The text was simple. Dinner. Tonight. 8 PM. The Windsor. Car at 7:30. - WC
The Windsor was the most exclusive restaurant in the city. Ariyah knew this was a different kind of test.
She stood in her closet. He hadn't told her what to wear. Her choice.
Her eyes landed on the dress. Crimson silk. Backless, with a high front that sculpted her breasts and hugged every curve down to her hips. It was a statement.
Over it, she put on a short, gold-colored faux fur coat that shimmered under the light. It was luxurious, bold. She added gold jewelry at her ears, wrists, and throat. Sharp black heels, sheer stockings, soft makeup with glossy red lips. Her hair fell in perfect, bouncing curls.
She looked in the mirror. She was power. She was opulence. She was a fantasy.
The driver's usual blank expression faltered for a second when she walked out, wrapped in gold fur and red silk.
The Windsor was all dark wood and candlelight. The host took her coat, and a soft gasp seemed to ripple through the staff. The main dining room's hum dipped as she walked in.
The gold fur was gone, but the red silk did all the talking. It framed her DD-cup breasts, cinched her waist, and faithfully followed the generous swell of her hips and backside. The open back was a breathtaking slash of bare skin. The gentle sway of her hips was impossible to ignore.
Every head turned. Conversations stuttered. Forks paused mid-air. Men's eyes followed the journey from her glossy lips, down her neck, over the dramatic curves the dress celebrated, to her long legs. Women looked, their glances a mix of shock and sharp appraisal.
She saw none of them. She only looked ahead.
And then she saw him.
Wayne was seated at the best table in the back. He was watching her walk toward him. His face was calm, but as she neared, the details betrayed him.
The whiskey glass in his hand was frozen. His knuckles were white. His eyes, usually a cool blue, were dark and hot. They weren't on her face. They were doing a slow, burning inventory from her bouncing hair, down the red silk that worshipped every inch of her figure, to her heels, and back up to linger on the deep open back. His jaw was clenched tight.
She reached the table. He stood. His voice was a low, rough growl.
"Ariyah."
"Wayne."
He came around and held her chair. As she sat, his hand brushed the bare skin of her shoulder. A deliberate, searing touch.
He returned to his seat. His gaze was a physical weight. The waiter approached, hesitating under Wayne's glare. Wayne ordered for them both, his voice clipped.
Alone again, the silence simmered.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "The man three tables over has forgotten his own name. The one by the wine cabinet hasn't blinked in two minutes." His eyes, dark with possession, swept over her. "If one of them looks at you like that again, I will ruin this quiet dinner in a very loud way."
A hot thrill shot through her. This was pure, undiluted jealousy. It was terrifying and electrifying.
"You don't control where people look," she whispered back.
"No," he agreed, his stare blazing. "But I can control what happens after they do. And right now, all I can think about is putting that coat back on you and carrying you out of here."
Their food arrived. He barely touched his. He was a sentry, his attention split between her and the room. Any prolonged male glance toward their booth was met with a look from Wayne so cold and dangerous it could freeze the wine.
When the meal ended, he stood, moving behind her. He took her gold fur coat and held it open for her. As she slid her arms in, his hands rested on her shoulders for a moment too long, his fingers pressing into the fur and the silk beneath. It was a silent, possessive act.
He guided her out, his hand firm on her lower back. In the lobby, an acquaintance moved to greet them, eyes glued to Ariyah.
"Wayne! Who's this dazzling "
"We're leaving," Wayne cut him off, his arm snaking around Ariyah's waist to pull her firmly into his side, turning her away from the man. He didn't introduce her. He simply claimed her and removed her from the interaction.
In the car, the air was thick. He didn't speak. He just watched her in the shadowy interior, the gold fur gleaming faintly.
At her apartment, he finally spoke. "That outfit," he said, his voice low and serious, "was a declaration of war. And you won."
He reached out and softly tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingertips brushing her cheek. The tender gesture after his fierce display of jealousy made her heart stutter.
"Goodnight, Ariyah," he murmured. "Next time, the coat stays on. For my sanity."
He leaned over and opened her door. She got out, the gold fur warm around her. The car idled until she was inside.
She stood in her hallway, still wrapped in the coat, his scent and his heat clinging to the fur. The memory of his jealous, dark eyes was seared into her mind.
She had worn the outfit to feel untouchable.
Instead, she had never felt more viscerally wanted.
The transaction now had a heartbeat. A loud, jealous, possessive one. And it was calling for her.