body fills it out in all the ways that haunt memory.

  Six-inch Tom Ford heels. Black.

  Hair pulled up in that strict, effortless bun she favors.

  She never lets it down unless she's home. I remember.

  I remember everything.

  Her makeup's minimal, like she doesn't need to try—because she doesn't.

  And fuck—

  She looks breathtaking.

  Not the loud kind of beautiful. Not staged.

  It's the kind of presence that walks into a room and changes the air without trying.

  It's been a week.

  Seven days of not seeing her.

  And still—

  Still she walks in like the space was waiting for her. Like I was waiting for her.

  I didn't expect it to hit this hard.

  But it does.

  All of it.

  The want. The pull. The sharp awareness that I'm losing grip just by looking at her.

  She says nothing.

  And I don't either.

  It's not silence. It's weight.

  A stare long enough to feel like we're both calculating what the hell we're doing—but neither of us is stepping back.

  It's not just lust.

  It's the way she is. The way she holds herself. The way she makes it clear I don't scare her.

  Like she knows exactly who I am and still won't give me the power I'm used to taking.

  She's still standing by the door.

  Waiting, maybe. Watching.

  And me?

  I'm fighting the urge to cross the room and put my hands on her.

  Not gentle. Not slow.

  Just enough to remind both of us that whatever this is, it's not one-sided.

  Because distance did nothing.

  If anything, it made everything worse.

  Made me realize how much I've wanted to claim her in every single way I can.

  And not just her body. Her time. Her attention.

  All of it.

  But for now—

  We're just staring.

  And neither of us says a damn word.

  Looking at her made me realize something I hadn't let myself admit.

  I've missed her.

  Not just her body. Not just her scent.

  Her.

  The way she looks at me like she sees straight through the steel I wear every day.

  The way she walks into a room like she belongs there—like I should be the one catching up.

  She takes a step forward.

  Just one.

  And still, I don't move.

  I just stare.

  She closes the distance slowly, then settles into the seat across from me. Legs crossed at the knee, like she knows exactly what she's doing.

  The dress rides up just enough.

  Gives me a clean view of her smooth, toned legs—

  The same legs I've imagined wrapped around my waist more than once.

  The kind that would lock me in and leave me ruined.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Castellan," she says, voice cool.

  "Lucian," I correct, almost too fast.

  She smiles. Not wide. Just a slight curve of her lips—like she expected the correction.

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  Like she knew I wouldn't let her keep that distance.

  "Lucian," she repeats, softer this time. Like she's testing it.

  Like the name tastes different on her tongue.

  And God—

  The sound of it coming from her mouth does something to me.

  It's not just a name.

  It's a trigger.

  A signal to my blood to go exactly where it shouldn't in the middle of a workday.

  "You look well-rested," she says. "Sleep over the weekend?"

  "Barely," I admit, leaning back just slightly. "Too much going on."

  Her brow lifts, amused. "Let me guess. Work?"

  "And other things." I don't elaborate. I don't need to.

  She leans in a little. "So not sleep-deprived because of CipherWorks?"

  I smirk. "Not entirely."

  Her eyes narrow playfully, and for a second, we're locked in again—this easy rhythm.

  It shouldn't be this easy. But it is.

  Like we've done this before.

  Like we've been doing this.

  It's dangerous.

  And addicting.

  She shifts the subject. "I need to check your laptop," she says. "I've already run diagnostics on the floor monitors. Yours is the last one."

  Of course it is.

  I nod once. "Go ahead."

  She stands smoothly, those heels clicking against the floor as she rounds the desk toward me.

  She doesn't ask if she can come behind.

  She just does it.

  And I let her.

  When she stops beside my chair, I rise without thinking.

  Give her space.

  Not because I want to.

  Because if I stay seated, I might forget we're still pretending this is professional.

  She slides into my seat like it belongs to her now, fingers already gliding across the touchpad.

  No hesitation.

  Like she's done it a hundred times.

  I stand beside her, arms folded, watching the side of her face.

  The concentration in her features.

  The way her fingers move—fast, fluid, like her mind's always ten steps ahead of what she says.

  I remember that about her.

  She only speaks when she wants to.

  But when she does, every word is calculated.

  I should step back.

  Give her room.

  But I don't.

  I stay right there.

  Close enough to feel the heat coming off her body.

  Close enough to catch the scent of that damn vanilla again—soft, addicting, haunting.

  She's silent while she works, but she knows I'm watching her.

  I can feel it in the slight curve of her mouth.

  Like she enjoys knowing I'm affected.

  And fuck—

  I am.

  She was still typing—focused, quick, precise. I knew she wasn't trying to ignore me, but I also knew she was trying not to react. Too late for that. I was already breathing down her neck, close enough to smell her skin. That vanilla scent again—soft, warm, addictive. I leaned one hand on the desk beside her, not touching, just watching. Watching her fingers glide over my keyboard like it belonged to her. Like I did.

  "I didn't realize watching someone work could be this distracting," I said, my voice low, casual.

  She didn't flinch. But her next keystroke came just a second late.

  "I'm sure you say that to all your cybersecurity staff," she murmured, eyes still on the screen.

  "Only the ones who hijack my office," I said. "And wear dresses that make me question my ability to stay professional."

  That earned me a sideways glance. Brief. But her lips twitched.

  "It's a work dress," she said lightly. "Blame Tom Ford."

  "Oh, I do," I said, letting my gaze dip, slow and obvious, down her back. "Every damn inch of it."

  She paused typing. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then started again, like she was trying to remember what the hell she was doing. I liked that. I liked knowing I had that effect on her.

  "You're breathing too close," she said.

  "You want me to move?"

  She hesitated. "No."

  I smiled. "Didn't think so."

  Her posture stayed straight, but I saw the way her shoulders rose slightly with every breath. I didn't need to touch her to know her pulse had picked up. I could feel it in the air between us.

  "I checked your monitors already," she said, her voice steady again. "Everything looks clean. But I still need access to your desktop."

  "Be my guest," I murmured. "Though I'd rather keep watching you bend over my desk."

  "You're incorrigible."

  "I'm just observant." I leaned in slightly, dropping my voice even lower. "You haven't let your hair down since you walked in."

  She gave a soft laugh. "And yet you noticed."

  "I notice everything about you."

  That caught her. I saw it in the way she stopped typing altogether. Her breath hitched, just for a second. She turned her head slightly, like she was going to say something, but instead just looked at me—really looked at me.

  The silence sat between us for a beat.

  Then I spoke, quieter this time. "Go out with me."

  Her eyes didn't widen. She didn't look away. She just stared, like she was trying to see through the question—figure out what angle I was playing.

  But there wasn't one. No cocky grin. No teasing edge. I meant it.

  "Tonight," I added. "Just you and me. A proper date."

  She blinked once. Then gave the smallest nod, like she surprised herself with it. "Okay."

  I wasn't expecting that. I was prepared for a curveball, a dodge, even a smirk and a no. But she agreed—just like that. My brows rose before I could stop them.

  "Perfect," I said, letting the word land with full weight. "I'll pick you up by seven."

  "Should I ask what to wear?" she asked, turning back to the screen.

  "I'd say wear whatever'll make it hard for me to focus," I said, stepping back just enough to give her breathing room. "But clearly, you already do that without trying."

  That amused smile was back on her lips as she typed.

  And fuck, I couldn't wait for seven o'clock.

  I stayed behind her a few seconds longer than necessary, watching her fingers fly across my keyboard like they belonged there. The concentration on her face, that subtle smirk, the way she pretended not to be affected by my proximity—I'd seen ruthless men crack under pressure faster than she gave me a reaction.

  Still, I knew I was under her skin. The tiny giveaways were there, buried beneath all that composure. The subtle hitch in her breath when I leaned in earlier, the tension in her shoulders every time I spoke close to her ear.

  I stepped around the desk again and sat back in my chair, leaning back just enough to get a view of her face while she finished up. She glanced up once, met my eyes for half a second, then returned to her work like nothing had happened.

  God, she was dangerous.

  "All done," she said a minute later, rising from my seat—my seat—with the kind of unbothered grace that made me want to mess it all up. Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she moved to gather her tablet from where she'd set it earlier.

  "See you at seven," I said, letting the words hang between us again. My voice was quieter this time, but she heard it.

  She didn't respond right away. Just gave me a look. The kind that said she knew exactly what she was doing to me and liked it.

  Then: "Don't be late, Lucian."

  And with that, she turned and walked out, her stride confident, her perfume lingering in the air like a dare I fully intended to take.

  I stared at the door a moment after it closed. Ran a hand down my face.

  This woman was going to ruin my focus for the rest of the damn day.

  I tried to work. I really did. But it didn't matter how many emails I answered, how many reports I skimmed or calls I returned—every damn thing reminded me of her.

  Her voice. That smug little smile. The legs she so casually crossed in front of me like she didn't know what they were doing.

  I checked the time. 2:08 p.m.

  Four hours and fifty-two minutes to go.

  I was already losing my mind.

  And still, it didn't feel like enough time to figure out how the hell I was going to handle her tonight without doing something reckless.

  Like letting her know she's the only thing I haven't been able to control in a long, long time.

  CYRENE

  I didn’t even make it inside the building.

  The second I stepped out of Lucian’s office, I bypassed the elevator to the lobby like I had somewhere urgent to be. And I did. Because if I went upstairs, I’d hesitate. Rationalize. Delay.

  I wasn’t going to give myself the chance.

  Not when he said he’d pick me up by seven. Not when he looked at me like that. Not when my pulse was still spiking from the way he’d breathed down my neck.

  I was in a boutique in Ortigia I’d sworn I wouldn’t go back to unless I was buying something dangerous. Apparently, I was.

  I knew what I was looking for. Something dark. Tight. Effortless—but not actually effortless. I ran my fingers through rows of dresses until I stopped at one: a black corset mini that hugged my curves like it was made for me. No sparkles. No distractions. Just bold, clean edges and attitude.

  Sold.

  Next: shoes. I passed on the six-inch stilettos I wore to work. Tonight wasn’t about power; it was about presence. A pair of black, patent leather Chanel heels—four inches, pointed toe, ankle strap. Just enough height to keep me taller than I usually let myself be.

  Back at home, I showered slowly. I don’t even know why I took my time, but I did. Exfoliated, moisturized, lit a candle. Told myself I was just enjoying the moment.

  Right.

  I pulled on the dress, zipped it up at the side, and stood in front of the mirror. Half-up, half-down for the hair—soft waves, pinned back just enough to show my neck. Gold hoops. Glossy red lips. Nothing too heavy on the makeup, but my eyeliner was sharp. Everything else glowed.

  When I was finally ready, I sat on the edge of the couch, heels crossed at the ankle, fingers curled around the edge of a velvet cushion, waiting for the knock on the door like it meant more than it should.

  And yeah—maybe it did.*

  The clock was ticking too damn slowly.

  By six, I was already in my top-floor suite, standing in front of my closet, staring at rows of tailored suits like I was choosing armor. Which, in a way, I was. This wasn’t just dinner. It was a reckoning. I wanted her to see me and know I came for her.

  I reached for a black-on-black Brioni—subtle sheen, impeccable structure, sharp lines. The kind of suit that hugged the frame without screaming for attention. Underneath, a dark grey silk shirt, left unbuttoned just low enough. No tie tonight. I wasn’t trying to look corporate—I was trying to look like her man.

  Shoes—classic Italian loafers. Black leather, mirror-polished. My timepiece? Patek Philippe. Understated, but any man with sense would know the weight of it. I tied my hair back into a low bun, a little loose at the nape. Nothing overly manicured. Just enough to make her wonder how fast she could undo it.

  I was out the door by 6:45.

  She lived twenty minutes out, and I didn’t want to be a minute late. Pulling up to her building, I parked the car myself—valet be damned—and took the elevator up. My palms were on fire. Nerves. Want. Everything all at once.

  At her door, I rang the bell.

  And when it opened—

  Dio mio.

  My breath caught. Just for a moment. Just enough to ground me in reality. She stood there in a black corset dress that gripped her curves like it had been painted on. Her hair was half-up, half-down, soft waves falling just above her collarbone. And those lips—glossy, red, wicked.

  “Sei bellissima,” I said quietly. Beautiful.

  Her smile was the kind of thing men would burn cities for. She stepped out, and I opened the car door for her, only circling to the driver’s side after I was sure she was buckled in.

  Once we pulled off, the silence was comfortable. Easy. But her perfume—light vanilla—was driving me insane. We were about ten minutes out when Rihanna’s “Work” came on. I didn’t touch the volume, but she did—instantly turning it up, then singing along like she couldn’t help herself.

  The way her hips started swaying in her seat…

  “This was the song I danced to,” she said suddenly, grinning as she looked over at me.

  I almost missed my turn. “Danced?”

  Her grin turned devilish. “My invitation,” she said, voice dipped in honey. And I knew exactly what the hell she meant. My hand tightened on the wheel. She knew too, judging by the way her eyes sparkled.

  The song kept playing. And she kept moving.

  Then she leaned over. Slowly. Breath on my neck. Her chest brushed against my arm, light but intentional. Her hand—cool, soft—rested on my thigh.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, voice strained.

  Her lips ghosted near my ear. “Just… being a little bad.”

  That did it.

  I glanced over, and yeah—she was rubbing her thighs together, ever so slightly. I let out a low, dark laugh and reached over with one hand, sliding it between her legs just enough to keep her still.

  “Not tonight,” I murmured, voice rough against the tension crackling in the air. “You won’t get friction from that dress or these seats. You want relief, you earn it properly.”

  Her breath hitched. But she didn’t pull away.

  Neither did I.

  And I swear to God, the temperature in that car climbed by ten degrees.

  We weren’t even at the damn restaurant yet.

  The restaurant was tucked into a quiet corner near the bay. Warm lighting, low music, rich smells drifting out from the kitchen—everything designed to make you forget the world outside. We were led to a private booth in the back. I’d requested it hours ago.

  She sat across from me, crossing her legs with that same quiet grace that made men forget how to breathe. The black corset dress shimmered just slightly under the golden light. Her eyes swept the room before landing on me again, amused.

  “This place is nice,” she said, trailing her fingers along the rim of her glass.

  “I thought you’d like it,” I replied, leaning back in my seat. “You love Mexican food.”

  Her brow lifted. “Do I?”

  “You do.” I smiled a little. “I know.”

  Her lips parted like she might argue, but she didn’t. Just tilted her head, watching me, as if trying to decide whether to ask how I knew. She didn’t have to.

  “I pay attention,” I said simply.

  She looked away for half a second, biting back a grin like she was trying not to let me have that win.

  Too late.

  I took a sip of my wine, eyes still on her. “So… Edinburgh.”

  She stilled slightly, but her expression didn’t change. “What about it?”

  “You were there.”

  Her eyes narrowed—playful, but also… intrigued. “And how would you know that?”

  I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. “Only one person moves like that. With precision and elegance—like the city should stop and rearrange itself around her. I didn’t need to see a video to know it was you.”

  Her lips parted slightly. Her tongue darted out to wet them.

  And she blushed.

  It was faint. But it was there.

  And God, I loved that I could bring it out of her.

  Her gaze dropped to her wine, like she needed a second to recover. I let her have it, watching the way she swirled her glass, avoiding my eyes for a heartbeat too long.

  The waiter arrived right on cue, refilling our wine and asking if we were ready to order.

  “I’ll take everything on the menu,” I said, not looking at him.

  Cyrene looked up sharply. “Everything?”

  I turned back to her, smiling slightly. “You’re going to try a bit of each. Consider it… a tasting tour.”

  Her laugh was soft and low, the kind that made a man want to earn more of it. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s indulgent,” I corrected. “And you deserve indulgent.”

  Her expression shifted—something softer behind her eyes now. She reached for her glass again, took a slow sip.

  “This is different,” she said after a moment.

  “What is?”

  “You. Tonight.”

  I leaned back, arms stretched slightly on the leather bench, watching her. “Maybe this is just a side of me I haven’t shown you yet.”

  “Hmm.” Her gaze dipped again, and I caught it linger on my mouth. “Maybe.”

  The tension between us was unspoken now—but humming quietly in the background. Not loud. Not desperate.

  Just there.

  And it wasn’t going anywhere.

  The waiter left us with a polite nod, and the moment we were alone again, something shifted in the air.

  She lifted her wine glass, took a slow sip, and tilted her head just slightly—like she knew exactly what she was doing to me. I mirrored her, studying the way her tongue darted out to catch a stray drop at the corner of her mouth.

  We didn’t speak for a beat. Just stared.

  The kind of silence that hums.

  That aches.

  The kind of silence that says: I want to ruin you—but slowly.

  I leaned forward, resting my elbow on the table, my fingers loosely holding my glass. “You know,” I said, voice low, slow, intimate, “this is getting difficult.”

  She blinked once. “What is?”

  “Not pulling you onto my lap and whispering all the filthy things I plan to do to you.”

  Her eyes darkened—just a shade—but I caught it. That subtle shift. That flicker of tension she tried to hide by swirling her wine.

  I kept going.

  “Like dragging that tight little dress up your thighs… spanking that pretty, plump ass until you moan my name like a prayer…”

  She inhaled sharply—barely. But her body betrayed her. Her legs subtly pressed together under the table, her chest rising with each breath. That was my tell.

  I leaned in even closer, my voice now a whisper meant for only her ears. “Or sliding my fingers down to feel how wet you are for me… watching you melt… drip… fall apart—right in my hands.”

  She whimpered.

  Not loudly.

  Not dramatically.

  But it was there—real, breathy, involuntary.

  And fuck, it turned me on more than anything.

  Her lashes fluttered, and that composed fa?ade of hers cracked, just a little. Her voice was unsteady, soft. “You talk too much.”

  I grinned slowly, heat licking through me like gasoline finding fire. “You love it.”

  She held my gaze, lips parted, pupils dilated. “I didn’t say I didn’t.”

  That was all I needed.

  I sat back, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile as I swirled the wine in my glass. “So you do like it,” I said, watching the color rise in her cheeks again. “Good to know.”

  She didn’t flinch this time. Didn’t look away either. She just leaned forward, elbows on the table, and rested her chin lightly on her hand. “I like a lot of things,” she said casually. “But I don’t go around telling men who wear suits like sin about all of them.”

  I chuckled low under my breath. “Suit like sin, huh?” My eyes trailed down her body, deliberately slow. “That’s rich—coming from a woman who showed up looking like temptation incarnate.”

  Her lips parted, but she didn’t respond right away. I could tell she wanted to say something—something sharp, maybe flirt back harder—but she didn’t. She just held my gaze and licked her bottom lip instead.

  And that? That small, unconscious move? It was driving me insane.

  I leaned in again, this time until our faces were just a breath apart. “Careful, Cyrene,” I murmured. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might forget we’re in public.”

  Her eyes flashed with mischief. “Maybe I want you to forget.”

  Fuck.

  My fingers clenched the base of my wine glass, jaw ticking once before I regained control. “Dangerous thing to say to me.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” she said, a little too innocently. “Besides, I don’t scare easy.”

  “I know,” I murmured. “That’s what makes this so much more fun.”

  Our staring contest resumed—tense, heated, full of all the things we weren’t quite saying out loud. Her eyes sparkled as she toyed with the stem of her glass, tapping it lightly like she had all the time in the world.

  “Tell me something,” she said softly. “Do you always flirt like this… or is it just with me?”

  I let the silence stretch a beat longer before answering.

  “I don’t flirt,” I said. “I pursue. And right now… I’m choosing you.”

  Her breath hitched—just barely—and I knew she felt it. That weight between us. That slow-burn pull neither of us had any interest in fighting anymore.

  God, I loved watching her unravel—one tease at a time.