The second I walked through the door, the air shifted. He was sitting on the couch like some unbothered villain in a noir film—glass of whiskey in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to cause problems. His eyes were already on me. Watching.
Not blinking.
I felt it before I even saw him. That stare. It burned. Not in a sexy way. In a “this is the last calm breath before a storm” way.
But you know me—I didn’t flinch.
I walked in oozing confidence and s*x appeal. My heels echoed against the marble, hair bouncing with every step. Lipstick still intact. My jacket flung effortlessly over the couch. I was a walking, talking nuisance.
“Where were you until this hour?” he asked. Not calmly. Not concerned. Just… demanding.
I arched a brow. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew,” I replied, grabbing my
