Chapter 989: Before

The

cocktail

was lethal. Her pupils were so dilated she looked like she’d mainlined espresso and lust in equal measure.

"You—"

she started, voice pitched low enough to make nearby wine glasses nervous.

"Careful," I cut in, dropping my tone to velvet-wrapped razor-blade territory. "Whatever filthy thing you’re about to spit at me, remember I control your network’s biggest exclusive. One call and your little empire gets the kind of public headache that requires two Advil and a career counselor."

Of course, she just smiled at my stupid tease... gods, she’s so cute.

"I hate you."

"No you don’t."

"I actively hate you."

I let my gaze slide south like it had a VIP pass. "Your

nipples

are so hard they’re currently trying to unionize against that dress, Sable. Is that because you hate me?"

She looked down—pure reflex—then snapped her eyes back to mine so fast the flush detonated across her face like someone lit a match under her cheekbones.

Throat worked. Swallow audible.

The kind of swallow that says

"my dignity just filed for unemployment."

I stepped in.

Close enough that our chests brushed and she had to tilt her head back like I was the sun and she was a very angry, very turned-on flower.

Leaned down until my

lips ghosted

the shell of her ear—half kiss, half warm psychological warfare.

"I’m still taming you,"

I whispered, dragging my lips slow across the curve of her earlobe just to feel the full-body shiver hit her like she’d been tased by Cupid’s evil twin. "I won’t be hiding that anymore. So... be a good girl, Sable. And

I’ll take you

apart properly."

My hand moved—

casual, inevitable, like gravity but hornier

—found the obscene,

cartoon-perfect

curve of her ass

.

Squeezed.

Jesus Christ on a jet ski.

It was criminal: bubbly, full, round, firm enough to bounce a quarter off but soft enough to make my fingers disappear like they owed it money.

The dress might as well have been cellophane; every millimeter of

plush flesh

fought back against my grip, pushing into my palm like it was personally offended I wasn’t squeezing harder.

I

kneaded

once—

slow, possessive

—felt the cheek fill my hand, spill between my fingers, then snap back taut when I eased up just enough to be a dick about it.

Then I

slapped

it... a full, open-palm, felony-level crack that rang off the glass walls like someone fired a starter pistol in HR.

The dress snapped tight across the impact zone, then fluttered as the flesh underneath rippled in thick,

pornographic

waves—cheek wobbling outward, then recoiling inward with a

hypnotic

little tremor that rolled up her hip and down her thigh like a slow-motion earthquake in lingerie.

She gasped—sharp, punched-out sound—like I’d just stolen the oxygen from the room and replaced it with pure sin.

Her knees dipped half an inch before she caught herself, furious at her

traitor body

for doing the electric slide without permission this soon when I hadn’t even done anything.

Heat bloomed instantly under my palm; I could feel the sting blooming through the fabric, turning into that deep, throbbing warmth she was going to pretend she hated for at least another forty-five seconds.

I squeezed again—harder—fingers sinking into the still-quivering meat, kneading the fresh burn away in slow, filthy circles. Muscle twitched under my grip like her ass was actively arguing with me: flex, yield, push back, repeat.

Another

low sound leaked out of her—

half moan, half death threat

—before she bit it down like it personally insulted her.

Her hand was still locked around mine.

Hadn’t let go once.

Not through my Oscar-worthy ethics monologue, not through the

ghost-kiss,

not through the slap that probably just updated her LinkedIn headline to "Recently Owned."

That white-knuckled, trembling grip was screaming louder than any safe word ever could.

I glanced at the door. At her—flushed to hell, breathing like she’d run a marathon in stilettos, nipples staging a prison break, ass still pulsing under my palm like it had its own heartbeat.

At the desk where I’d already turned her into a crime scene once. Back at her—eyes blazing, daring me, begging me, threatening to sue me, all at once.

My women and an actual goddess were expecting me home. An entire continent about to get my name tattooed on its collective subconscious.

And Sable Rivera—literal sister of the Empress—standing here with

diamond-hard nipples

, a glowing red handprint probably visible from space under that dress, and fingers still wrapped around mine like she’d rather snap every bone in my hand than let me leave without finishing what I started.

Nope.

Can’t leave yet.

The ass doesn’t lie, and neither does that

death-grip.

Nope.

Her fingers stayed locked around mine—white-knuckled, shaking like she was holding onto the last shred of her dignity while the rest of her screamed

just fucking take me already

.

Her chest rose and fell in jagged, desperate bursts; that cream silk dress was basically shrink-wrapped now, stretched so tight it looked like it was auditioning for a bondage film.

Every inhale made the fabric snap against those stiff, aching nipples—

two little traitors

stabbing outward like they were personally offended I hadn’t sucked them yet.

The fresh red handprint I’d painted on her ass throbbed hot under my palm—skin flushed, tingling, a pulsing neon sign that said

you did this, asshole, now finish it

.

She kept shifting, thighs squeezing together like she could trap the wet ache between them and smuggle it out of the building undetected.

Cute. Futile

.

I tightened my grip on her hand and

yanked

her forward—slow, mean, inevitable—until her body crashed into mine like a car wreck in slow motion.

Her free hand flew to my chest, nails sinking through my shirt like she wanted to claw her way inside me and live there. Her breath hit my throat in hot little pants—jasmine, sweat, and that sharp, metallic edge of pure, dripping arousal that makes your brain short-circuit.

No more monologues. No more teasing.

Game over.