Chapter 5

The air in the private booth of *The Velvet Note* was thick, heavy with the scent of expensive cognac, aged leather, and the lingering, musky aroma of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, sharper, like ozone before a storm. The jazz band was playing something slow, a mournful saxophone solo that seemed to weave directly into the tightness between my legs, but I couldn’t hear the music. I could only hear the ragged edge of my own breathing and the low, rumbling hum of his voice as he watched me. We had slipped away from the main floor an hour ago, claiming a reserved corner that felt more like a sanctuary. The dim lighting cast long, predatory shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the way his dark eyes tracked every micro-expression of mine. He hadn’t touched me yet, not really. Just the brush of his knee against mine under the small table, the deliberate slowness of his movements, the way he sipped his drink like he had all the time in the world to unravel me. But the tension was a live wire, humming, waiting to snap. He set his glass down with a soft