Miranda's heels clicked against the pavement as she approached the upscale bar Damian had chosen—a place with dim lighting, intimate corners, and an air of exclusivity that mirrored the man himself. Her heart raced as she pushed through the heavy oak doors, her pulse quickening with every step she took inside.
And then she saw him.
Damian Cross sat at a secluded booth, his long legs stretched out casually, his hand nursing a glass of whiskey. His dark eyes lifted as if he had sensed her presence, locking onto hers with the same intensity that had always undone her. He didn't smile, but the faint curl of his lips was enough to send a wave of heat rushing through her body.
Miranda didn't hesitate. She walked toward him with purpose, her crimson dress swaying with every step, her gaze never leaving his. Damian stood as she reached him, his towering frame closing the distance between them in a way that made her feel both exhilarated and vulnerable.
"Miranda," he said, his voice like velvet, smooth and devastatingly familiar.
Before she could respond, his hand reached out to touch her face, his thumb brushing along her jawline. Her breath hitched, and the world around them seemed to blur. There was only Damian—his touch, his scent, the magnetic pull of him that she couldn't resist.
"I couldn't stay away," she whispered, her voice trembling with equal parts defiance and surrender.
"I knew you wouldn't," he murmured, his lips curling into a knowing smirk.
Without another word, Damian took her hand and led her out of the bar, his grip firm and unyielding. The short ride to his mansion felt like an eternity, the tension between them thick and electric. Neither of them spoke, but the air was charged with anticipation, with unspoken promises that made her skin tingle.
When they finally entered his penthouse, Miranda barely had time to take a breath before Damian's lips were on hers. The kiss was fierce and demanding, his hands gripping her waist as he pulled her flush against him. She melted into him, her body responding instinctively to his touch.
His hands roamed her body, sliding over the fabric of her dress before finding the zipper and tugging it down. The dress fell to the floor in a pool of crimson, leaving her bare beneath his gaze. Damian's dark eyes roamed over her, his expression a mixture of hunger and reverence.
"You're dangerous, Miranda," he said, his voice low and husky. "Do you know that?"
"You make me this way," she replied, her voice breathless as she reached for him, her fingers sliding under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin.
Damian didn't respond. Instead, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom, his lips never leaving hers. The world outside ceased to exist as he laid her down on the bed, his body covering hers in a way that felt both protective and possessive.
The night was a blur of passion and intensity, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony. Damian's touch was everywhere—his hands gripping her thighs, his lips tracing the curve of her neck, his voice murmuring her name like a prayer. Miranda clung to him, her nails digging into his back as she surrendered completely to the fire that consumed them both.
It wasn't just the physical connection—it was the way he looked at her, as though she were the only thing that mattered. The way he whispered her name, his voice heavy with emotion even as his movements remained controlled and deliberate.
But just as the heat began to subside, as they lay tangled together in the aftermath, Damian's tone shifted. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze dark and unreadable as he looked down at her.
"This is the last time, Miranda," he said, his voice firm but laced with something that sounded like regret.
Miranda's heart clenched, her breath catching in her throat. "What are you talking about?"
"You know we can't keep doing this," he said, his expression hardening. "This... whatever this is, it's over. It has to be."
Her chest tightened with anger and desperation. "No," she said, sitting up and glaring at him. "You don't get to decide that. You don't get to walk away from me again."
"Miranda—"
"You belong to me, Damian," she interrupted, her voice fierce. "You can pretend all you want that you don't feel it, but I know you do. You can't run from this. From us."
Damian's jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with an emotion she couldn't quite place. "You're wrong," he said, his voice cold and distant. "I don't belong to anyone."
The words hit her like a slap, but she refused to back down. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his face. "You might think you can walk away, but you can't. You'll come back to me, Damian. You always do."
For a moment, he didn't respond. His gaze softened, and for the briefest of moments, she thought he might give in. But then he stood, his movements deliberate as he gathered his clothes.
"This is goodbye, Miranda," he said, his voice void of emotion. "For good."
And with that, he walked out, leaving her alone in the darkness.
But as the door closed behind him, Miranda's lips curved into a determined smile.
"This isn't over," she whispered to herself, her voice steady and unyielding. "If I don't have you, then no body will."