AVA'S TERMS

CHAPTER 4:TEMPTING

His hand was still braced above my shoulder, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Every inch of my body was acutely aware of him, as if the air between us had been charged with something neither of us had switched on intentionally.

"You're playing a dangerous game," I murmured, reaching for composure.

"Good," Steven said simply. "I like danger."

His gaze didn't waver, and I hated how my body responded, the way my breathing deepened, the way my skin seemed to hum without him even touching me yet.

"I told you last night was a one-time thing," I reminded him.

"You can keep saying that," he said, leaning until his lips hovered just beside my ear, "but we both know I could have you on this desk in under a minute."

Heat curled deep inside me. My thighs pressed together before I could stop them.

I forced a smirk. "You really think you can mix business and pleasure without it blowing up in your face?"

That slow, maddening smile appeared. "Ava... my entire career has been built on explosions that worked out in my favor."

Before I could respond, he reached behind me and lifted the folder I'd brought, flipping it open like we hadn't just been talking about something else entirely. "Your proposal," he said, scanning the first page. "You're very good. Which is exactly why I'm making you an offer."

I raised a brow. "An offer?"

He met my gaze, eyes glinting. "Wolfe Holdings will fund your project. Full investment. On one condition."

I kept my expression neutral. "Which is?"

"Dinner. Tonight. With me."

I blinked. "That's your condition? Not equity, not percentages, not a higher return threshold?"

"I already know your project is worth investing in," he said, closing the folder. "What I don't know is whether you can sit across from me, look me in the eye, and not think about last night."

Heat rushed to my face. "You're infuriating."

"And you're still here," he countered.

The silence stretched longer than I wanted. Finally, I stepped back, putting distance between us that I immediately felt as a kind of loss. "Fine. Dinner. But it's just dinner."

His expression said otherwise. "Seven o'clock. I'll send a car."

I gathered my things and turned toward the door.

"Oh, Ava?"

I glanced back.

"Wear something that makes it difficult for me to keep my hands to myself," he said, voice low with promise.

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. But the truth was, my mind was already going through my wardrobe.

The car arrived at exactly 6:55 p.m., a black Mercedes S-Class, tinted windows, an impossibly polite driver who addressed me by name. I'd chosen a red silk slip dress that skimmed my curves and stopped mid-thigh, paired with gold heels. My hair was loose, falling in soft waves. Dangerous, just as he'd asked.

The restaurant was Velluto, Michelin-starred, reservation-only, the kind of place that didn't appear on maps. Inside, the lighting was dim, the air faintly scented with truffle and aged wine. A host in a tailored suit led me directly to a private corner table.

And there he was.

Steven Wolfe, in charcoal with a black shirt unbuttoned just enough to be deliberate. His eyes swept over me the moment I appeared, a slow and thorough assessment that felt like a touch.

"You clean up well," I said, sliding into my seat.

His smirk deepened. "You clean up dangerously."

The waiter appeared, and Steven ordered for both of us without glancing at the menu, a move that would have irritated me if everything he chose hadn't sounded like sin on a plate.

We talked business at first, my pitch, his interest, market strategy. But every so often, his gaze would drift to my lips, or linger on my collarbone, or trace the hem of my dress with quiet intention.

By the time the main course arrived, the air between us was thick enough to cut.

"You know," he said, swirling his wine, "you're making it very difficult to focus."

"That sounds like a you problem," I replied, sipping my own.

"Maybe," he said, leaning slightly forward. "But if I recall correctly, you weren't particularly focused on business last night either."

I set my glass down, pulse spiking. "Careful, Mr. Wolfe. Keep talking like that and you might not get to finish your wine."

His lips curved into that dangerous smile. "And what would I get instead?"

I leaned back with a deliberate ease I didn't fully feel. "You'll have to behave to find out."

The flicker in his eyes told me he had absolutely no intention of behaving.

Dinner passed in a haze of sharp conversation, grazing touches when he refilled my glass, the occasional brush of his knee against mine beneath the table. It was intoxicating, this game of restraint neither of us truly wanted to win.

When dessert arrived, a molten chocolate cake that looked indecent, he broke off a piece with his fork and held it out.

"Try it," he said.

I hesitated just long enough to make a point, then leaned forward and let him feed me. The cake was rich, warm, melting on my tongue. But it was the way his gaze locked on my mouth that made my knees weak.

"Good?" he asked, voice dropping.

"Dangerous," I murmured.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and I knew I was in trouble.

When dinner ended and we stepped outside, his hand found the small of my back as we slid into the car. I noticed the route almost immediately, familiar, private, heading away from the city.

"We're going to your house?" I asked.

He turned to look at me, saying nothing. Just that slow, unhurried smile.