Chapter 92 Ways to Entertain
Chapter 92 Ways to Entertain
He wasn't looking at me. Instead, he was fumbling with what looked like an expensive windproof lighter, trying to coax the last candle on the table to life.
The sea breeze seemed determined to mock him.
He struck once—flame flared, then died instantly.
Struck again—gone.
I watched frustration creep across that sharp, handsome face, the kind of face that usually stayed composed no matter the situation. Arthur, the man who could reduce human lives to numbers without blinking, was being defeated by a single candle.
I couldn't help it. A laugh slipped out.
The sound was embarrassingly loud in the quiet night.
His head snapped up. Amber eyes caught mine, flashing first with the awkwardness of being caught, then with something else—something warmer, sharper.
His gaze drifted downward, stopping at the deep wine-red dress clinging to me. His Adam's apple moved, hard and slow.
"You…" His voice was low, rough.
A stronger gust swept through, cutting him off.
The lighter slipped from his hand, clattering onto the carpet.
He bent to retrieve it, elbow catching the champagne bucket beside him.
The ice bucket tipped. A bottle worth more than most people's rent rolled free, scattering ice across the floor, leaving dark water stains in its wake.
The air froze.
I stared at him—one hand clutching the useless lighter, the other steadying the bucket—looking utterly lost.
I broke.
Laughter tore out of me, sharp and breathless, until tears pricked my eyes.
"Arthur," I said, pointing at the chaos, my voice dripping with mockery. "This is your idea of a date? I've cleaned up crime scenes more organized than this."
His expression was utterly priceless.
He straightened, shoved the lighter into his pocket, and walked toward me—slowly, deliberately.
"Yeah," he said when he reached me, his height casting me in shadow, the candlelight flickering in his eyes and reflecting my smile. "Looks like I'm not exactly good at this."
He leaned down, heat rolling off him, his voice a low rasp edged with self-deprecation.
"My heart jolted.
The laughter died in my throat.
I saw the unguarded sincerity in his eyes, and it hit me hard—right in the softest part of me.
It hurt. And it burned.
"It's fine," I heard myself say, softer than I intended. "I'm not good at it either."
His gaze sharpened, bright in the dim light.
The air between us thickened, heavy with something unspoken.
I could hear his breathing deepen, feel the pull of his presence, smell that clean, commanding scent that belonged only to him.
"You know," I said, lifting my hand to touch the second button of his shirt, sliding my fingers downward, slow.
"There's a better way to keep the mood alive."
His body went rigid.
"What?" His voice cracked, rougher than before.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I met his eyes, rose on my toes, and pressed my lips to his ear.
"Come with me… somewhere with no candles. No champagne."
Before he could react, I grabbed his hand and turned toward the helipad at the edge of the shore.
No railing—only the endless black ocean, silvered under the moonlight.
I stopped at the edge, the wind catching my dress and hair, lifting them like wings about to break free.
I glanced back at him—still standing there, stunned—and smiled wide, reckless.
Then, with his eyes locked on me, I reached for the zipper running down my back.
The wine-red silk slid away like petals drifting down, pooling on the cold deck.
A splash split the night. The ocean swallowed me whole.
The shock of the cold stole my breath, the weightless rush pulling a scream from my throat—half joy, half defiance.
I surfaced, pushing wet hair from my face, looking at the man still on the deck.
"Hey! Arthur!" I called, my voice daring him, teasing him. "Don't tell me you're too scared."
He stood there, moonlight and candlelight tracing the lines of his body.
Then, slowly, he began unbuttoning his shirt.
One. Two…
When the soaked fabric was nearly free, the buckle of his belt gave a sharp metallic click.
I floated, watching him strip away every layer.
The white linen shirt hit the floor, revealing a chest and abs cut in clean lines, skin bronzed under the moonlight.
Then the suit pants.
When the last piece fell, he stood bare, unapologetic, like a statue carved from bronze and shadow.
My breath caught.
No hesitation—he moved, long strides into a run, then leapt.
The dive was perfect, barely a splash, sleek as a hunting predator slipping beneath the surface.
The water stilled.
My pulse hammered.
Where was he?
I scanned the shimmering expanse, breath tight in my throat. Just as the thought crossed my mind that he might be lingering below, playing some hidden game, something warm and unyielding clamped around my ankle.
I screamed, the shock sending me under.
Salt water filled my mouth, my lungs burning as I coughed.
Then an arm locked around my waist, dragging me up, pulling me hard against a body that was all heat and strength.
"Sophia."
His voice was low, amused, the warmth of his breath a stark contrast to the icy water. "Are you scared?"