Page 42 of Shadow Waltz

I leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Why do you think Luka keeps me close?” I let the question drip into the space between us, a slow, poisonous challenge. “Because I know how to make powerful men forget which one of us is really in control.”

He chuckled, but I could feel the tension in his body—the way his breath stuttered, the way his thigh pressed harder against mine.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he whispered.

I drew back, meeting his eyes. “Only if you don’t know how to win.” I let my hand trail down his arm, a feather-light caress, then stopped just above his belt. “Do you want to keep playing, or are you ready to fold?”

He licked his lips, gaze dropping to the open line of my shirt. “You want to see how far I’ll go?” His hand tightened on my thigh. “Test me.”

“Why don’t you show me?” I said, voice steel wrapped in silk.

He moved, fast and smooth—a man used to taking what he wanted. But I caught his wrist, squeezing just enough to remind him that I wasn’t here to be taken.

“Not yet,” I murmured, holding his gaze. “You don’t get to touch until I say so.”

He smiled, but there was a challenge there—a silent dare. “And what if I take anyway?”

I leaned in until our mouths almost touched. “Then you lose everything you came here for. And I promise, Luka will make sure you regret it.”

We hovered there, suspended in the moment, the world outside the room forgotten. I could feel his breath, warm and rapid, the thrum of tension vibrating between us. For a second,I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes—hesitation, or maybe just respect.

He eased back, surrendering an inch. “You’re good,” he said, sounding almost admiring. “I don’t meet many who can keep up.”

“I don’t plan on letting you down.” I let my hand slide away, leaving him wanting, and finished with the next button, exposing the hollow at the base of my throat.

His gaze was hungry, but he didn’t reach for me again. Instead, he smoothed his jacket and shifted, as if trying to regain control of his own body.

“You’re wasted here, Ash. You could have so much more.”

I let out a low laugh, genuine this time. “Funny. That’s exactly what Luka said.”

He gave me a look—a flash of something vulnerable, quickly masked. “You’re both wrong. Luka’s afraid of losing what he can’t own. I’m offering you power.”

I almost laughed, but before I could answer, Mehta surged forward—control snapped, patience shattered, hunger finally winning out. His hand caught my jaw, rougher than I’d expected, and his mouth crashed onto mine, lips hot and greedy, swallowing the last of my caution.

My first instinct was to push him away. Instead, I kissed back, just as hard, just as hungry—meeting force with force. My mind raced, mapping the room, calculating the distance between us and the knife hidden beneath the edge of my jacket. He wanted power; I’d give him a taste, but only as much as I chose.

Mehta’s mouth was all heat and teeth, his stubble scraping my chin as he angled for dominance. I let him take, let him taste, but every move I made was deliberate—one hand threading through his hair, the other gripping his bicep tight enough to bruise. I guided his body away from the knife’s hiding place, shifting us so his hips pressed mine up against the edge of thetable. He never noticed. He was lost in the press and pull, in the fire building between us.

He nipped my lower lip, tongue sliding over the sting, and I responded with a soft, mocking growl—an answer and a challenge. His hands wandered, one palming the back of my neck, the other splayed wide at my waist. Every touch was hungry, searching, impatient. I felt the tension in his grip—the way he wanted to claim, to take, to leave marks for others to see.

I broke the kiss, just long enough to meet his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, breath ragged. “Losing control, Mr. Mehta?” I asked, voice a dangerous purr.

He grinned, wild and unrepentant. “With you? Maybe for the first time in years.”

I kissed him again, harder this time, teeth scraping, tongue invading, making it clear I was just as capable of taking as being taken. My fingers slid up to his jaw, nails biting the fine line of his beard. He moaned into my mouth—low, surprised, nearly broken by the violence of it.

He tasted like expensive whiskey and intent—dark, complicated, hungry. His hands traveled up my chest, fingers splaying over the exposed skin at my collar, thumb brushing the tattoo Luka once traced in candlelight. I arched into his touch, letting the heat coil low in my belly, letting him feel my want—but not giving him all of it. Never that.

His grip tightened as he pressed closer, bodies flush, erection digging into my hip.

Mehta’s lips found my throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. I tilted my head, letting him, even as my hand ghosted toward the knife, making sure it stayed out of his reach.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my skin, voice thick and desperate.

I slid my hand from his jaw to the back of his neck, tugging him closer. “I don’t want you to stop. Not yet.”

He groaned, the sound muffled against my throat, and his hands wandered lower, tracing the ridge of my belt, the curve of my ass. I ground against him, meeting pressure with pressure, letting him feel every inch of my body—every shuddering breath, every ragged heartbeat.