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Kept.
And maybe I will keep her.
I watch her prowl from room to room in my penthouse, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Silent, sexy as the sweetest Belladonna. One I wanted to consume, wholeheartedly and fatally last night. In all my years as a Dominant I’ve never come close to callingfuck itand fucking a woman without proper, basic ground rules, the way I did last night. I grip the erection that hasn’t subsided since I cornered her in this building twelve hours ago.
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I didn’t expect it to feel like this. Like addiction. Likepurpose. Like she’s not just a tool to use against my enemies.
She’s a match, flickering under everything I’ve kept cold for so long.
And something about the way she looked at me—shaking and furious and still wanting—hit deeper than it should have.
I need her for the plan.
But God help me…
I think I want Dahlia for a whole lot more.
CHAPTER 8
Dahlia
Ihear the elevator hum before I see him.
All day I’ve been pacing this penthouse like a caged animal. No phone. No laptop. No tools. Just the sound of my own anxiety echoing back at me from polished marble floors and glass walls.
He’splanned this. That’s the part that stings. That makes the fight in my chest burn hotter. Because if Dante O’Driscoll has planned this, it means he’s known who I am for longer than I realized. And I hate being outmaneuvered.
There’s a room in this glass palace that I hadn’t dared return to after one glimpse this morning. A closet—or rather, aboutique. My measurements. My style. My name scrawled in delicate gold foil on boxes I didn’t ask for. Lingerie so delicate it might vanish if you breathed too hard. Dresses that slide like sin over skin.
And in the corner, a desk. With a brand-new laptop locked in a case I couldn’t crack without explosives.
The temptation mocked me all day. But what really fucked with me? The message taped to the screen in Dante’s perfect handwriting.
Earn this.
I’m still burning from it when he steps into the marble-floored foyer. And adding to the pile of things I hate? I can’t stop myself from devouring him.
Dark suit. Dark shirt. No tie. Coat slung over one mile-wide-linebacker shoulder. Black hair tousled from wind and probably some high-powered criminal meeting with people on my shit list.
He looks at me like I’m already on my knees. I stand taller because fuck that.
“Pacing suits you,” he murmurs. “Like a lioness in heat.”
“Screw you,” I snap even while flames dance beneath my skin because he’s confirmed there are cameras in here. And he’s been watching me.
He smiles.Fuck, I hate when he does that.
“Strip,” he says casually, walking past me into the living room.
My breath catches, my pussy melts and my nipples sting. “What?”
“You heard me.” He sets down his keys, loosens his cuffs. “Clothes off. All of them.”
I cross my arms. “No.”
He turns to face me. Not angry. Not threatening. Justexpectant. “This isn’t about sex, Dahlia,” he says softly. “It’s about trust.”