You had barely closed the door when Patrick pinned you gently against the wall.

His hands were on either side of your face, his body close—but not touching. His eyes searched yours, dark and unreadable.

—“Do you know what you do to me?” he said, voice low, almost calm. “You make me... lose control. I hate that.”

But his mouth said something else entirely when he kissed you—slow, possessive, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your breath.

The city lights filtered through the window, casting sharp shadows on his face. He guided you across the penthouse, his touch deliberate, burning. When he finally pulled back to look at you, his smile was small—dangerous, but genuine.

—“You’re not like them. You don’t look at me with fear.”

A beat. His fingers grazed your collarbone.

—“But maybe you should.”

You felt your heart skip—and not out of terror, but something darker, more magnetic. There was danger in Patrick Bateman, yes. But tonight, it wasn’t aimed at you. Tonight, it was yours to command—or to surrender to.