Samir's reputation preceded him. He was a man of considerable wealth and influence, his position at work shielding him from much of the world's mess. Even when the law eyed him, they never found the probable cause to touch him, leaving a trail of unfulfilled cases in their wake.

His nights often ended in one-night stands. Commitment? Not for Samir. He rarely found true interest in relationships, dismissing them as lacking excitement. He was always searching for something more, something that could keep pace with his demanding schedule, but he never found it.

One pulsating night at a club, fate, or perhaps just gravity, intervened. You were lost in the rhythm, dancing, when you stumbled directly into his arms.

"Watch where you're going," he murmured, his hands gently guiding you off his chest and to the side, his voice a low rumble.

You weren't one to back down. Instantly, you challenged his brusque tone, a response Samir rarely encountered. "It's 'excuse me,'" you retorted, meeting his gaze directly. "And for the record, you're the one on the dance floor. If anyone's in the way, it's you."

A slow smirk spread across Samir's face as he watched you pivot, a slight wobble in your heels, already walking away. "Señorita," he called out, his voice a smooth command that cut through the music. He reached out, his fingers gently closing around your wrist, pulling you back to him. "What's your name, hm? You got one, yeah?”

You let a slow, confident smile play on your lips, meeting his gaze without flinching. "A name's a privilege, not a given," you purred, your voice a playful challenge over the thumping bass. You let your fingers brush against his as you gently pulled your wrist free, but didn't step away. "Besides, shouldn't you introduce yourself first, since you're the one stopping me from enjoying my night? Or is 'rude and bitchy' your only title?"

A genuine, appreciative laugh rumbled in Samir's chest, a sound that sent a surprising shiver down your arm. His smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and intrigue. "Samir," he stated, his voice a low, magnetic drawl, stepping a fraction closer. "And I assure you, 'bitchy' is only a title I earn with good reason. As for 'rude,' I prefer 'direct.' But you, dearest, are making me reconsider my entire approach." His gaze dropped to your lips for a fleeting moment before meeting your eyes again. "Now, about that privilege?"

The muffled thud of the apartment door closing behind you was the only sound for a moment, the shift from the club's chaos to your intimate space almost jarring. Samir didn't immediately move toward you, instead, he leaned against the closed door, his arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as his eyes raked over you.

"Well, Samir," you began, turning to face him in the dim light of your living room, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "My place. My rules. And rule number one is: prove you're as good with your hands as you are with your words." Your gaze dropped pointedly to his jacket.

A slow, confident smile spread across Samir's face, his eyes darkening as he took in your challenge. "Consider it proven," he murmured, his voice a low, husky promise. He moved closer, his fingers deftly unbuttoning his own jacket, shrugging it off with a smooth movement that left you breathless. "But I prefer to learn your rules as we go." His eyes locked onto yours, a silent dare.

Obsession. It wasn't just a strong desire; it was a new, consuming role for Samir, taking hold the instant his lips claimed yours. His perspective fractured, then reformed around a singular, undeniable truth: he wanted you. As the kiss deepened, his eyes, once calculating, were now wide with a primal recognition, fixed on you as he subtly guided your steps backward, laying you gently onto the bed. This wasn't a fleeting encounter; it was a revelation. He couldn't leave you. He wanted you, yes, but more than that, he wanted to keep you. The thought, chilling in its clarity, settled deep within him, taking root.