Playing With Fire (R-18)

Chapter 2

I’ve always believed I have the power to make things happen—literally and figuratively. The secret to taking control of your life is having a vision… and taking action to make it real. Intentions and action. When they line up—that’s when the real magic happens.

But tonight? This was a very different kind of magic. A chaotic, reckless, utterly unplanned kind of magic that had landed me in a situation I couldn't possibly have foreseen.

I woke up in a different room, a different bed, with a strong arm draped possessively over my completely naked body. The sheets were tangled, the air thick with the scent of s*x and sleep. Memories started flashing back one by one—every reckless thing I’d done before ending up tangled with the man grinning like a wicked Joker beneath me. The memory of his hands on my skin, his lips on my neck, sent a shiver of both pleasure and regret down my spine.

“You’re awake…” his voice was rough, still half-asleep, but sinful enough to make me want to dive back under the covers and forget the responsibilities waiting for me outside this room.

Then came the soft groan, the low moan—like he was either dreaming about last night or purposely reminding me how good it had been. The sound vibrated through me, stirring up a longing for the abandon we had shared.

I squeezed my eyes shut. This was not the kind of mess I signed up for. I suddenly felt like one of my clients—the ones who called me in tears after wild nights with their forbidden lovers, seeking guidance and absolution.

That thought made me shoot upright, a jolt of panic coursing through me. My eyes went wide, my hands flying to cover my mouth as if to physically contain the chaos I had unleashed.

“What? What?” He sat up, confused, his brow furrowed with concern, then followed my gaze. His eyes lingered on my bare chest shamelessly, a slow, appreciative sweep that made my skin tingle, before smirking.

“Those are mine,” he said smugly, nodding to the dark kiss marks scattered over my skin like a possessive claim.

“What time is it?” I ignored him, jumping out of bed and grabbing the first piece of clothing I could find—his button-down shirt from last night. The fabric was soft and warm against my skin, carrying his scent, a comforting reminder of the night's passion. I yanked it on, the oversized shirt swallowing me whole, and scanned the room for my phone, my lifeline to the world outside.

His room was all sleek black, brown, and white—massive bed, warm lighting, neat but lived-in. The minimalist decor spoke of a man who valued order and control, a stark contrast to the wild abandon he had displayed last night. Not exactly the time to be admiring interior design, Tori, I chided myself.

He didn’t even flinch as he pulled on his boxers right in front of me, his movements casual and unselfconscious. The sight of his toned body, still flushed from sleep, sent a fresh wave of desire crashing over me.

“Downstairs, I think,” he said casually, gesturing towards the door. “On the couch.”

He headed for the bathroom, and the sound of running water filled the room, a mundane sound that grounded me in reality. I busied myself searching for the rest of my clothes, which were scattered in places I wasn’t even sure we’d been last night. My dress was crumpled on the floor, a testament to our recklessness.

How wild had we been? The question echoed in my mind, a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

He came out freshly washed, wearing khaki shorts and a black shirt, looking unfairly good for a man who’d kept me up all night. His hair was damp, his eyes bright, and his smile held a hint of mischief.

“Breakfast?” he asked, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

I just stood there, clutching my clothes like a clueless i***t, caught between the desire to escape and the undeniable pull of his presence.

“Tori,” he called, his tone teasing, drawing me back to the present. “I’m sorry about your dress.”

He did not sound sorry at all. And that grin—oh, I remembered exactly how that dress got destroyed, ripped in the heat of passion, a casualty of our reckless abandon.

I sighed, rubbing my temple. My head was starting to ache—partly from last night’s insanity, partly from the fact that I had a client appointment in less than an hour, a responsibility I couldn't ignore.

“You don’t sound sorry,” I muttered, brushing past him and heading downstairs. “I have a client at nine.”

He followed, both of us heading straight to the living area. Sure enough, my bag was sitting pretty on the couch, a silent reminder of my responsibilities.

I snatched my phone and tarot deck out of it, my tools of the trade, my connection to the world of magic and intuition. I had thirty minutes left before my regular client called—and the real problem was, I could not for the life of me remember this man’s name.

“Madam, what do you want for breakfast?” he asked, and I cursed silently. Of course, I’d been calling him Joker all night, a playful nickname that had somehow erased his actual identity from my memory. No wonder I couldn’t remember his actual name.

“You?” I shot back automatically, the word slipping out before I could censor myself, regretting it immediately when I felt just how breezy it was under his shirt, the memory of his bare skin against mine flooding my senses.

He chuckled, that dangerous, wicked sound that did not help my situation at all, a vibration that resonated deep within me.

“Madam,” he said, stepping closer with that same infuriating grin, his eyes dancing with amusement, “we could do that. But didn’t you say you have a client?”

I blinked at him, scowling, trying to regain control of the situation. “I meant food! You decide what to cook.”

Before he could reply, I shoved my phone into his hand, a desperate attempt to distract myself from the magnetic pull of his presence.

“Password for your Wi-Fi,” I ordered, my voice sharper than intended. “I need to go online for my client.”

He took my phone, his fingers brushing against mine, sending a jolt of electricity through me, connected it quickly, and handed it back.

“I need a quiet place to read my cards,” I added, gesturing towards the coffee table. “I’ll use your coffee table. And pull the curtains closed. I need some privacy.”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, clearly amused by my frantic attempts to regain control. “But… are you seriously doing an online reading looking like that?” His eyes swept over my disheveled appearance, lingering on the exposed expanse of my legs beneath the oversized shirt.

Me, standing there in his shirt, hair a mess, no underwear? The thought was both mortifying and exhilarating.

“They can’t see me,” I cut him off before he could say more, my voice firm. “Just stay quiet. The session won’t last thirty minutes.”

He nodded and headed toward the kitchen, but not before pinching my cheek playfully, a gesture that both annoyed and delighted me.

“Coffee, madam?” he offered, voice teasing, a hint of laughter in his eyes.

“Plain black,” I said, sitting cross-legged on the floor with my deck, trying to ignore the lingering warmth of his touch.

What am I even doing here? Semi-naked, in a stranger’s house, acting like this is normal. This isn’t me. I’m a responsible adult, a successful businesswoman. I don’t do one-night stands.

I wasn’t even drunk last night. I’d been perfectly sober, fully aware of my actions. I just… listened to him. Talked to him. Connected with him on a level I hadn't experienced in years.

Then we laughed. Then we kissed.

And now here I am, facing the consequences of my recklessness.

My phone buzzed with notifications, pulling me back to reality. Five minutes until my client—the one who insisted she wasn’t a mistress even though she was definitely a mistress—would start bombarding me with messages, seeking guidance and reassurance.

Vios—apparently that was his name—walked back in, set a steaming cup of coffee in front of me, the aroma filling the air, and smirked again, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Before you kissed me last night,” I started, needing to clear up this embarrassing oversight, “did you ever tell me your name?”

He froze, his expression shifting from amusement to disbelief, then burst out laughing, a loud, infectious sound that filled the room.

“You forgot my name?” His grin turned wicked, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Wow, madam, you really are one of a kind.”

I shot him a glare, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Vios,” he finally said, holding out his hand like we were meeting for the first time, his eyes never leaving mine. “Nice to meet you, madam. And by the way—you look way too good in my shirt.”

My face burned. I looked away just as my client’s message popped up on my screen, a desperate plea for guidance.

“Madam, mahuhuli ba kami ng asawa ni Geronimo?”

Of course. Perfect timing. The irony was almost comical.

I adjusted the camera to face only the cards, creating a professional facade, and gestured to Vios to stay silent.

Right on cue, my client video-called, her face anxious and pleading.

“Madam, your table looks different today…” she said, squinting at the screen, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

If only she knew the half of it.