Ophelia stepped out of the car, the cool night air brushing against her skin as the driver closed the door and disappeared into the darkness.
Well, she had planned to drive down here only for her to meet his driver outside of her apartment waiting for her.
She stood for a long moment outside Tristan’s luxurious penthouse, smoothing nervous hands down the plain black gown she had chosen.
It felt like an act of defiance giving her the reminder to herself that she still had some control, even if it felt like slipping away with every encounter.
Her heart hammered as she entered the penthouse.
She couldn’t help but wonder how many more mansions he has.
The lights were dimmed, casting a warm, golden glow over the expansive living room.
Tristan was already there, lounging on the wide leather sofa like a king on his throne.
He wore a simple black singlet that clung to his powerful torso, the thin fabric stretched taut over broad shoulders and defined pectorals.
Grey shorts rode low on his hips, revealing long, muscular legs stretched out casually.
His laptop rested on one thick thigh, the screen’s soft light illuminating the angles of his face, strong jaw, high cheekbones, and those piercing grey eyes that always seemed to see straight through her.
For the first time, Ophelia allowed herself to truly look at him.
He was devastatingly handsome.
The kind of beauty that made breath catch and knees weaken.
When he shifted slightly, the singlet rode up, exposing a perfect eight-pack that flexed with each subtle movement.
His tousled dark hair looked like he’d run his fingers through it after a long day, and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw only added to the raw, masculine allure.
Heat crept up her neck as memories flooded her the way that same body had pinned her down, the way he had stretched and filled her so completely that morning on her couch.
This was the man who had made her moan and shatter in his arms.
“Good evening, Tristan,” she greeted quietly, her voice steadier than she felt.
He looked up slowly, pulling one earpod from his ear.
His gaze raked over her from head to toe, lingering on the conservative lines of her gown with a faint, knowing smirk.
“Wow… you actually follow time,” he said, his deep voice carrying that familiar edge of arrogance laced with something warmer tonight.
Ophelia rolled her eyes, moving closer despite the flutter in her stomach.
“Why am I here?”
Tristan closed his laptop and set it aside, nodding toward the elegantly set dining area.
“Guess you might not have eaten properly. I made dinner.”
She turned, surprised.
The table was beautifully arranged candles flickering softly, crystal glasses gleaming.
The aroma was warm, savory, and inviting, wrapping around her like an embrace.
“The heck… I don’t…” she started.
“I don’t take no for an answer,” Tristan cut her off calmly, rising from the sofa with fluid grace.
“Fine…” she muttered, walking to the table and sitting down.
She picked up her fork, poking at the food half-heartedly.
“You know I ate before coming here, right?”
Tristan approached, each step slow.
Ophelia couldn’t stop staring.
The way his muscles shifted under the thin singlet, the confident stride, the masculine energy radiating from him it made her throat go dry.
Heat pooled low in her belly, unbidden and undeniable.
He stopped right beside her chair.
“If you don’t want dinner,” he murmured, voice dropping to a husky timbre, “then I should have mine.”
Before she could respond, Tristan leaned down, picked up her fork, and speared a piece of tender salmon.
He brought it to his mouth, chewing slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
Then he reached for the glass of water, took a measured sip, and licked a stray drop from his lower lip in a way that was unintentionally yet devastatingly sinful.
The entire act felt incredibly intimate, charged with tension, like a prelude to something far more heated.
Ophelia’s pulse quickened, her breath shallow.
The candlelight danced across his features, highlighting the intensity in his grey eyes as they locked onto hers.
Suddenly, Tristan pulled her chair closer with one strong hand, cupped the back of her neck possessively, and kissed her.
The kiss was deep, hungry, and utterly possessive.
His mouth claimed hers, tongue sweeping in to taste her, stroking and teasing until she melted.
Ophelia couldn’t push him away.
She kissed him back just as fiercely, breathless and needy, her hands fisting the front of his singlet, feeling the hard heat of his chest beneath her palms.
His free hand slid under the hem of her gown, fingers tracing a slow, burning path up her smooth thigh.
Higher and higher, until they brushed the lace edge of her panties.
“Don’t wear anything under anytime you come to my penthouse,” he said, voice rough with desire, lips brushing hers as he spoke.
“I want easy access to what’s mine.”
Ophelia shivered, cheeks burning.
“What…”
“You signed the contract. I make the rules.” His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, sending sparks straight to her core.
She swallowed hard and nodded, the submissive gesture making her both ashamed and strangely aroused.
“Good girl,” Tristan murmured, the praise sending a fresh wave of heat through her.
He straightened, towering over her.
“Now strip.”
She stared at him, heart racing.
“What? Won’t you at least thank me for helping you this morning?”
Tristan smirked, shaking his head slowly, eyes darkening with lust.
“I got you promoted. So do what I want.”
Ophelia stood up slowly on trembling legs, fingers reaching for the zipper of her gown despite the whirlwind of emotions, anger, shame, and a deep, throbbing want.
But Tristan raised a hand to stop her.
“I changed my mind.”
“What?”
His gaze burned into her, commanding and intense.
“Touch yourself. In front of me. Right here.”
“Wh…what?” Ophelia yelped, her cheeks flaming crimson.
“You are going to do it,” he said casually, though his voice was thick with arousal, “or face the compensation clause.” He shrugged, but the heat in his eyes betrayed how much he wanted this.
“Suit yourself, woman.”
He turned and began walking toward the living room, leaving her standing there beside the candlelit table stunned, burning with a confusing storm of anger, humiliation, and unwanted, desperate arousal.
The scent of dinner still lingered in the air, mixing with the electric tension between them.
Ophelia’s body betrayed her, already aching, already wet at the thought of performing for him under his watchful, hungry gaze.
She hesitated only a moment before her feet carried her after him.
“Wait..”