"You're staring, little one."
I jump, heat flooding my cheeks. He didn't even turn to see me looking.
"Sorry," I mumble, twisting my fingers in my lap.
He turns then, those dark eyes pinning me to the seat. "Don't apologize for looking at me. I like your eyes on me."
The bluntness makes me blush harder. I've never met anyone who speaks so directly, who takes what they want without apology or hesitation.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid. I need to break it before I combust.
"I thought it was just…dinner." The confession tumbles out in a whisper. "Talking. I didn't know..."
My voice trails off. I can't even say it out loud. Can't admit how naive I was.
He shifts, angling his body toward me, those eyes never leaving my face. "You thought what, Clara?"
The way he says my name—like he's tasting it, savoring it—sends a shiver down my spine.
"The foundation coordinator said it was a chance to network with potential donors. Share my art. Just conversation over dinner." I swallow hard, looking down at my hands. "I didn't know they were…that they wanted..."
"To fuck you," he finishes, his voice so low and rough it makes something clench deep in my belly.
I gasp at the crude word, eyes flying to his. Most men try to soften their language around me, treating me like some delicate flower that might wilt at a curse word. Not Sabien. He speaks his truth, raw and unfiltered.
"Yes," I whisper. "I didn't know that's what they were bidding for."
His eyes darken. "You were trusting, little one. Sweet. Innocent." His hand moves, slowly enough that I could pull away if I wanted to. I don't. It lands on my bare thigh, just below thehem of my dress. Heavy. Warm. Possessive. "That's why I had to win you."
That touch. God, that touch. It burns through my skin, sending liquid heat straight to my core. I've had boyfriends before—sweet college boys with fumbling hands and uncertain kisses. Nothing like this. Nothing like the confident claim of his palm on my flesh, the way his thumb traces small circles that make my breath catch.
"You don't even know me," I echo my words from outside the venue, but they sound weak even to my own ears.
"I know enough." His hand slides up just half an inch, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. "I know you're an art student. I know you're kind enough to auction yourself for charity without understanding what you were offering. I know you blush beautifully." His thumb brushes higher, and I do blush, right on cue. "And I know that no one else in that room deserved to touch you."
"And you do?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He shakes his head. “No.”
One word. So much conviction. My thighs clench involuntarily, and his eyes flick down, noticing. Of course he notices.
“But you want me to,” he says. Not a question.
I should deny it. Should slap his hand away and demand to be taken home. Instead, I find myself nodding, a tiny admission that changes everything.
His big hand slides to my inner thigh, a breath away from where I'm suddenly aching. A shiver races straight to my core. I've never felt this safe—or this turned on. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
"Tell me to stop," he challenges, his voice husky.
I open my mouth, but the words don't come. I don't want him to stop. I want more. Want things I've never wanted before, never even imagined wanting.
The most powerful man alive is looking at me like I'm his whole world, and God help me, I want to be. I want to be everything to this dangerous, beautiful man who saved me tonight.
"I can't," I finally whisper.
His pupils dilate, nostrils flaring slightly. His hand tightens on my thigh, just shy of painful, just enough to make me gasp.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise washes over me like warm honey.