The sound of the bathroom doorknob turning broke through the silence like a spell had been cast upon the room. Every creak was magnified, echoing in the hush like a rhythmic drumbeat—slow, deliberate, and unnervingly loud. It made Jenny's heart tighten without warning, as though the air itself had grown too dense to breathe.
The door opened with agonizing slowness.
A swirl of warm steam poured out like an eager spirit escaping confinement, thick with the crisp scent of body wash—clean, fresh, yet laced with something subtly sweet, almost intoxicating. It wrapped around Jenny in an instant, clinging to her skin, pulling her into its intimate embrace. The air between them shifted—warmer, heavier, alive with a charge she couldn't name but instantly recognized.
James stood there in the doorway.
His tall frame nearly filled the entire entrance, a broad shadow outlined by the diffused bathroom light behind him. The sudden confrontation took him off guard—his usually unreadable obsidian eyes flickering with a rare, raw surprise. Deep-set and dark, his gaze was like a still lake suddenly disturbed, ripples betraying the impact of what he saw.
He hadn't expected anyone.
Beads of water still dripped from his freshly showered hair, clinging to the ends before slipping free like reluctant secrets. Each droplet traced a deliberate path—first along the sharp angle of his jaw, then down his neck, where it glided over the pronounced rise of his Adam's apple. The movement of his swallow sent a subtle, almost sensual shiver down his throat, the kind that whispered of tension and control. The droplets continued downward, disappearing into the defined lines of his chest.
His upper body was bare—unashamed, unguarded. And Jenny saw everything.
The planes of his torso were impossibly precise, sculpted like a masterwork not of marble but of flesh and breath. His muscles didn't boast; they suggested. Strength beneath ease. Form without pretense. Not the exaggerated bulk of gym vanity, but something rawer—functional, beautiful, and devastatingly real. Water slid over the warm bronze of his skin, highlighting each groove of his abdomen, each dip and rising like carved valleys, sensual and maddening.
A white towel was slung low around his hips, clinging precariously to his V-line like it, too, was debating whether to stay. One wrong movement and it would surrender entirely. The thought curled through Jenny's mind like smoke, thick and slow and impossible to ignore.
Her gaze traced him—blatant, hungry, unhurried.
And with every second, the heat inside her chest climbed, spreading outward, dizzying. Her breath caught, just for a moment, as if the air between them had turned to honey, viscous and golden, drawing them closer whether they wanted it or not.
Their eyes met.
And in that fraction of a second, the world seemed to falter. Everything slowed—heartbeat, thought, time. There was no music from the ballroom, no distant voices, no ticking clock. Only them. And the moment.
James spoke first.
His voice, low and still tinged with the steam of the shower, was roughened just enough to be dangerous. It carried a rasp like velvet brushed the wrong way—unexpected, electric. "What are you doing here?"
It wasn't just a question—it was a break in the spell. But it didn't shatter the tension. If anything, it deepened it.
Jenny's heart skipped once—then took off in a gallop. She felt it thud against her ribs, wild and unrepentant, but her expression didn't falter. She steadied herself, lifted her chin slightly, and let a slow, sultry smile curve her lips.
There was no shame in her eyes. Only boldness. A heat that mirrored his.
"Surprised to see me?" Her voice was sweet, teasing—laced with something deliberately soft, yet wicked underneath. She stepped closer, the motion fluid, deliberate. Every sway of her hips seemed calculated, each footfall a challenge.
"I came looking for you," she added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Her eyes wandered over him again—lingering with a purpose that was impossible to mistake. Not a flicker of subtlety. She wanted him to know she was looking. And liking what she saw.
"I've changed," she said, twirling lightly to show off the flowing dress that flared at her thighs. The hem danced, revealing the smooth length of her legs, pale and glowing under the soft light. "And I thought we could head back to the gala together. It's not nearly as dull when you're around."
"I knocked," she continued with a small, knowing pout. "But you didn't answer. So I turned the handle, and—surprise—it wasn't locked. Thought maybe you'd already gone down. But… turns out you were still here." She tilted her head, her voice dropping just enough to make the space between them seem tighter. "And I got quite the sight of my trouble."
Her eyes swept down his chest again—slow, deliberate, appreciative. No attempt to disguise the desire to burn there.
James didn't respond. He simply looked at her.
His eyes, dark and unreadable once more, lingered on her face—slowly, methodically. Not with anger, nor amusement. But with something else. Something tangled. Something dangerous.
Jenny could feel his stare like fingertips on her skin—hot, patient, steady. She didn't flinch. She didn't lower her gaze. Instead, she lifted her chin a fraction more, as if daring him to say the next word. Or to make the next move.
Silence filled the space like a tide.
Only their breathing remained—hers shallow, his deep and slow. The sound of it mingled in the quiet, thick and charged. And then, a single droplet of water slid from the end of James's hair, falling to the floor with a tiny splash.
A quiet sound. But to Jenny, it landed like thunder.
She watched as he lifted a hand to run through his damp hair, brushing it back without urgency. The movement flexed the muscles in his arms—coiled and lean, like a predator at rest but not at peace. The sinew beneath his skin shifted and caught the light, and she felt her mouth go dry. She swallowed.
Still, her eyes did not leave him.
"Is that so?" James finally said, his voice quiet, unreadable. Almost amused. Almost.
He took a step forward—slow, unhurried. The kind of step that changes the air in a room. And the room did change. Jenny felt it—the tilt, the pull, as if gravity itself had chosen a side. His presence pressed against her, and yet he was still a few feet away.
She didn't move back. She didn't breathe.
Instead, she curled her fingers into a loose fist, her nails biting softly into her palm. A silent preparation. A promise to herself: *Whatever comes next, I won't look away.*
Because now the game had started.
And neither of them was ready to lose.