Arielle couldn't sleep.
Not because of the quiz, or the questions, or the ridiculous color-coded system he'd forced her to memorize.
It was Dominic.
The way he hadn't touched her—but looked at her, like he was holding back a storm behind those steel-gray eyes. Like if he ever let go, she wouldn't just fall—she'd shatter.
And something about that made her wild.
So, the next morning, she showed up five minutes early, just to annoy him.
And wore red.
A red satin blouse, unbuttoned just low enough to start wars, tucked into a black pencil skirt that looked painted on. Her heels clicked like a warning shot through the executive floor, and her lipstick was blood-bright.
She wanted a reaction.
She wanted him to slip.
Dominic looked up the second she walked in.
His eyes flicked over her outfit once—just once—and then returned to his laptop like she was wearing a church robe.
Infuriating.
"You're early," he said, voice as cool as ever.
"Better than being late, right, boss?" she replied sweetly, dropping into the seat across from him and crossing her legs with unnecessary flair.
He didn't respond. Just kept typing.
She waited.
And waited.
But when he gave her nothing—not even a sideways glance—she leaned forward on her elbows, resting her chin on one hand.
"Something wrong, Mr. Raine? I thought you'd be thrilled I'm finally taking this job seriously."
His typing paused.
And that pause was everything.
He looked up slowly, meeting her gaze with something unreadable.
"I know exactly what you're taking seriously," he said.
The air shifted.
Arielle's stomach tightened—but she didn't back down. "And what's that?"
He stood.
Rounded the desk.
Came to her side with that same lethal calm he always carried.
Then—he leaned down, both hands gripping the arms of her chair, caging her in.
"You think this is a game," he said low. "You wear that blouse, saunter in here like temptation in heels, trying to make me crack."
Her breath caught. He was so close she could feel his words like heat against her lips.
"You want me to lose control?" he asked, quieter now. "You want to see what happens when I stop being your boss and start being the man who's thought about bending you over this desk more times than I should admit?"
She should've said something.
Should've laughed. Rolled her eyes. Thrown another jab.
But her throat was dry.
Because suddenly… she wasn't in control.
Dominic's eyes darkened.
"But here's the problem," he said. "If I touch you, Arielle—there's no going back. I won't be gentle. I won't be sweet. And you… you won't walk out of this office thinking you won."
Her pulse thundered.
"Is that what you want?" he asked. "Say it."
Arielle's lips parted—one breath, two—but nothing came out.
Not yet.
Because just then, his phone buzzed on the desk.
He stepped away.
Just like that.
No kiss. No contact. No victory.
He answered the call without even looking at her. "Yes. Send the projections to my inbox."
Then he looked over his shoulder. "Miss Sinclair, your break is over. I expect the report on my desk in twenty minutes."
She stood, legs slightly unsteady, pride stinging, desire clawing.
And as she walked out of his office, one thought looped in her mind:
She'd started this game.
But Dominic Raine?
He was going to finish it.
Arielle didn't do company retreats.
But when Dominic Raine personally sent her the itinerary—complete with her name scrawled under "Executive Liaison to Mr. Raine"—she knew it wasn't optional.
So, she showed up.
Late.
Wearing a silk slip dress under a blazer that didn't belong in a boardroom—and heels sharp enough to stab egos.
The boutique hotel was luxurious and moody, all dark wood and dim lighting. The kind of place where secrets whispered against marble and tension clung to the walls like perfume.
The staff gave her a keycard with a strained smile. "Mr. Raine already checked in. You'll be sharing the executive suite."
She froze.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Company policy. Shared suites for department pairs. There's a sliding divider between the rooms."
"Of course there is," she muttered, yanking the key from the desk like it had personally offended her.
When she opened the suite door, Dominic was already inside—jacket off, sleeves rolled, drink in hand.
She walked in like she owned the place. Tossed her blazer on the armchair. Poured herself a drink from his glass like it was hers.
"You knew we'd be sharing."
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at her with that cool, assessing gaze that always made her feel exposed.
"You're late," he said, sipping.
She sauntered toward him, drink in hand, stopping just inches away. "Traffic."
"You live across the street from the hotel."
"Would you believe I stopped to pick up lingerie?"
His jaw ticked.
She smirked. Hit.
But before she could throw another taunt, he stepped in—suddenly too close.
His voice was low. Dangerous.
"Take off the attitude, Arielle. It doesn't protect you. Not here."
She tilted her head. "And what do I need protecting from?"
His eyes dragged down the line of her neck to the edge of that too-short slip dress.
"Me."
Her breath hitched, and she hated that he heard it.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said, turning sharply—only to have his hand catch her wrist.
Not hard. Just firm enough to make her pulse spike.
"You can play games out there," he said, stepping closer until her back hit the wall. "But in here—"
His other hand slid up the wall beside her, caging her with nothing but his body and his breath.
"—there are no witnesses. No distractions. Just you, and what you've been begging for without saying a damn word."
"I don't beg," she whispered, chin high.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear.
"You will."
Heat shot straight to her core.
She shoved at his chest—but he didn't move. Not because she wasn't strong, but because he wasn't done.
And neither was she.
"I'm not some pet project for you to discipline," she hissed.
"You're right," he said, finally pulling back—his control as sharp as ever. "You're a storm I plan to survive. But don't think for a second I'll let you destroy me without a fight."
He stepped away, straightening his sleeves.
"I'll be in the other half of the suite," he said. "You've got until morning to decide if you're going to keep playing pretend…"
He turned at the doorway.
"…or if you're ready to lose that attitude—along with every layer you hide behind."
The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
And Arielle stood there—
Breathless.
Flushed.
And not nearly as in control as she thought.