The car slows, pulling up to a restaurant I've never seen before. Something exclusive and elegant, with a discreet entrance and no sign.
Sabien removes his hand from my thigh, and I nearly whimper at the loss. He leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Don’t worry, Clara. This is just beginning."
As he helps me from the car, his hand on the small of my back, I know I'm crossing a threshold I can never return from. Walking into a world I don't understand, with a man who awakens things in me I never knew existed.
And I don't want to turn back.
four
. . .
Sabien
The restaurant's empty.Of course it is. One call from the car and the owner cleared the entire back section. That's what happens when you're Sabien Wolfe. People scramble to please you, to avoid your wrath. The private booth is intimate, dark leather and candlelight. Clara slides in across from me, looking like a goddamn angel in that white dress, my black jacket still draped over her shoulders.Mine.The possessiveness doesn't fade—it grows, a living thing in my chest, clawing for more.
"This is beautiful," she whispers, eyes wide as she takes in the chandeliers, the original artwork, the crystal and silver on the tables. "I've never been anywhere like this."
Of course she hasn't. She's been surviving on charity work and probably ramen noodles. The thought of her struggling, of anyone looking down on her, makes my jaw clench.
"Order anything you want," I tell her, not bothering with menus. The chef will make whatever we ask for. "What do you like to eat?"
She bites her lower lip, a gesture so innocent and yet so fucking erotic I have to shift in my seat. "I'm not picky. Anything is fine."
I wave the hovering waitstaff over, order a selection of the chef's specialties and an expensive bottle of wine. Clara watches me, studying my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. I wonder what she sees. The monster most people fear? Or something else?
When the waiter leaves, she relaxes slightly, her shoulders dropping. "Thank you again for what you did tonight. The arts program would have closed without that donation."
"I don't give a fuck about the arts program." The bluntness makes her blink. "I did it for you."
Her cheeks flush that delicious pink again. "Why? You don't even know me."
"I'm getting to know you now." I lean forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me about your art."
The question transforms her. She lights up like someone flipped a switch inside her, eyes suddenly bright, hands animating her words. She talks about her paintings—abstract expressionism, whatever the fuck that means—and how she uses color to convey emotion. How she wants to create spaces within her canvases where people feel seen, understood. How she's working on a series about urban isolation despite connection.
She's so passionate, so genuine. Not a hint of the artifice I'm used to from women who want something from me. Clara just…burns. Bright and pure and real.
"Sorry," she says suddenly, stopping mid-sentence. "I'm rambling."
"Don't apologize." I mean it. "I like watching you talk about what you love."
The wine arrives. I watch as she takes a sip, her delicate throat working as she swallows. I imagine those lips wrappedaround my cock, that throat bulging as I thrust deep. My balls tighten painfully.
"What about you?" she asks. "What do you love?"
Money. Power. Control. The standard answers. But looking at her earnest expression, I find myself saying, "I build things. Companies. Empires. I take what's broken and make it work, or I tear it down completely and build something better in its place."
"That's creation too," she says thoughtfully. "Just a different kind."
No one's ever looked at what I do that way. Most people see destruction, ruthlessness. She sees creation.
The food arrives—small plates of exquisite preparations. Clara's eyes widen at each new dish. She eats with unrestrained pleasure, making little sounds of appreciation that go straight to my cock. When she closes her eyes to savor a bite of seared scallop, I nearly groan out loud.
"This is amazing," she says, licking a drop of sauce from her lip. She has no idea what she's doing to me. No fucking clue how close I am to vaulting over this table and taking her right here.
My cock throbs under the table imagining spreading her on this white tablecloth, licking her until she screams, then breeding her right here while she begs Daddy for more. The filthy images flood my mind as she sits there, innocent and sweet, talking about her dreams of a small studio where she can teach children's art classes.
She's too good for this world. Too good for anyone but me.