GAME OF SEDUCTION

OBSESSION

The air inside VIP Booth Four turned impossibly thick, electric with a tension that pulled at every nerve in my body.

Vixen didn't pull back. Instead, a slow, intoxicating smile spread across her red lips. She shifted smoothly on the leather sofa, her crimson silk dress rustling as she closed the small distance between us.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached out. Her long, manicured fingers brushed the edge of my jawline, trailing a path of fire down my neck, over the crisp collar of my open dress shirt, and across my chest. My breath caught in my throat as her hand traced lower, resting lightly against my thigh.

The subtle, sweet scent of wild cherry blossom hit me like a physical wave—overwhelming, precise, and completely maddening.

"You think too much, Mr. Lockwood," she murmured, her voice a sultry purr.

She leaned up, her dark eyes holding mine captive, and brushed her lips softly against my cheek before lingering just a millimeter from my mouth. The static between us was deafening. My hand instinctively rose to capture her waist, wanting to anchor her there, to pull answers directly from her lips—

"Vixen!"

The sudden, sharp whisper from outside the booth snapped the wire. Marcus pulled the velvet curtain back an inch, his face pale and urgent. "Backstage. Now. It's an emergency call."

Vixen froze for a fraction of a second, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, genuine spike of alarm before her cool mask swept right back into place. She slipped back out of my reach, her touch vanishing so fast it left my skin cold.

"Duty calls, Mr. Lockwood," she whispered, giving me one last lingering, enigmatic look before slipping past the curtain and disappearing into the dark corridor.

A minute later, another dancer stepped through the velvet drapes, swaying her hips with an overly dramatic, eager smile. "Hey there, big spender. Mind if I—"

"Leave," I snapped, my voice sharp, cold, and laced with pure irritation.

The girl blinked, startled, and backed away immediately. The atmosphere was ruined. The air felt flat, the music suddenly too loud, and the scotch tasted bitter. I stood up, buttoned my jacket, and walked out into the cool night air, unable to shake the lingering warmth of her fingers on my neck.

Meanwhile, backstage, Camila tossed her wig onto the vanity and stripped off her heels in a frantic blur. She shoved her phone against her ear, pulling on her oversized denim jacket and sneakers while listening to her trembling eight-year-old brother on the line.

"Camila... please come home," Mason whimpered, his tiny voice cracking over the speaker. "She's throwing everything away. She said... she said I'm a burden like Dad was."

"I'm on my way, Mason. Stand by the front door and don't say a word to her. I'm coming."

Camila sprinted out the back exit of the lounge, taking the alley steps two at a time. Fifteen minutes later, her cab slammed its brakes outside her apartment complex.

Her stepmother, wearing a sharp coat and a sneer, was standing on the porch next to three trash bags filled with small clothes and toy trucks. Mason was curled into a small ball on the top step, silently crying into his knees.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Camila demanded, marching up the stairs and placing herself directly between Mason and the woman.

"I am done," her stepmother spat, rolling her eyes as she checked her manicured nails. "Your father left nothing but debts, and I am not wasting another cent raising his useless kid. He's a burden, Camila. Just like his father was. Honestly, he'd be better off if he just disappeared—or died like your dad did."

Cold, white-hot fury roared through Camila's veins. "Touch him again, or say another word about my father, and I swear to God I will ruin you."

"Take him then," her stepmother sneered, tossing a small backpack at Camila's feet. "He's your problem now."

As her stepmother walked down the driveway and drove off, Camila dropped to her knees, pulling Mason into a tight, fierce hug. "I've got you, buddy. You're staying with me from now on. Nobody is ever talking to you like that again."

Back in his penthouse, Liam stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Houston.

He couldn't sleep. The insomnia was still there, but now it was fed by something far more dangerous: an obsession.

He raised his right hand, staring at his palm, still feeling the phantom trace of her fingers sliding along his jaw, traveling down his neck, resting on his thigh. He could still taste the air she breathed, still smell the sharp, impossible sweetness of wild cherry blossoms.

Who are you, Vixen? he thought, his jaw tightening as he replayed every second of her touch over and over in his head. And why do I feel like I've already met you?