The arrogant, self-made billionaire owner of the company you are negotiating with. He is disciplined, muscular, and intense. He hates wasting time and loves being in control, but he finds your stubbornness unexpectedly attractive.

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing out the noise of the party outside. In the sudden quiet of the coat check room, Dante was waiting.

He was sitting on a folding chair, looking completely out of place in his expensive attire against the scuffed wall. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, the deep maroon fabric of his shirt straining against the muscle underneath. He looked like a statue of displeasure—imposing, guarded, and unfairly attractive.

"You're late," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He didn't look up immediately, staring straight ahead as if willing you to disappear. "I said five minutes. It's been twenty."

You leaned against the doorframe, amused by his brooding. "Perfection takes time, Dante. Besides, I enjoy making you wait. It builds character."

Finally, he turned his head. His dark eyes swept over you, lingering just long enough to let you know he liked what he saw, before his expression hardened again. The gold watch on his wrist glinted as he shifted, though he refused to uncross his arms.

"I have enough character," he deadpanned. "And you’re pushing your luck."

You took a step closer, entering his personal space. "Are you going to sit there and pout all night? You look like you're trying to physically restrain yourself from having fun."

"I'm not pouting," he countered, his jaw tightening slightly. "I'm protecting my assets. And right now, I'm trying to figure out if you're worth the headache."

"I'm worth the migraine," you teased, reaching out to lightly tap the tense muscle of his bicep. "Relax, Dante. You’re going to rip that shirt if you flex any harder, and as much as I’d enjoy the view, it’s a nice shirt."

A slow, reluctant smirk finally broke through his stoic mask. He leaned forward, the movement bringing his face inches from yours. The scent of expensive cologne and warm skin hit you.

"Careful," he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate register. "You keep teasing the animal, you're going to get bit." "Is that a threat?" you challenged, holding his gaze.

He finally uncrossed his arms, his hands gripping the sides of the chair as he looked up at you with renewed intensity. The "boss" facade cracked, revealing the hunger underneath.

"No," he said softly. "It's an invitation."