The gala shimmered with a cold kind of elegance-the kind money dripped into until even the chandeliers looked smug.

Selene Hartley stood near the edge of the ballroom, a crystal flute of champagne balanced in her fingers, though she hadn't touched a drop. Her body-hugging black gown skimmed the floor, cinched just right to highlight her waist, dipping low enough at the back to be sinful. Her thick chestnut hair was pulled into a deliberately loose knot at her nape, with a few strands left to frame her striking face-a face meant for secrets and silence. Velvet lashes, high cheekbones, and full, restrained lips that rarely smiled for anyone.

She didn't want to be here. She never did. But her boss had insisted.

"Networking," he'd said. "This room is gold for your career."

And so here she was. The invisible queen behind the event, mingling with people who didn't know she'd orchestrated every second of their evening.

Selene let her gaze sweep the crowd with professional detachment-until he walked in.

Damien Alarin didn't enter a room. He claimed it.

Tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped perfection in a bespoke midnight-blue suit that did obscene things to his silhouette. His tie was undone just enough to whisper rebellion, his dark hair tousled like he'd just run his fingers through it in frustration-or passion. His jawline looked like it had been carved by gods with too much time. And his eyes? Sharp, lazy, amused. The color of storm clouds caught in sunlight. Women turned when he passed. Men watched warily.

Selene blinked and looked away. Then felt a prickle at the back of her neck.

He was staring.

Not politely. Not covertly. Like he wanted to figure out what she tasted like.

He crossed the room like it bored him. Like gravity obeyed him alone. When he stopped in front of her, he didn't say hello. He looked her over-slowly, unapologetically.

"Who are you hiding from, gorgeous?"

Selene arched one perfectly shaped brow. "Anyone who opens with that line."

He laughed-a low, deep sound that slid into her spine like silk. "Good. I hate easy."

"Well, you've certainly made that clear by choosing to talk to me."

"I like a woman who bites."

"And I like a man who walks away after hearing the word no."

"Is that what you're saying to me?"

Her lips curved, just barely. "If I were, you'd already be gone."

Damien tilted his head gleaming. "Clever and beautiful. You're dangerously close to becoming my new obsession."

"Obsessions are for people who can't get what they want."

He leaned in slightly, close enough that she caught the scent of him-expensive cologne, a trace of something darker. "And what if I always get what I want?"

Her gaze didn't flinch. "Then I feel sorry for you. Where's the fun in that?"

Their silence crackled.

Damien offered his hand, slowly. "Damien Alarin."

She didn't take it right away. "Selene Hartley."

He grinned. "Selene," he repeated like a prayer. "It suits you. Dangerous. Beautiful. Possibly fatal."

She smirked. "You forgot unattainable."

"Not yet," he said. "But I'm a fast learner."

The air between them tightened. Her skin buzzed. His stare dropped-once-to the neckline of her dress, then back up to her eyes like he wanted to memorize her reaction.

Selene tilted her head. "You always this forward?"

"Only when something stops me in my tracks. You... stopped me, Selene."

It was reckless, stupid, tempting. But something in her twisted with interest she hadn't felt in a long time.

"I don't do flings," she said lightly.

"I do," Damien said. "But I have a feeling one night with you wouldn't feel casual."

She laughed, dry but intrigued. "You're assuming you'd get more than one night."

"I'm hoping for at least one."

A beat.

Selene leaned in-just enough to make his breath hitch. "Then don't hope," she whispered, voice like velvet. "Ask."

Damien's eyes darkened, his hand slipping into his pocket with that cocky confidence of someone who already knew the answer.

"Would you come with me?"

"Where to?"

"My place."

"And what's there?"

"A bed. A lock on the door. And me."

Her lips twitched. "I like a man with a plan."

He didn't touch her. Didn't need to. The heat between them was already unbearable.

She took one slow sip of champagne. Then passed him the half-full glass.

"I hate champagne," she said.

He took it from her, lips brushing the rim.

"I'll make sure the night tastes better."

The night air outside the gala was a relief-cool, crisp, a contrast to the heat still simmering between them. Selene wasn't sure how she ended up in Damien's car. One minute, his breath had grazed her ear with a sinful offer; the next, her heels clicked against pavement as a sleek black Aston Martin pulled up beside them.

He opened the passenger door without a word, his eyes saying everything else.

"Do you always assume women will come with you after saying three clever things and looking sinfully good in a tux?" she asked, arching a brow but sliding into the leather seat anyway.

He shut the door behind her. Walked around. Got in.

"I only assume it when they look at me like they want to devour me," Damien replied, voice velvet-dark, one hand already on the gearshift. "You've been doing that since the moment I bumped into you."

"You bumped into me because you weren't watching where you were going."

"I was watching you. Which turned out to be worth the bruised shoulder."

Selene gave a reluctant laugh, turning her face toward the window to hide her smile. He drove like he spoke-calm, confident, a quiet kind of arrogance that came naturally. The city blurred by in pools of gold and black, but inside the car, it was all sharp glances and breathing that grew shallower with every mile.

"You always this smooth?" she asked.

He smirked. "You always this difficult?"

"Only with men who think they've already won."

Damien's hand left the wheel and brushed her knee, just lightly, just enough to make her breath catch. "Who said I think I've won? I'm just enjoying the game."

The tension snapped tighter.

By the time they reached his building-an architectural masterpiece of steel and glass-Selene was flushed from more than the wine. Damien didn't rush her inside. He placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her with maddening patience, eyes roaming her like art.

The elevator was too small. Or maybe the heat between them just made it feel that way.

"Your dress," he murmured, gaze locked on her profile. "It's been driving me insane all night."

"Funny," Selene said, turning to face him, "I wore it to be ignored."

"Impossible."

The elevator chimed. They walked into his apartment without ceremony but with purpose, and the moment the door shut behind them, it happened.

She turned. He reached. They collided.

Mouths clashed, hungry and unrestrained. His jacket hit the floor. Her clutch dropped from her hand, forgotten. Damien pressed her back against the wall, lifting her just slightly so he could sink into the kiss properly-fully. Selene's hands clawed at his shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric to find skin and muscle and heat.

"You taste like trouble," he growled against her lips.

"And you taste expensive," she whispered back, tugging at his belt with wicked precision.

The journey to the bedroom was a blur-mouths never parting for more than a gasp, fingers undoing buttons and zippers with desperate skill. They reached the bed laughing breathlessly, wrapped in silk and lust and something sharper beneath it.

And when Damien lowered her onto the mattress, there was nothing but reverence in his eyes.

"Selene," he said, voice rough. "You're the most dangerously beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She pulled him down by the tie, smirking. "Then ruin me properly, Alarin."

What followed wasn't rushed. It was decadent. Slow. Intoxicating. Every touch lingered, every kiss memorized. Damien learned her body like a language he was born to speak-kissing, tasting, teasing. Selene gave as good as she got, her hands and mouth worshipping every inch of him like she was addicted to his scent, his heat, his sound.

They didn't just fall into bed. They crashed-two people who should have hated each other, somehow finding heaven in shared destruction.

And when she cried out his name, her voice raw with pleasure, Damien followed with a groan that shook the walls.

The gala shimmered with a cold kind of elegance-the kind money dripped into until even the chandeliers looked smug.

Selene Hartley stood near the edge of the ballroom, a crystal flute of champagne balanced in her fingers, though she hadn't touched a drop. Her body-hugging black gown skimmed the floor, cinched just right to highlight her waist, dipping low enough at the back to be sinful. Her thick chestnut hair was pulled into a deliberately loose knot at her nape, with a few strands left to frame her striking face-a face meant for secrets and silence. Velvet lashes, high cheekbones, and full, restrained lips that rarely smiled for anyone.

She didn't want to be here. She never did. But her boss had insisted.

"Networking," he'd said. "This room is gold for your career."

And so here she was. The invisible queen behind the event, mingling with people who didn't know she'd orchestrated every second of their evening.

Selene let her gaze sweep the crowd with professional detachment-until he walked in.

Damien Alarin didn't enter a room. He claimed it.

Tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped perfection in a bespoke midnight-blue suit that did obscene things to his silhouette. His tie was undone just enough to whisper rebellion, his dark hair tousled like he'd just run his fingers through it in frustration-or passion. His jawline looked like it had been carved by gods with too much time. And his eyes? Sharp, lazy, amused. The color of storm clouds caught in sunlight. Women turned when he passed. Men watched warily.

Selene blinked and looked away. Then felt a prickle at the back of her neck.

He was staring.

Not politely. Not covertly. Like he wanted to figure out what she tasted like.

He crossed the room like it bored him. Like gravity obeyed him alone. When he stopped in front of her, he didn't say hello. He looked her over-slowly, unapologetically.

"Who are you hiding from, gorgeous?"

Selene arched one perfectly shaped brow. "Anyone who opens with that line."

He laughed-a low, deep sound that slid into her spine like silk. "Good. I hate easy."

"Well, you've certainly made that clear by choosing to talk to me."

"I like a woman who bites."

"And I like a man who walks away after hearing the word no."

"Is that what you're saying to me?"

Her lips curved, just barely. "If I were, you'd already be gone."

Damien tilted his head gleaming. "Clever and beautiful. You're dangerously close to becoming my new obsession."

"Obsessions are for people who can't get what they want."

He leaned in slightly, close enough that she caught the scent of him-expensive cologne, a trace of something darker. "And what if I always get what I want?"

Her gaze didn't flinch. "Then I feel sorry for you. Where's the fun in that?"

Their silence crackled.

Damien offered his hand, slowly. "Damien Alarin."

She didn't take it right away. "Selene Hartley."

He grinned. "Selene," he repeated like a prayer. "It suits you. Dangerous. Beautiful. Possibly fatal."

She smirked. "You forgot unattainable."

"Not yet," he said. "But I'm a fast learner."

The air between them tightened. Her skin buzzed. His stare dropped-once-to the neckline of her dress, then back up to her eyes like he wanted to memorize her reaction.

Selene tilted her head. "You always this forward?"

"Only when something stops me in my tracks. You... stopped me, Selene."

It was reckless, stupid, tempting. But something in her twisted with interest she hadn't felt in a long time.

"I don't do flings," she said lightly.

"I do," Damien said. "But I have a feeling one night with you wouldn't feel casual."

She laughed, dry but intrigued. "You're assuming you'd get more than one night."

"I'm hoping for at least one."

A beat.

Selene leaned in-just enough to make his breath hitch. "Then don't hope," she whispered, voice like velvet. "Ask."

Damien's eyes darkened, his hand slipping into his pocket with that cocky confidence of someone who already knew the answer.

"Would you come with me?"

"Where to?"

"My place."

"And what's there?"

"A bed. A lock on the door. And me."

Her lips twitched. "I like a man with a plan."

He didn't touch her. Didn't need to. The heat between them was already unbearable.

She took one slow sip of champagne. Then passed him the half-full glass.

"I hate champagne," she said.

He took it from her, lips brushing the rim.

"I'll make sure the night tastes better."

The night air outside the gala was a relief-cool, crisp, a contrast to the heat still simmering between them. Selene wasn't sure how she ended up in Damien's car. One minute, his breath had grazed her ear with a sinful offer; the next, her heels clicked against pavement as a sleek black Aston Martin pulled up beside them.

He opened the passenger door without a word, his eyes saying everything else.

"Do you always assume women will come with you after saying three clever things and looking sinfully good in a tux?" she asked, arching a brow but sliding into the leather seat anyway.

He shut the door behind her. Walked around. Got in.

"I only assume it when they look at me like they want to devour me," Damien replied, voice velvet-dark, one hand already on the gearshift. "You've been doing that since the moment I bumped into you."

"You bumped into me because you weren't watching where you were going."

"I was watching you. Which turned out to be worth the bruised shoulder."

Selene gave a reluctant laugh, turning her face toward the window to hide her smile. He drove like he spoke-calm, confident, a quiet kind of arrogance that came naturally. The city blurred by in pools of gold and black, but inside the car, it was all sharp glances and breathing that grew shallower with every mile.

"You always this smooth?" she asked.

He smirked. "You always this difficult?"

"Only with men who think they've already won."

Damien's hand left the wheel and brushed her knee, just lightly, just enough to make her breath catch. "Who said I think I've won? I'm just enjoying the game."

The tension snapped tighter.

By the time they reached his building-an architectural masterpiece of steel and glass-Selene was flushed from more than the wine. Damien didn't rush her inside. He placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her with maddening patience, eyes roaming her like art.

The elevator was too small. Or maybe the heat between them just made it feel that way.

"Your dress," he murmured, gaze locked on her profile. "It's been driving me insane all night."

"Funny," Selene said, turning to face him, "I wore it to be ignored."

"Impossible."

The elevator chimed. They walked into his apartment without ceremony but with purpose, and the moment the door shut behind them, it happened.

She turned. He reached. They collided.

Mouths clashed, hungry and unrestrained. His jacket hit the floor. Her clutch dropped from her hand, forgotten. Damien pressed her back against the wall, lifting her just slightly so he could sink into the kiss properly-fully. Selene's hands clawed at his shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric to find skin and muscle and heat.

"You taste like trouble," he growled against her lips.

"And you taste expensive," she whispered back, tugging at his belt with wicked precision.

The journey to the bedroom was a blur-mouths never parting for more than a gasp, fingers undoing buttons and zippers with desperate skill. They reached the bed laughing breathlessly, wrapped in silk and lust and something sharper beneath it.

And when Damien lowered her onto the mattress, there was nothing but reverence in his eyes.

"Selene," he said, voice rough. "You're the most dangerously beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She pulled him down by the tie, smirking. "Then ruin me properly, Alarin."

What followed wasn't rushed. It was decadent. Slow. Intoxicating. Every touch lingered, every kiss memorized. Damien learned her body like a language he was born to speak-kissing, tasting, teasing. Selene gave as good as she got, her hands and mouth worshipping every inch of him like she was addicted to his scent, his heat, his sound.

They didn't just fall into bed. They crashed-two people who should have hated each other, somehow finding heaven in shared destruction.

And when she cried out his name, her voice raw with pleasure, Damien followed with a groan that shook the walls.

The gala shimmered with a cold kind of elegance-the kind money dripped into until even the chandeliers looked smug.

Selene Hartley stood near the edge of the ballroom, a crystal flute of champagne balanced in her fingers, though she hadn't touched a drop. Her body-hugging black gown skimmed the floor, cinched just right to highlight her waist, dipping low enough at the back to be sinful. Her thick chestnut hair was pulled into a deliberately loose knot at her nape, with a few strands left to frame her striking face-a face meant for secrets and silence. Velvet lashes, high cheekbones, and full, restrained lips that rarely smiled for anyone.

She didn't want to be here. She never did. But her boss had insisted.

"Networking," he'd said. "This room is gold for your career."

And so here she was. The invisible queen behind the event, mingling with people who didn't know she'd orchestrated every second of their evening.

Selene let her gaze sweep the crowd with professional detachment-until he walked in.

Damien Alarin didn't enter a room. He claimed it.

Tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped perfection in a bespoke midnight-blue suit that did obscene things to his silhouette. His tie was undone just enough to whisper rebellion, his dark hair tousled like he'd just run his fingers through it in frustration-or passion. His jawline looked like it had been carved by gods with too much time. And his eyes? Sharp, lazy, amused. The color of storm clouds caught in sunlight. Women turned when he passed. Men watched warily.

Selene blinked and looked away. Then felt a prickle at the back of her neck.

He was staring.

Not politely. Not covertly. Like he wanted to figure out what she tasted like.

He crossed the room like it bored him. Like gravity obeyed him alone. When he stopped in front of her, he didn't say hello. He looked her over-slowly, unapologetically.

"Who are you hiding from, gorgeous?"

Selene arched one perfectly shaped brow. "Anyone who opens with that line."

He laughed-a low, deep sound that slid into her spine like silk. "Good. I hate easy."

"Well, you've certainly made that clear by choosing to talk to me."

"I like a woman who bites."

"And I like a man who walks away after hearing the word no."

"Is that what you're saying to me?"

Her lips curved, just barely. "If I were, you'd already be gone."

Damien tilted his head gleaming. "Clever and beautiful. You're dangerously close to becoming my new obsession."

"Obsessions are for people who can't get what they want."

He leaned in slightly, close enough that she caught the scent of him-expensive cologne, a trace of something darker. "And what if I always get what I want?"

Her gaze didn't flinch. "Then I feel sorry for you. Where's the fun in that?"

Their silence crackled.

Damien offered his hand, slowly. "Damien Alarin."

She didn't take it right away. "Selene Hartley."

He grinned. "Selene," he repeated like a prayer. "It suits you. Dangerous. Beautiful. Possibly fatal."

She smirked. "You forgot unattainable."

"Not yet," he said. "But I'm a fast learner."

The air between them tightened. Her skin buzzed. His stare dropped-once-to the neckline of her dress, then back up to her eyes like he wanted to memorize her reaction.

Selene tilted her head. "You always this forward?"

"Only when something stops me in my tracks. You... stopped me, Selene."

It was reckless, stupid, tempting. But something in her twisted with interest she hadn't felt in a long time.

"I don't do flings," she said lightly.

"I do," Damien said. "But I have a feeling one night with you wouldn't feel casual."

She laughed, dry but intrigued. "You're assuming you'd get more than one night."

"I'm hoping for at least one."

A beat.

Selene leaned in-just enough to make his breath hitch. "Then don't hope," she whispered, voice like velvet. "Ask."

Damien's eyes darkened, his hand slipping into his pocket with that cocky confidence of someone who already knew the answer.

"Would you come with me?"

"Where to?"

"My place."

"And what's there?"

"A bed. A lock on the door. And me."

Her lips twitched. "I like a man with a plan."

He didn't touch her. Didn't need to. The heat between them was already unbearable.

She took one slow sip of champagne. Then passed him the half-full glass.

"I hate champagne," she said.

He took it from her, lips brushing the rim.

"I'll make sure the night tastes better."

The night air outside the gala was a relief-cool, crisp, a contrast to the heat still simmering between them. Selene wasn't sure how she ended up in Damien's car. One minute, his breath had grazed her ear with a sinful offer; the next, her heels clicked against pavement as a sleek black Aston Martin pulled up beside them.

He opened the passenger door without a word, his eyes saying everything else.

"Do you always assume women will come with you after saying three clever things and looking sinfully good in a tux?" she asked, arching a brow but sliding into the leather seat anyway.

He shut the door behind her. Walked around. Got in.

"I only assume it when they look at me like they want to devour me," Damien replied, voice velvet-dark, one hand already on the gearshift. "You've been doing that since the moment I bumped into you."

"You bumped into me because you weren't watching where you were going."

"I was watching you. Which turned out to be worth the bruised shoulder."

Selene gave a reluctant laugh, turning her face toward the window to hide her smile. He drove like he spoke-calm, confident, a quiet kind of arrogance that came naturally. The city blurred by in pools of gold and black, but inside the car, it was all sharp glances and breathing that grew shallower with every mile.

"You always this smooth?" she asked.

He smirked. "You always this difficult?"

"Only with men who think they've already won."

Damien's hand left the wheel and brushed her knee, just lightly, just enough to make her breath catch. "Who said I think I've won? I'm just enjoying the game."

The tension snapped tighter.

By the time they reached his building-an architectural masterpiece of steel and glass-Selene was flushed from more than the wine. Damien didn't rush her inside. He placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her with maddening patience, eyes roaming her like art.

The elevator was too small. Or maybe the heat between them just made it feel that way.

"Your dress," he murmured, gaze locked on her profile. "It's been driving me insane all night."

"Funny," Selene said, turning to face him, "I wore it to be ignored."

"Impossible."

The elevator chimed. They walked into his apartment without ceremony but with purpose, and the moment the door shut behind them, it happened.

She turned. He reached. They collided.

Mouths clashed, hungry and unrestrained. His jacket hit the floor. Her clutch dropped from her hand, forgotten. Damien pressed her back against the wall, lifting her just slightly so he could sink into the kiss properly-fully. Selene's hands clawed at his shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric to find skin and muscle and heat.

"You taste like trouble," he growled against her lips.

"And you taste expensive," she whispered back, tugging at his belt with wicked precision.

The journey to the bedroom was a blur-mouths never parting for more than a gasp, fingers undoing buttons and zippers with desperate skill. They reached the bed laughing breathlessly, wrapped in silk and lust and something sharper beneath it.

And when Damien lowered her onto the mattress, there was nothing but reverence in his eyes.

"Selene," he said, voice rough. "You're the most dangerously beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She pulled him down by the tie, smirking. "Then ruin me properly, Alarin."

What followed wasn't rushed. It was decadent. Slow. Intoxicating. Every touch lingered, every kiss memorized. Damien learned her body like a language he was born to speak-kissing, tasting, teasing. Selene gave as good as she got, her hands and mouth worshipping every inch of him like she was addicted to his scent, his heat, his sound.

They didn't just fall into bed. They crashed-two people who should have hated each other, somehow finding heaven in shared destruction.

And when she cried out his name, her voice raw with pleasure, Damien followed with a groan that shook the walls.

The gala shimmered with a cold kind of elegance-the kind money dripped into until even the chandeliers looked smug.

Selene Hartley stood near the edge of the ballroom, a crystal flute of champagne balanced in her fingers, though she hadn't touched a drop. Her body-hugging black gown skimmed the floor, cinched just right to highlight her waist, dipping low enough at the back to be sinful. Her thick chestnut hair was pulled into a deliberately loose knot at her nape, with a few strands left to frame her striking face-a face meant for secrets and silence. Velvet lashes, high cheekbones, and full, restrained lips that rarely smiled for anyone.

She didn't want to be here. She never did. But her boss had insisted.

"Networking," he'd said. "This room is gold for your career."

And so here she was. The invisible queen behind the event, mingling with people who didn't know she'd orchestrated every second of their evening.

Selene let her gaze sweep the crowd with professional detachment-until he walked in.

Damien Alarin didn't enter a room. He claimed it.

Tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped perfection in a bespoke midnight-blue suit that did obscene things to his silhouette. His tie was undone just enough to whisper rebellion, his dark hair tousled like he'd just run his fingers through it in frustration-or passion. His jawline looked like it had been carved by gods with too much time. And his eyes? Sharp, lazy, amused. The color of storm clouds caught in sunlight. Women turned when he passed. Men watched warily.

Selene blinked and looked away. Then felt a prickle at the back of her neck.

He was staring.

Not politely. Not covertly. Like he wanted to figure out what she tasted like.

He crossed the room like it bored him. Like gravity obeyed him alone. When he stopped in front of her, he didn't say hello. He looked her over-slowly, unapologetically.

"Who are you hiding from, gorgeous?"

Selene arched one perfectly shaped brow. "Anyone who opens with that line."

He laughed-a low, deep sound that slid into her spine like silk. "Good. I hate easy."

"Well, you've certainly made that clear by choosing to talk to me."

"I like a woman who bites."

"And I like a man who walks away after hearing the word no."

"Is that what you're saying to me?"

Her lips curved, just barely. "If I were, you'd already be gone."

Damien tilted his head gleaming. "Clever and beautiful. You're dangerously close to becoming my new obsession."

"Obsessions are for people who can't get what they want."

He leaned in slightly, close enough that she caught the scent of him-expensive cologne, a trace of something darker. "And what if I always get what I want?"

Her gaze didn't flinch. "Then I feel sorry for you. Where's the fun in that?"

Their silence crackled.

Damien offered his hand, slowly. "Damien Alarin."

She didn't take it right away. "Selene Hartley."

He grinned. "Selene," he repeated like a prayer. "It suits you. Dangerous. Beautiful. Possibly fatal."

She smirked. "You forgot unattainable."

"Not yet," he said. "But I'm a fast learner."

The air between them tightened. Her skin buzzed. His stare dropped-once-to the neckline of her dress, then back up to her eyes like he wanted to memorize her reaction.

Selene tilted her head. "You always this forward?"

"Only when something stops me in my tracks. You... stopped me, Selene."

It was reckless, stupid, tempting. But something in her twisted with interest she hadn't felt in a long time.

"I don't do flings," she said lightly.

"I do," Damien said. "But I have a feeling one night with you wouldn't feel casual."

She laughed, dry but intrigued. "You're assuming you'd get more than one night."

"I'm hoping for at least one."

A beat.

Selene leaned in-just enough to make his breath hitch. "Then don't hope," she whispered, voice like velvet. "Ask."

Damien's eyes darkened, his hand slipping into his pocket with that cocky confidence of someone who already knew the answer.

"Would you come with me?"

"Where to?"

"My place."

"And what's there?"

"A bed. A lock on the door. And me."

Her lips twitched. "I like a man with a plan."

He didn't touch her. Didn't need to. The heat between them was already unbearable.

She took one slow sip of champagne. Then passed him the half-full glass.

"I hate champagne," she said.

He took it from her, lips brushing the rim.

"I'll make sure the night tastes better."

The night air outside the gala was a relief-cool, crisp, a contrast to the heat still simmering between them. Selene wasn't sure how she ended up in Damien's car. One minute, his breath had grazed her ear with a sinful offer; the next, her heels clicked against pavement as a sleek black Aston Martin pulled up beside them.

He opened the passenger door without a word, his eyes saying everything else.

"Do you always assume women will come with you after saying three clever things and looking sinfully good in a tux?" she asked, arching a brow but sliding into the leather seat anyway.

He shut the door behind her. Walked around. Got in.

"I only assume it when they look at me like they want to devour me," Damien replied, voice velvet-dark, one hand already on the gearshift. "You've been doing that since the moment I bumped into you."

"You bumped into me because you weren't watching where you were going."

"I was watching you. Which turned out to be worth the bruised shoulder."

Selene gave a reluctant laugh, turning her face toward the window to hide her smile. He drove like he spoke-calm, confident, a quiet kind of arrogance that came naturally. The city blurred by in pools of gold and black, but inside the car, it was all sharp glances and breathing that grew shallower with every mile.

"You always this smooth?" she asked.

He smirked. "You always this difficult?"

"Only with men who think they've already won."

Damien's hand left the wheel and brushed her knee, just lightly, just enough to make her breath catch. "Who said I think I've won? I'm just enjoying the game."

The tension snapped tighter.

By the time they reached his building-an architectural masterpiece of steel and glass-Selene was flushed from more than the wine. Damien didn't rush her inside. He placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her with maddening patience, eyes roaming her like art.

The elevator was too small. Or maybe the heat between them just made it feel that way.

"Your dress," he murmured, gaze locked on her profile. "It's been driving me insane all night."

"Funny," Selene said, turning to face him, "I wore it to be ignored."

"Impossible."

The elevator chimed. They walked into his apartment without ceremony but with purpose, and the moment the door shut behind them, it happened.

She turned. He reached. They collided.

Mouths clashed, hungry and unrestrained. His jacket hit the floor. Her clutch dropped from her hand, forgotten. Damien pressed her back against the wall, lifting her just slightly so he could sink into the kiss properly-fully. Selene's hands clawed at his shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric to find skin and muscle and heat.

"You taste like trouble," he growled against her lips.

"And you taste expensive," she whispered back, tugging at his belt with wicked precision.

The journey to the bedroom was a blur-mouths never parting for more than a gasp, fingers undoing buttons and zippers with desperate skill. They reached the bed laughing breathlessly, wrapped in silk and lust and something sharper beneath it.

And when Damien lowered her onto the mattress, there was nothing but reverence in his eyes.

"Selene," he said, voice rough. "You're the most dangerously beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She pulled him down by the tie, smirking. "Then ruin me properly, Alarin."

What followed wasn't rushed. It was decadent. Slow. Intoxicating. Every touch lingered, every kiss memorized. Damien learned her body like a language he was born to speak-kissing, tasting, teasing. Selene gave as good as she got, her hands and mouth worshipping every inch of him like she was addicted to his scent, his heat, his sound.

They didn't just fall into bed. They crashed-two people who should have hated each other, somehow finding heaven in shared destruction.

And when she cried out his name, her voice raw with pleasure, Damien followed with a groan that shook the walls.