The Billionaire Asset

2: Ava

"In here," Lucas commanded, his eyes never leaving mine.

He turned and led the way into a private conference room. It was a glass box hanging over the city, suspended in the sky. A massive mahogany table sat in the center, but the room felt small because he was in it. Lucas walked to the head of the table but didn't sit. He waited for me, watching the way my skirt moved as I walked, his eyes tracing the line of my hips with a focus that made my skin itch with desire.

"I'll be brief, Ava," he said. My name sounded like a secret on his tongue. "I don't like outsiders digging through my books, and I don't like people telling me how to run my empire."

"Then you shouldn't have let your board hire a specialist," I replied, stepping closer to him until only the corner of the table stood between us. I could feel the radiator-like warmth coming off him, making the air-conditioned room feel like a furnace. "I'm not here to be your friend, and I'm certainly not here to be another one of your assets. I'm here to ensure this deal goes through."

Lucas stepped around the table. He moved with the fluid, silent grace of a big cat. He stopped right in front of me, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

"I like your fire," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a rasp that made my thighs press together instinctively. He reached out, his hand hovering near my face for a second as if he wanted to touch me, to see if I was as hot to the touch as I looked. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest.

"But be careful," he continued, his eyes darkening. "Fire has a habit of getting out of control. And I’m the only one who knows how to put you out."

The arrogance of it should have made me angry, but all I felt was a sharp, stabbing ache of want. The tension between us was so thick I could almost taste it—a mix of expensive scotch and raw, unrefined lust.

"I've never been afraid of the heat," I whispered back.

His gaze dropped to my lips, and for a long, agonizing moment, the world stopped. I could see the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his jaw tightened as he fought whatever impulse was screaming at him to bridge the few inches between us.

Then, as if to prove he was still the one in control, he extended his hand for a formal greeting. It was a move designed to reset the boundaries, but it backfired the moment we made contact.

I reached out to take his hand.

The moment our skin touched, it was like a fuse had been lit.

It was supposed to be a professional handshake. But the second my palm slid against his, a surge of heat exploded between us. His hand was large, his skin slightly rough and incredibly warm. He didn't just shake my hand; he gripped it, his fingers curling around mine with a strength that felt possessive.

I froze. My breath caught in my lungs. I could feel the heavy, thudding pulse in his thumb, pressing against the back of my hand. It was a rhythmic, demanding beat that matched the one in my own blood.

The contact was electric. It felt like a circuit had been completed, sending a current through my arm and straight to the sensitive centers of my body. My breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound that left my lips before I could stop it.

I looked up at him and saw my own shock reflected in his eyes. His jaw was tight, his teeth gritted. He wasn't letting go. He was holding my hand as if he were trying to anchor himself—or as if he were never going to let me go

His thumb gave a small, slow, deliberate squeeze against my knuckles. The friction of his skin against mine sent a fresh wave of heat straight to my core, making me feel heavy and liquid. We stood there for what felt like hours, caught in the gravity of a simple touch that felt like a declaration of war.

Then, he pulled back, his hand dropping to his side as if he’d been burned.

"Sit down, Ms. Bennett," he said, his voice sounding rough, cracked. "Show me the numbers. Let’s see if you’re actually worth the trouble."

I sat, my legs feeling like they were made of water. I opened my laptop, but my fingers were trembling so much I had to hide them under the table. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his hand on mine, the heat of him branded into my palm.

I stole a glance at him. He was staring at the glass wall, his shoulders tense, his chest rising and falling in heavy, jagged breaths. He was the most powerful man in the city, but in that one, accidental brush of hands, I realized he was just as affected as I was.

The clash had started, and neither of us was coming out of this unscathed.