Ivan's POV
I want to give the tabloids something to talk about.
I want to drop to my knees right now, let Zander let loose every filthy thought simmering behind those dark, stormy eyes.
I want to make a scene.
Because fuck me, Zander is so hot in that perfectly tailored suit, the crisp black fabric hugging his broad shoulders, his powerful frame, his everything.
And I am so goddamn frustrated.
I inhale sharply, mistake number one, because the moment I breathe in, his scent hits me like a drug.
Dark musk, something deep, heady, masculine with an underlying sweetness, the kind of scent that makes my brain fog and my fingers twitch with the urge to grab onto his tie and pull.
I catch myself just in time.
Instead, I brush a few strands of my hair behind my ear—a small, meaningless gesture, but Zander's gaze tracks it.
Like a predator watching its prey.
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, his hands flex at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets.
He's restraining himself.
Good.Suffer. I may be sadistic.
"Dinner?" I say smoothly, my voice softer than I intend, teasing just enough to make his fingers twitch again.
"Yeah." His voice is rough, deeper than usual, like he's forcing control into each syllable. He clears his throat, shifting his stance slightly, looking anywhere but at my mouth.
He wants.
I can feel it, taste it in the air between us.
"I'll leave first, and I'll text you the address," I say, throwing one last glance at him before I turn and walk away.
I feel his gaze on my back the entire time.
*
The place I chose is quiet, intimate—a high-end restaurant with warm golden lighting, plush velvet booths, and a layout designed for privacy.
I arrive first, led to a discreet corner table, my pulse louder than my footsteps.I slide into my seat, smoothing my hands over my lap, suddenly restless in my own skin.
I never get nervous.
Not on runways, not in front of cameras, not even with Zander—but tonight, something is different.
I don't know if it's the fact that we've spent months circling each other, pushing, pulling, testing the boundaries between us.
Or if it's the fact that I can still feel his gaze from earlier—burning, scorching, filled with things neither of us have spoken aloud.
And then—
He walks in.
Zander steps into the restaurant, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes before they land on me.
For a moment, everything else fades away.
He moves toward me with the quiet, controlled power of a man who commands any space he enters.
The low restaurant lighting softens the harsh angles of his face, but it does nothing to dim the intensity of his gaze.
When he reaches the table, he doesn't speak.
He just looks at me, as if taking me in, as if branding this moment into his memory.
Then, finally, he sits.
The air between us shifts, charged with something thick and heavy, a quiet tension that coils like a tightened spring, waiting to snap.
The food is exquisite. Or horrible.Not that I taste a damn thing.
We eat in silence, but it's not the comfortable kind. It's not even tense.
It's anticipatory.
Every moment feels like a build-up, like the world is holding its breath around us.
Zander's gaze flickers between his plate and me, his fingers tapping idly against the stem of his wine glass.
I take slow, deliberate bites, aware of the way his eyes track my movements, the way his lips part just slightly, like he wants to say something but holds back.
The lighting catches in his eyes, turning them into pools of deep, endless black.He looks dangerous like this—like a beast barely bring held back by chains.
It should make me feel powerful.
Instead, it makes my skin too hot, my heartbeat too loud.
I set my fork down, fingers trailing against the rim of my wine glass. His gaze follows the movement.
"You're quiet tonight," I say finally, tilting my head, testing the waters.
Zander exhales, setting his fork down with calculated slowness, his fingers curling against the table as if restraining himself.
"I don't trust myself to speak." His voice is low, rough, soaked in tension.
My breath catches.
"Why?" I ask, even though I already know.
His eyes drag over me, slow, thorough, burning.
"Because everything I want to say—everything I want to do—wouldn't be appropriate for a restaurant setting."
I grip my wine glass a little tighter.
God.
God, this man.
I shift slightly in my seat, as if that will somehow alleviate the pressure building inside me, the restless energy thrumming through my veins.
"And what if I don't care about what's appropriate?" I challenge, my voice quieter now, almost daring.
A muscle in his jaw flexes.
"Then you're playing a very dangerous game, Ivan."
I smile, slow, deliberate.
"Aren't we always?"
His hand tightens around his glass, the tension in his shoulders coiling like a predator on the verge of pouncing.
We are on dangerous ground now, dancing at the edge of something inevitable.
And neither of us wants to step back.
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