JAY POV — THE DATE
The door opened.
And Keifer Watson—
the man who never froze, never faltered, never showed weakness in rooms full of sharks—
forgot how to move.
He stood there for a second too long.
Not staring.
Taking me in.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like he was committing the sight of me to memory because some part of him was convinced this was temporary. That if he blinked wrong, I'd disappear again.
His gaze started at my boots—high, sharp, unapologetic—and traveled upward. The black dress hugged every line like it had been made with intention, not apology. Sleeveless. Dangerous. Short enough to test restraint but long enough to keep control.
By the time his eyes met mine again, something had shifted in his posture.
Not hunger.
Decision.
"Hi," I said lightly, like I wasn't fully aware of the effect I was having.
His mouth curved—slow, controlled.
That smile.
The one that meant trouble.
"You're going to make tonight very difficult for me," he said quietly.
I lifted an eyebrow and smirked, "That sounds like a you problem Mr.Watson..." in a low teasing voice..
A low laugh escaped him—soft, almost disbelieving.
"Get in," he said, opening the door for me. "Before I forget how to act like a gentleman."
As I passed him, his hand hovered at my waist.
Didn't touch.
Didn't pull.
Just… existed there.
A warning.
The car ride was quiet in the most dangerous way.
No music.
No small talk.
Just the hum of the engine and the awareness of each other's presence. His hand rested on the wheel, knuckles relaxed but steady. My legs were crossed, posture perfect, pulse betraying me anyway.
Every time the streetlight passed, I caught him glancing at me.
Not openly.
Like he thought if he stared too long, I'd notice.
I noticed.
"Are you planning to keep looking," I asked calmly, "or do you want to say what's on your mind?"
He chuckled. "If I say it out loud, I won't behave."
"Try me."
He pulled into the restaurant driveway—elite, discreet, glowing warm against the night. Valet rushed forward. The place radiated money and silence.
Before stepping out, he turned to me.
"I booked the entire floor," he said. "No interruptions."
I smiled slowly. "Control freak."
"With you?" he replied. "Absolutely."
Inside, the staff stared.
Not gossiping.
Assessing.
Keifer's hand settled at my waist this time—not tentative, not shy. Possessive without being loud. My heels clicked against marble. His shoes echoed behind me.
We looked like we belonged in trouble.
We were seated not across from each other—but beside. Close enough that our thighs brushed when we moved. Close enough that his arm rested behind my chair like it had always been there.
"Is this your way of making sure I don't run?" I teased.
He leaned in slightly, voice low. "No. This is my way of reminding myself you're here."
The waiter took our order.
Then the waitress came.
And lingered.
Too long.
Her eyes flicked to Keifer. Once. Twice. A little too obvious.
She smiled.
I felt something sharp bloom in my chest before I could stop it.
Keifer noticed instantly.
His hand shifted—subtle—but his fingers brushed mine under the table.
Grounding.
Claiming.
When the waitress finally left, I tilted my head. "She seems… attentive."
His lips twitched. "Jealous?"
I smiled sweetly. "Amused."
He leaned closer, voice meant only for me. "She could stare all night. I'd still only see you."
I rolled my eyes. "Liar."
"Test me."
Dinner unfolded like a game.
Every sentence had an edge. Every smile carried meaning.
"You always look this dangerous in black?" he asked.
"Only when I want something."
"And what do you want tonight?" he murmured.
I met his gaze. Held it. "You already know."
He inhaled slowly. "You're not fair."
I shrugged. "You're still here."
At one point, he brushed his thumb along the inside of my wrist—innocent enough to pass, intimate enough to matter.
"Relax," he whispered when I tensed. "I won't cross a line you don't invite me to."
I believed him.
That scared me more than anything else.
By the time dessert came, the tension was unbearable.
We didn't finish it.
KEIFER POV —
The door opened.
And for a fraction of a second, my body forgot the sequence of things it had learned over years—how to breathe, how to stand, how to mask reaction behind composure.
Jay stood there.
Not waiting for approval. Not searching my face.
Just… present.
Black dress. Clean lines. No apology stitched into it. The kind of black that didn't disappear into shadow but pulled the light toward it. Sleeveless, sharp, intentional. The hem sat at that dangerous balance between restraint and invitation—enough to demand control, not enough to make it easy.
My gaze betrayed me.
It dropped first—not because I meant it to, but because gravity insisted. Boots. Heels steady. Confidence grounded. Then upward, slow, like if I rushed I'd miss something important. The curve of her calf. The strength in her posture. The way the fabric followed her instead of clinging, like it respected her choices.
By the time my eyes reached her face, I felt it.
That shift.
Not hunger.
Recognition.
She wasn't dressed to impress a room.
She was dressed like a woman who had already decided who she was—and wasn't asking permission to be seen.
I stayed still a beat too long.
Not staring.
Memorizing.
Because some part of me—quiet, scarred, honest—didn't trust that moments like this stayed. It whispered that if I blinked wrong, she'd be gone again. That the version of us standing here, unguarded and real, was fragile.
Her eyes met mine.
Calm. Curious. A glint of mischief she didn't bother hiding.
"Hi," she said.
Just that.
And my chest tightened.
I smiled—not the polite one I used in boardrooms, not the practiced charm. This one came slower. Measured. The kind that carried weight.
"You're going to make tonight very difficult for me," I said, because honesty felt safer than pretending I was unaffected.
She arched a brow, lips curving. "That sounds like a you problem, Mr. Watson."
God.
There it was—that low tease, that confidence sharpened by knowing exactly where she stood with me. She wasn't testing boundaries.
She was standing inside them.
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. Soft. Almost disbelieving. Like some part of me was still catching up to the fact that this—she—was real.
I stepped aside and opened the door wider. "Get in," I said. "Before I forget how to act like a gentleman."
As she passed me, close enough that her warmth brushed my chest, my hand hovered at her waist.
Didn't touch.
Didn't pull.
Just existed there.
A warning—to myself more than her.
She noticed. Of course she did.
The car ride didn't help.
Streetlights slid over her like they were conspiring—highlighting angles, catching the edge of her jaw, the fall of her hair. Every glance I stole felt dangerous, like if I looked too long I'd give something away I wasn't ready to name.
She caught me anyway.
She always did.
When I told her I'd booked the entire floor, it wasn't about money or control.
It was about space.
About wanting a room where nothing could intrude on the way she moved beside me. On the way she belonged there—beside me—without explanation.
Inside the restaurant, eyes followed her.
I felt them.
Every lingering look. Every second too long.
My hand settled at her waist then, instinctive and sure. Not possessive in the loud way. Protective in the quiet one. The kind that said she's not on display—she's chosen.
When we sat—close, not opposite—her thigh brushed mine, and the contact grounded me in a way no boardroom victory ever had.
This wasn't about the dress.
Not really.
It was about what it represented.
A woman who had survived, decided, returned—not out of need, but choice.
And when she leaned in, teasing, alive, entirely herself, I knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
Whatever restraint I'd built over six years—
She was worth every second of losing it.
Jay's Pov
The parking lot was empty. Quiet. Dark.
He opened the door for me again.
Then stopped.
Turned.
And suddenly I was pressed gently against the car—caged between his arms without being trapped.
His palms rested on the door beside me, not touching.
Yet.
His forehead dipped to mine.
"I've behaved all night," he said softly. "You have no idea how hard that was."
My voice came out steadier than my pulse. "You did well."
His breath ghosted across my cheek. "Jay…"
"Keifer," I replied.
That was permission enough.
His lips met mine—slow, deep, controlled. Not desperate. Not rushed. Like he was tasting something precious, something he didn't trust himself with.
I kissed him back—just as intentional.
His hand slid to my waist. Firm. Protective. Mine fisted lightly in his shirt.
We broke apart only when breathing became a problem.
He rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed.
"Get in the car," he said quietly. "Before I forget every promise I made myself."
I smiled.
He drove.
Toward his house.
And this time—
I didn't wonder if he'd hurt me.
I wondered how we ever survived without each other.
KEIFER POV — HOME
I thought I'd handled myself well at the restaurant.
That's what I told myself.
That watching her walk through a room like she owned it hadn't nearly shattered six years of discipline. That the way men looked at her—and the way she didn't notice—hadn't made something dark and territorial coil in my chest.
That the waitress hadn't been one careless glance away from getting fired by sheer force of my will.
I kept it together.
Barely.
But when I pulled into the driveway of my house and turned the engine off, the silence hit different.
This wasn't neutral ground anymore.
This was mine.
I opened her door.
She stepped out slowly, black dress catching the porch light just right, heels steady, chin lifted like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
God.
I locked the door behind us the moment we stepped inside.
The sound echoed.
Final.
She turned toward me, eyes dark, unreadable.
"You've been quiet," she said.
I took one step closer.
Then another.
"I was controlling myself," I replied.
Her breath hitched. Just a little.
"Are you done?" she asked.
That was it.
I backed her into the door—no force, no rush—just presence. One hand planted beside her head. The other at her waist, fingers digging in like I needed proof she was real.
"I've been done since the moment you walked down those stairs," I murmured.
I kissed her.
Not gentle.
Not rough.
Claiming.
Her hands came up instantly—into my hair, gripping like she'd waited just as long. I felt her melt into me and something in my chest broke wide open.
Six years of restraint snapped.
I lifted her without thinking.
She gasped—and then wrapped her legs around my waist like it was instinct, like her body remembered mine before her mind could interfere.
The sound she made against my mouth nearly ruined me.
I carried her down the hall, kisses breaking and reconnecting, her hands pulling me closer every time I tried to slow down.
The bedroom door didn't stand a chance.
I kicked it shut.
Locked it.
She tugged me toward the bed, fingers curling in my shirt, eyes blazing.
I laid her down carefully—too carefully for how badly I wanted her—and hovered over her, breathing hard.
"Look at me," I said quietly.
She did.
Open. Unafraid. Choosing me.
That look wrecked me more than anything else.
I kissed her again—slower now, deeper, like I was imprinting myself into her memory. My mouth traced her jaw, her throat, the place beneath her ear where her breath faltered.
Every sound she made felt like permission.
I braced myself over her, forehead resting against hers, fighting the instinct to take more than I should.
"Tell me to stop," I said.
She didn't.
She pulled me back down.
And that was where the world narrowed—
to breath, and heat, and the certainty that whatever came next wasn't about loss anymore.
It was about us.
And this time—
I wasn't letting go...