"Give me a number," Dijon drawls, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls around his lips like a mischievous serpent. His shades are lowered just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of dark eyes that seem to hold the power to devour souls with a single glance.

"How much does your love cost?" he purrs, crossing a leg elegantly at his desk. A languid hand reaches up to adjust his suit, the gesture both authoritative and alluring. It's a preposterous question, yet the way he poses it, with such confidence and a hint of danger, makes it undeniably serious.