Chapter 166
Chapter 167
VENUS
Dinner tasted like victory.
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Not the food-though Rosemary’s laugh carried over the clink of silverware and Colton’s quiet smirk proved he’d been just as entertained watching the board collapse earlier. No, what I savored was the electricity crackling between Aaron and me all evening.
Every time I glanced at Rosemary, her eyes twinkled like she knew something I wasn’t saying aloud. She’d sip her wine, arch a brow, and let her gaze dart between Aaron and me like she was stitching threads only she could see. And I couldn’t help myself. I’d smile back, conspiratorial, letting her in on the secret without speaking a word.
Aaron never mentioned it. He didn’t need to. The way his hand rested firm on my thigh beneath the table, his thumb tracing idle, devastating circles into my skin, told me everything about what was waiting once we left.
When dessert came, he pushed his untouched plate aside, eyes cutting to me with the weight of a command wrapped in the softness of a question: Ready?
I was. God, I was.
The penthouse glowed when we walked in, city lights scattering diamonds across the glass walls. Aaron disappeared into the bedroom to shed his suit and shower, unfastening his cufflinks with the same slow deliberation he wielded everywhere else, an unspoken promise in each movement.
I, meanwhile, became a whirlwind of whispers and suppressed giggles. A woman on a mission.
I darted into the walk-in closet, heart hammering like a drumline beneath my ribs. From a hidden drawer, I retrieved the items I’d bought weeks ago on a reckless whim….. Or was it?
A black lace thong, so insubstantial it was nearly nothing. A matching garter belt, all delicate straps and teasing hardware. Sheer stockings, whisper-soft. And the pièce de résistance: stilettos-lethally high, designed to turn legs into endless lines and posture into power.
I laid them out on the velvet bench like sacred artifacts.
Next came the ambiance. The shower still roared, steady and oblivious, while I lit every scented candle I could find-sandalwood, amber, a hint of vanilla-until the air thickened with fragrance and the room flickered alive in golden flame. Then I scattered crimson rose petals across the black silk duvet, bold color against darkness, a bed transformed into promise.
Time for the transformation.
I let my dress slip to the floor in a whisper of fabric. Rolled the stockings carefully up my thighs, fastening the garter clips with a soft click that seemed thunderous in the hush. The thong slid into place, a whisper of lace, and then the heels. When I stood, taller now, sharper, I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror:
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not the same woman who’d walked in from dinner, but something shadow and flame, seduction and defiance.
The shower cut off.
My breath hitched. Showtime.
I dimmed the main lights, leaving only candlefire to battle the dark, then positioned myself at the foot of the bed-back to the bathroom door, hand on my hip, a red petal twirling between my fingers.
The bathroom door opened with a sigh of steam.
Silence.
I felt his gaze before I saw it, dragging down my spine, tracing the arch of my hip, lingering on the endless stretch of legs framed by black silk and steel.
Slowly, deliberately, I turned my head.
Aaron stood frozen in the doorway, towel slung low, droplets running over muscle carved from war. His hair, damp and tousled, clung to his forehead. And his eyes-sharp, dark, devouring-held nothing of the polished general. This was the predator, stripped of patience, gazing at his prize.
A smirk curled at my lips. I dropped the petal.
And I moved.
The striptease wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t about rushing to the end. It was a slow-burn unveiling, a ceremony of control, performed for an audience of one.
I began with my hair, pulling out the pin. Waves tumbled down my back. My fingers slid through the strands, tilting my head, baring my throat. I sighed softly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
Facing him now, I let my hands trail up my sides-hips to ribs, palms grazing the lace over my breasts, cupping lightly before I arched into the touch. My eyes fluttered closed for a heartbeat. Not shy- commanding. Consuming. Daring him to keep watching.
My fingers drifted down again, hooking into the thong’s waistband. Slowly, I rocked my hips side to side, drawing the moment out before sliding the lace down my thighs. I bent-exaggerated, deliberate-eyes never leaving his as I stepped out, one foot, then the other. The scrap of fabric dangled in my hand before I let it drop to the floor like an offering.
His chest rose and fell faster, the towel pulled taut.
Next came the garter. Turning away, I shot him a glance over my shoulder-a look thick with invitation- before unclipping each strap. The sound was a quiet ritual: right clasp, then left. The belt slid down my hips and legs until it pooled at my feet, abandoned.
Now only stockings and heels adorned me, lace framing what candlelight revealed.
I turned back, meeting his stare. My hands found the clasp of my bra, I held there, teasing, until the air itself seemed to tighten. Then-click. The clasp came loose. I held it to my chest a moment, fingers drifting slowly
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Chapter 167
down my sternum, then let the fabric fall, sliding away, joining the pile at my feet.
I stood bare before him-black stockings, stiletto heels, skin gilded in firelight, unashamed, unstoppable.
Not just Venus in name. Venus in truth.
That was the exact moment Aaron Sinclair broke.
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The moment the bra slid from my fingers, I saw it-his restraint fracturing.
Aaron had been carved of control all evening, every look, every touch beneath the tablecloth honed, measured. But now? That last veil dropped and so did his patience. His hands tightened on the doorframe like he needed the anchor, but it was useless. He was already moving.
A blur of muscle, heat, command.
The towel hit the floor without a sound.
And then he was on me. Not gentle. Not savage. Something worse-something better. It was inevitability. The way a storm breaks after hours of electric air, sudden, overwhelming, impossible to stop.
He crossed the room in three strides, the candlelight catching in his eyes-dark, burning, endless. My pulse thundered, but I didn’t back away. I couldn’t.
I had lured the predator, and now he came to collect.
His hand caught my wrist before I could even think of another tease. Not harsh, but unyielding. His grip said enough games. His gaze said mine. And my knees nearly buckled at the force of it.
The air between us burned hotter than the candles, heavy with everything unspoken. His chest rose and fell, his breath quick and ragged, and for a heartbeat he didn’t kiss me, didn’t touch me anywhere else. He just looked. As if memorizing the woman who had dared to unravel him piece by piece.
And then
He broke.
The kiss wasn’t tender. It wasn’t meant to be. It was a claim, hard and consuming, all hunger and fire and the promise of ruin. His hand slid to my jaw, tilting me up, and every inch of me answered with a surrender that wasn’t weakness but recognition: predator meets predator, fire meets flame.
The last thought in my head before the world dissolved into him was simple, undeniable, searing as truth itself:
I had won-by letting him take.
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Ruby Walker
Ruby Walker is a rising voice in the world of romance and spicy fiction. With a gift for weaving deep emotions, sizzling chemistry, and unexpected twists, her stories are a blend of passion and drama that captivate readers from start to finish. Ruby’s writing style is bold and irresistible—perfect for those who crave intense, addictive love stories.