God help me, I wanted more.
Because Rachel wasn’t just a woman I wanted in fleeting moments. She was a storm I wanted to chase, a risk I wanted to take, a fire I wanted to burn with. No matter how far she pushed, no matter how many continents she crossed, no matter how fiercely she tried to protect herself, I would always find my way back to her.
Dinner, I told myself, is just dinner. But every glance, every word, every spark between us screamed otherwise. And I wasn’t leaving this city, this table, or this woman without staking my claim.
I watched her across the table, a soft glow from the candle catching in her hair, and I felt the familiar tug, the one that had haunted me for months. She didn’t just occupy space—she filled it to the brim. Every look, every sigh, every jab was a spark, and I was all but helpless to resist.
“So,” I said, leaning back, letting my eyes travel over her like I had every time before, “you really think you can sit across from me and pretend to not notice me?”
“I notice plenty,” she said, voice flat yet still warm with amusement, “and none of it is particularly flattering for you.”
I smirked, undeterred. “None of it flattering? Flash, I’m insulted. I thought you enjoyed me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Enjoying you is different from thinking you’re impressive. For the record, I’m not impressed by… whatever that is you’re trying to pull right now.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering my voice to something intimate and teasing. “You’re impossible.” It was her phrase and I loved the way her nostrils flared when I turned it back on her. “And you know it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, mock-innocent. “I’m just… cautious. Patient. Completely immune to men who think flattery works.”
I laughed, my amusement real. Everything about her slid under my defenses even as she poked me with a stick. “Immune, huh? Funny. Because last time I checked, you weren’t immune.”
She froze for the tiniest fraction of a second, then shot me a warning glance. “That was different,” she said softly, trying to reclaim control. “We?—”
“We had a moment?” I interrupted gently, leaning closer, letting the words hang in the space between us. “We’ve had alotof moments. I remember each one clearly. You do, too.”
She pursed her lips, a storm of emotions flickering behind her eyes. “I remember,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean?—”
“That doesn’t mean you’re going to let me leave you alone?” I finished for her, smirk curling the corner of my mouth. “Because that’s exactly why I’m here.”
Her laugh was sharp, teasing, but there was a surge of something darker behind it, something that betrayed the tension she was holding in check. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Me? Quit?” I leaned back slightly, arms spread, a mock display of surrender. “Flash, do you think I’d leave? After everything? Do you think that after the first time, I’d let distance or caution or…whatever this is that makes you run, stop me?”
Her gaze hardened, eyes flashing with defiance. “Maybe I do,” she said, voice low, dangerous. “Maybe I like being able to control things for once. Maybe I like knowing you can’t just show up and?—”
“Control?” I interrupted softly, leaning in, voice deliberate, deadly gentle. “Do you honestly think that’s possible with me? You’re a challenge, Rachel. That’s why I keep coming back for more.”
Her breath hitched, barely perceptible, but it was there. Her hands gripped the table. “You’re infuriating,” she whispered.
“And you?” I leaned closer, matching her intensity. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could make me feel like I’m losing every bit of control…without even touching me.”
She swallowed, blinking fast, hiding a shiver she couldn’t quite hide. “You’re lucky this is Paris, or I’d be kicking you out right now.”
I grinned, that damn confident, infuriating grin. “Well, if that’s the case, then you’re lucky I don’t care. Lucky for both of us, actually.”
The waiter approached, interrupting us with a polite murmur, but I barely noticed. I was focused entirely on her—the subtle flare of her nostrils, the way her lips pressed together when she tried to maintain composure, the way her eyes betrayed curiosity and heat she refused to acknowledge. The sound of the softness of her dress as it shifted around her legs each time she uncrossed and recrossed them.
Dinner was our current battlefield, and every bite, every sip, every smile, every glance was another round. I wasn’t leaving the table without my victory, however long it took.
Because Rachel wasn’t easy. She wasn’t meant to be easy. And that was exactly why I couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away.
I felt the moment she started to brace.
It was subtle—the way her shoulders squared, the way her eyes sharpened like she expected another strike. She thought I was going to push again. She thought I was going to keep circling the same fire.
So I didn’t.
I took a sip of my wine, let the silence stretch just long enough to reset the room, and then I changed lanes completely.
