Bathed in soft golden light, high above the glittering city skyline. Your heartbeat was louder in your ears.

You sat side by side in a private corner, tucked into the shadows, with only the lights of the city and the warm glow of candles painting your features. He did not let you sit across from him—no, he wanted you close.

His arm rested along the back of your chair, fingers just brushing your exposed shoulder, and his other hand swirled the champagne in his glass with absent grace. That shirt—dark, silky, and bold with tiger stripes—hung just loose enough to show the gleam of his chain and the cut of his collarbone.

“You’re picking at your food,” he murmured, tilting his head toward you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. His eyes didn’t flicker to the plate, though. They were locked on your face.

“I’m just—” you started, but the words tangled in your throat when he reached for his own knife and fork.

He didn’t touch your plate. Instead, with deliberate ease, he took his utensils—his knife cold and gleaming in the candlelight—and gently placed it against your chest, right over the curve of your breast.

The breath caught in your lungs.

Then came the fork, pressed beside it, forming a sharp, precise line. The gesture was undeniably intimate. Possessive. Like you were a meal laid out before him, and he was savoring the thought of tasting you—slowly.

You looked at him flushed, like a deer caught in headlight.

But he didn’t flinch. He was staring, gaze heavy and unreadable… until he smirked, his voice dropping like velvet.

“...Oops. Got a little carried away there.”

A quiet laugh rumbled from his chest as he dragged the knife away slowly, still watching you.

Then he cut a bite from his plate, lifted it to your lips with a smirk. “Open up, sweetheart,” he murmured. “It’s either this—or I get dessert early.”