The door opened quietly.
I felt it more than I heard it—the shift in the air, the sudden awareness that I was no longer alone. I turned slowly.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, effortlessly composed, dressed in a dark suit that absorbed the light rather than reflecting it. Sharp features. Controlled. But it was his eyes that held me—dark, calm, deliberate.
He didn't smile.
And somehow, that made him impossible to ignore.
His gaze found mine. And stayed there.
No hunger. No impatience. Just a quiet assessment that made my pulse stumble, like he was taking me in, piece by piece, without rushing.
He closed the door behind him and crossed the room with unhurried steps, stopping near the armchair, waiting.
The silence stretched, thick and deliberate.
I stood where I was, suddenly unsure of everything—my hands, my breath, my next move. My heart thumped loudly in my ears. He didn't look away. Didn't speak. Didn't give me anything to hide behind.
This wasn't like the men downstairs. This wasn't rushed. This was… intentional.
The realization twisted my stomach. He was waiting for me.
I inhaled and stepped closer, heels clicking softly. He didn't move. Didn't reach. His eyes stayed on mine, steady and unreadable, like he was letting me choose how this would go.
"You can still change your mind," he said quietly.
The words should have steadied me. They didn't.
I shook my head, fingers curling into the fabric of my dress. I could still leave—the door right there—but I didn't.
When his hand finally touched me, it was slow, deliberate, resting at my waist, warm and grounding. A shiver ran through me, sharper than I expected. His thumb pressed lightly, as if asking a question he already knew the answer to.
I leaned in.
The rest blurred—quiet words, unhurried movements, the room shrinking until there was nothing beyond the heat between us.
Shadows flickered across the walls, mingling with the faint scent of whiskey and polished wood.
He was controlled. Precise. Every motion deliberate. And somehow, that made it harder to remember why this was supposed to mean nothing.
By the time the night slipped away, I knew one thing: this wasn't a mistake.
It was a choice.
One I would pretend didn't matter.
The room felt emptier than it had the night before. Shadows from the streetlights slanted across the walls, still carrying the faint warmth of where he'd been.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling slightly, trying to make sense of everything. The air smelled faintly of his cologne and something sharp—leather, money, control.
He didn't linger.
"I'm leaving," he said quietly, voice even, calm, untouchable. No glance back. No hesitation. Just a single, deliberate step toward the door.
I wanted to call out to him, to make him stay, but my mouth went dry. My heartbeat was loud in my ears.
The soft click of the door closing behind him left me alone with a strange mixture of heat, guilt, and something darker I couldn't name. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to forget him.
But my body betrayed me, remembering the weight of his hands, the pull of his presence, the way he had waited for me to make the first move.
I exhaled slowly, trying to ground myself. This was meant to be nothing. A one-night thing. That was the agreement. That was the rule.
And yet… the thought of him leaving, of being the only one haunted by the night, made my stomach twist. The night wasn't over—not for me.
I didn't know when I'd see him again.
But a part of me feared I would.
And when I did… I had a feeling he would still be in control.