The restaurant Dominic chose was the kind of place without a sign. No menu out front. No noise. Just a valet who opened her car door like she was royalty and whispered, "Mr. Raine is already inside."
Of course he was.
Arielle stepped out in a fitted black dress—mid-thigh, long sleeves, with a low, square neckline that balanced boldness with elegance. Her heels were high enough to command attention, and her lips were painted a shade that said, Don't test me. Worship me.
She was ready for war.
But not for him.
Dominic was seated in the private room—dimly lit, the cityscape glittering behind him through floor-to-ceiling glass. He didn't wear a tie tonight. His shirt was dark, open at the collar, and the watch on his wrist glinted under the low light.
He looked up slowly when she entered, and for a moment—just a moment—his eyes slid down her figure.
Not like a man who was hungry.
Like a man who was deciding what kind of fire she was.
She sat down across from him, matching his cool stare. "Dinner. Not an interrogation. Right?"
His lips twitched. "That depends on your answers."
Wine was poured. Food arrived—perfectly plated, likely Michelin-starred. She barely tasted it. Because all she could feel was the heat crackling across the table.
"You handled the boardroom well," he said, sipping his wine.
"Is that your version of a compliment?"
"It's my version of respect."
She tilted her head. "And here I thought you didn't respect anyone."
"I don't," he said, eyes fixed on her. "Until they make me."
Her breath caught. Just a little.
The wine glass paused at her lips. "You're not nearly as cold as you pretend to be."
"You're not nearly as untouchable as you want to be."
The silence between them stretched. Taut. Electric.
Then she leaned forward, voice lower. "You like control. Don't you?"
His expression didn't change, but something in his gaze darkened.
"And you like testing it."
She smiled. "Guilty."
He leaned in too, elbows on the table, his voice a low drawl. "Be careful, Arielle. You might like what happens when you lose."
Their faces were inches apart.
The air shimmered between them.
If one of them moved just slightly—
The server returned.
The tension snapped.
They both leaned back at the same time, as if remembering where they were.
As if that had been nothing.
But they both knew better.
Because when Dominic stood and held out her coat, his fingers brushed her shoulder—and she shivered.
And when he whispered close to her ear as they stepped outside—"I don't play games, Arielle. I win them."—her knees nearly buckled in those very expensive heels.
She didn't sleep that night.
Not because she was restless.
But because for the first time in a long time…
She wanted to be caught.
Arielle wasn't sure if it was the wine, the city lights, or the way Dominic's voice had wrapped around her like silk dipped in steel—but she hadn't been able to shake the feel of him all night.
So when she arrived at the office early the next morning, something inside her was already strung too tight.
And Dominic noticed.
He didn't look up from his laptop when she stepped into his office—he didn't need to. His voice sliced through the air like he'd been expecting her.
"You're early."
"Trying to impress you," she said lightly.
"You already did." He closed his laptop with a soft click and finally looked at her. "The question is whether you can handle what comes next."
The way he said it…
It wasn't about work. And they both knew it.
She walked toward his desk, slowly. "You keep talking like you're going to break me."
He stood. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
"I don't break things, Arielle," he said, stepping around the desk. "I bend them until they learn where they belong."
Her breath hitched.
She didn't step back.
When he reached her, she tilted her chin up. "I don't belong to anyone."
He stared down at her. "Not yet."
Silence thickened.
She could feel it—the warning, the promise. The storm behind his restraint.
"You're arrogant," she whispered, pulse thundering.
"You're reckless," he countered, voice deep and even.
"Maybe I want to see what happens when you lose control."
He laughed softly—low and dark.
"You don't."
His hand came up—not to touch her skin, but to brush a strand of her hair back, his fingers ghosting over her cheek like heat without fire.
"You play with fire," he murmured, "but you have no idea what it means to burn."
Then he stepped back.
And just like that, the temperature dropped.
"I have meetings all day," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "There's a file on your desk. Prepare it. I'll quiz you tonight."
"You're leaving me like this?" she asked, blinking.
He gave her a slow, dangerous smile.
"You started it, Miss Sinclair."
He was halfway to the door when she called out, "Dominic."
He paused.
She didn't know why she said it. She just needed to. Needed him to turn back. Needed something.
He did.
But instead of speaking, he let his eyes rake over her—slow, deliberate, claiming her without a single touch.
And then he said, almost cruelly tender:
"I'm not done with you."
The door closed behind him.
And Arielle stood there, shaking.
Not from fear.
But from the sharp, wicked ache of knowing—
This was only the beginning.
The clock struck 8 p.m. sharp, and Arielle was already seated in Dominic Raine's private conference room.
She didn't wait for him to call her in.
She claimed the long table like a queen on her throne—legs crossed, tablet in hand, and a cherry lollipop between her lips like she had better things to do than be quizzed like a naughty schoolgirl.
Dominic entered without a word.
Black shirt. No tie. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. The kind of look that made respectable thoughts feel like lies.
"You're early," he said.
She twirled the lollipop with her tongue and gave a shrug. "Thought I'd give you time to catch up."
He raised a brow but didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he walked behind her, slow and quiet, his presence brushing against her spine like a dare.
"Ready for your quiz?"
"I was born ready."
He came around to her side, leaned in, and plucked the lollipop straight out of her mouth—dropping it into a tissue with surgical precision.
"No distractions," he said, voice smooth but hard.
Arielle blinked, then tilted her head. "You always this controlling? Or is it just me who brings out the obsessive streak?"
"I'm not obsessive," he said. "I'm exact."
He placed the tablet in front of her. "Ten questions. Get one wrong, and we start over."
She smirked. "You mean you'll punish me?"
His eyes snapped to hers. She'd said it to tease.
But the tension that bloomed in the air told her it had landed deeper.
"Start," he said, low.
She answered the first three questions with ease, tossing them back like shots of tequila.
But by the fifth, his presence at her shoulder grew distracting. Overbearing. Intimate.
She leaned back, exasperated. "Why are you hovering like I'm going to cheat?"
"Because you would," he replied without missing a beat.
She scoffed. "You think so little of me."
"I think exactly what you want me to think," he said, stepping in front of her now. "Arielle Sinclair. Spoiled. Sharp-tongued. And just clever enough to be dangerous."
Her eyes narrowed. "And you? The big bad boss who hides behind rules because he's afraid of wanting something he can't control?"
His jaw ticked.
Silence fell again—heavy and electric.
Then he leaned in. Hands planted on the table. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—earthy, clean, and maddeningly male.
"I do want something, Arielle," he said, voice a quiet threat. "But the difference between you and me?"
"I don't chase."
She leaned forward too, until there was nothing between their lips but a dare.
"Maybe I want to be caught," she whispered.
And then she stood up so fast her chair scraped back.
She walked past him with a sway in her hips and a smirk on her lips, stopping only at the doorway.
"Quiz me again tomorrow," she said over her shoulder. "Let's see if you can stay in control twice."
And then she was gone.
Leaving him staring after her.
Fists clenched.
Pulse pounding.
And knowing—deep in his bones—
He was losing this game.