I should step back. Instead, my gaze catches on the hollow of his throat, the constellation of beauty marks beneath his jaw—ones nobody else gets close enough to see. Sweat glistens there, and something dangerous unfurls inside me.
I imagine tracing that line.
He spins me, his hand a whisper at the small of my back and pulls me back in with just enough force to steal my breath. It’s the same precision he wields in the training room—measured, intentional, but with something wilder simmering underneath.
I want to drown in him.
It terrifies me how much I want him when I’ve spent years training myself not to want anything off-script. I calculate the distance between us, not to maintain it but to erase it.
His grip tightens on my hips, lingering a beat too long. And I smile—real and reckless—as another flash goes off to our left.
“Think we’ve given them enough?” My eyes hold his, asking a different question entirely.
“What, are you bored of me already?” he asks.
“Of you, never. But maybe, if we got what we needed, we could go…somewhere else. Somewhere private.” The boldness in my suggestion surprises me but I keep playing the part.
Dante leads the way as I trail behind him. He moves with the same fluid grace he shows in everything—effortless but purposeful, creating a path where there seems to be none. We reach a secluded corner in the VIP section, hidden from view. I press against the wall.
“All I did was brag a little and have a shot in public. But why does it feel so good?” I say.
“Technically, you shared your achievements, and you should be fucking proud of them,” he teases, and I swat at his muscled chest. “And if feels good because you’re showing everyone Reese Sinclair can cut loose.”
He moves closer, measuring the space between us—not touching but radiating heat. His arm plants beside my head. I catalog everything about him: the callus on his thumb from years of fencing, those absurdly long eyelashes, and the way he holds something back, like he’s saving himself.
“The cameras won’t see us here,” I acknowledge. Even in the dim light, his eyes hold a comfort I’ve never found anywhere else. The careful restraint in them makes me want to tip forward into the space between us, to see what happens when his control breaks.
“That means we’re just Reese and Dante now,” he says, and something in me shatters quietly.
I don’t wait to kiss him. I’ve waited too long already.
I don’t overthink it—everything else in my life has been overthought.
The kiss starts as a question before it turns into a statement, a paragraph, a full essay. His jaw rakes against my skin as I press closer, clutching his velvet suit jacket like it’s tethering me to reality. When he deepens the kiss, a small, embarrassing sound escapes me—half surprise, half relief, like scratching an itch I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
His hands move with the precision he brings to everything, mapping my body like territory he intends to claim. And in that moment, I realize I’ve never felt more myself than I do when I’m with him.
“Dante,” I whisper, his name catching in my throat as my body ignites.
“Yeah?” He makes a half-hearted attempt to create distance between us, though his palms still press gently into my waist.
“We want them to speculate, not confirm,” I remind him quietly, trying to summon responsibility. But my fingertips betray me, already tracing the hard lines of his chest beneath velvet.
“Right,” he says, scanning the room with practiced discretion, but my eyes have already found our salvation—the VIP bathroom door standing ajar, an invitation I know I should decline.
The old Reese would never consider pulling a man into a bathroom at a party. The old Reese calculated outcomes, measured risks, avoided headlines.
But something changed in that boardroom.
Something in me woke up.
The door clicks shut behind us with a finality that sends a tantalizing shiver down my spine. Dante lifts me onto the cool marble vanity with an effortlessness that makes my stomach flip.
Am I really doing this?
A knock at the door startles me, but Dante smirks against my neck, finding that spot below my ear that makes me forget how to breathe. The forbidden nature of it all—the risk, the secrecy—only intensifies everything, reminding me of the armory when nobody was watching.
“Excuse me?” a voice says from outside. The handle jiggles. “Is someone in there?”
