You don't see him for a week after the museum.
Not in the tea shop.
Not at the gallery where you know he sometimes volunteers.
Not even beneath the bookshop stairs—
though once, you stood outside the store for five minutes, pretending to scroll through your phone.
You tell yourself you're not disappointed.
Liar!
So when the invitation comes, it feels like fate's way of mocking you.
A friend texts you: "Art & Wine night. Thursday. Intimate. Bring your flirting face."
You almost say no.
Then you picture his voice again, low and unhurried—
"You haven't told me to stop."
And suddenly…
You want to see if he'll come find you again.
So…. You show up in a dress that hugs your curves like it knows a secret.
You paint your lips a shade too bold for polite conversation.
You walk into that rooftop venue with your shoulders bare and your eyes sharp.
And you wait.
You see him just after the second glass of wine.
He's across the room, dressed in black again—
tailored, relaxed, impossibly composed.
He's talking to someone, but his gaze finds you through the crowd.
Not a greeting.
Not even a smile.
Just a claim.
Like he's marking the spot where he'll corner you later.
So you do the only thing your pride will allow:
You look away.
You flirt.
You lean just a little too close to the man pouring drinks.
You laugh at things that aren't funny.
You touch a stranger's forearm when you ask where he got his jacket.
And the whole time, you can feel him watching.
Not possessive.
Not jealous.
Predatory.
When you finally drift toward the back balcony for air, your skin is humming—
a little from the wine, mostly from the way he hasn't stopped burning holes through you all night.
The door opens behind you.
You don't turn.
Because
You know it's him.
"That was cute," he says,
voice smooth as a blade.
"The little performance."
You take a slow sip from your glass,
heart pounding behind your ribs.
"What performance?" your breathlessness betrays you..
He moves closer—until you feel the heat of him at your back.
"The one where you pretend I haven't already ruined every man in this room for you."
You hate the way your breath catches.
"You're very sure of yourself."
Your words are sharp
"No. Just sure of you."
His hand brushes your hip—not a touch. A warning.
"Tell me to stop."
You don't.
Instead, you set the wine glass down.
Turn around.
And he's right there.
Up close, he's unfair— with
the kind of beautiful that makes rules feel like suggestions.
"You came looking for a reaction," he says, eyes on yours.
"So here it is."
voice low and smooth, backing you up against the balcony wall with a slow, deliberate step.
"If you flirt with another man in front of me again, I won't just punish you."
His hand lifts—brushes a strand of hair from your face with unbearable gentleness.
"I'll teach you what it means to be mine."
Silence falls.
You don't answer.
But your knees press together, your breath shallows, and you know—
Undeniably, that…
You'll beg for that lesson.