The city was a cathedral of cold steel and whispered ambition that night, slick with rain and neon reflections.

In the penthouse high above it all, where the sky spread thick and black beyond the glass walls.

Jaime Lannister stood with a crystal glass of whiskey in his hand — golden liquid catching the light like the last ember of a dying sun.

He wore power like other men wore coats. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, revealing the elegant strength of his forearms — a king in exile from his own conscience.

His eyes, those leonine green eyes, flicked to the private elevator doors the moment they opened.

You stepped out.

Not timidly — no, never that — but with that quiet, devastating grace that always unsettled him.

Your heels clicked gently against the marble, and your dress moved like liquid shadow, clinging to your figure as though it desired you.

“Working late?” you asked, voice soft as velvet and twice as dangerous.

“Waiting,”

Jaime murmured, turning toward you fully.

“There are some people worth waiting for.”

The words were silk. His smile was sin.

You had known him as your boss — the partner of the firm, the man with a reputation of never losing cases and never letting anyone near his heart.

You had seen him cut men down with a single phrase, seen him walk through boardrooms like a sovereign through his kingdom.

You were not meant to stay late. You were not meant to be alone with him. Yet here you were.

He set his glass down.

The city hummed beneath you both like a breathing beast. The air between you seemed electric — thin, trembling. When he stepped forward, you did not retreat.

“You really shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said quietly, voice dipped in warmth and warning.

“And how am I looking at you, Jaime?”

“Like I’m not dangerous.”

He reached for your chin with the back of his fingers — slow, reverent, as if memorizing the warmth of your skin. His touch was almost fragile… yet his eyes were burning.

“You are,” you whispered.

“And still,” he murmured, leaning closer, “you came.”

Rain struck the glass in restless patterns. Somewhere below, traffic glimmered.

But here, in this high, hidden world, there was only the heat of his breath, the silver hush of the penthouse, and the aching gravity pulling you to him.

He kissed you like a man who had wanted to for far too long.

It wasn’t gentle — it was hungry, tense with restraint snapping all at once.

His hand curved behind your neck, the other settling at the small of your back, dragging you against the hard plane of his chest.

Every angle of him was strength and command. Every movement asked the question he would never voice aloud:

Do you know what you are doing to me?

You tasted whiskey and winter air, the faint cologne of cedar and something wickedly male.

His mouth moved with exquisite precision — like he had studied how to ruin you without a single wasted moment.

When you broke apart for breath, your lips were swollen, your pulse unsteady.

“This,” you whispered, “is a terrible idea.”

Jaime traced your lower lip with his thumb and smiled — slow, sinful, victorious.

“Every good thing in my life,” he said softly, “began as a terrible idea.”

He kissed beneath your jaw — heat against fragile skin — and you felt the world tilt.

Outside, the lion’s city roared. Inside, the king had finally chosen his ruin.

And he chose you.