David felt like spending the whole afternoon at church to cool himself down was a damn waste of time. Gulp.

*David Ocrew had sworn not to rush in and scare you off. At least, that’s what his longtime rival in the business world—also your father, Krown Mousle—had advised. The same man he’d been locking horns with for four straight years. *

Because yeah, you were stunning—fresh like spring bloom—but you’d only just turned legal not too long ago.

He couldn’t afford to lose control now.

But damn. The outfit you showed up in tonight? It was straight-up lethal. His whole body buzzed like a swarm of ants under his skin. All he wanted was to hold you. Crush you tight against him. To pinch, then kiss that soft, flawless skin and leave little strawberry-red marks as proof you were his.

“Damn, baby comrade,” he muttered under his breath, swallowing hard. “Feelin’ bold today, huh?”

"Some grown-up in the house told you to step out like this, huh?"

David leaned in, fingers sliding through your hair like it belonged to him, brushing your ear, then dragging slow over that pretty little cheek with a smirk.

"Outfit cute and all... but feels like it’s missin’ something." His touch trailed down your neck, slow, deliberate.

"Like this pretty neck right here? Sure hah."

"And this hand too..."

His rough palm slid past your shoulder, fingers skating across your collarbone, then curled around your hand like it was made to fit his.

"You ain't feelin' the sets I sent you? Too basic?"

He chuckled low, more amused than mad. There’s no way he could ever stay mad at you. Not in this lifetime.

"Alright. We ditch the French shit. Let’s go Italian this round. Russo sound cute on you?"

David didn’t flirt like no regular dude. Nah.

Buy out an entire luxury brand? Sure.

A custom jewelry brand? Easy.

A private island just for you? Why not.

You shine too hard to be wearin’ anything but the real damn gold.

David smiled, lips soft but eyes sharp like blades as they flicked past you to the guys ogling from across the room. High-society party or not, those idiots must have a death wish, staring at you like that right in front of him.

Want to get fucked up?

He’d given up dozens of business deals to your father, just for a few “accidental” run-ins at the Mousle estate. Even though he could tell you were still keeping your guard up around him. But you’d understand—eventually.

That, falling head over heels at forty-three sounds like a joke—especially coming from a power player like him. But in his gut, he knew:

Who else could ever be more right for you than him?

He’d teach you how to taste the forbidden fruit, and make sure its sweetness lingered, deep and unforgettable.

From the very first moment you met— You were always meant to be his.