Chapter 29: The Controlling Type – Part VI

I don’t sleep when preparing to claim someone as my own. The apartment is dim, with warm candlelight casting flattering shadows. It blurs the lines between what one wants and what one needs. My hand glides over the smooth, slate-gray satin dress, which is tight and sculpted. The modest neckline contrasts with a low back, hinting at my curves, inviting but only if I choose.

There’s a slit up the right leg. Not demure. Not accidental. High enough to flash skin when I shift my weight, and I will shift—deliberately. I’m not wearing a bra. Or panties. That’s not for him. That’s for me. I want to feel powerful when I move. I want to feel dangerous under my skin.

My heels click once as I step back from the mirror. Then I take them off. Barefoot is more intimate. More calculated. More predatory.

At 8:00 p.m., there’s a knock. Practiced. Polite. Maybe even respectful.

I wait before answering.

When I open the door, he’s framed in the low hallway light like something out of a lust-fueled daydream. Luke Mire is tall, square-jawed, broad through the chest and shoulders like he could pin a body without effort—and probably has. His skin’s olive-toned, smooth-shaven, and the kind of complexion that flushes easily. His dark hair is cropped short at the sides, slightly mussed on top like he didn’t try too hard—but absolutely did.

He’s wearing a pale button-down, sleeves rolled up just below the elbow. Slacks that fit him well. He smells expensive. Not my scent—but not bad. Masculine. Bold. Confident.

And God help me, he is handsome.

It does something to me—heat low in my belly, instinctive. It hums behind my ribs, flickers behind my thighs. But that reaction isn’t a weakness. It’s fuel. I can work with this. I can use this.

I don’t smile. I don’t compliment. I step aside.

“Come in.”

He walks in with that too-sure gait—shoulders back, spine straight. The kind of walk that says he’s used to being looked at. Used to being obeyed.

He’s going to hate what I do to him.

I don’t offer him a seat. I don’t offer a drink. I turn and walk toward the kitchen, slow and intentional, the slit of my dress opening with each step to show the soft inside of one thigh.

I can feel his eyes track me—hips, legs, curve of my spine. Good.

I stop at the counter and pick up the water glass I set there earlier. My fingers wrap around the rim as I sip, my throat tilting, my pulse steady. I don’t look at him yet. Just let the silence stretch like a net.

“I wanted your opinion on something,” I say, voice low. “About power. About control.”

He says nothing.

So I turn around.

He’s watching me like he’s trying not to. That tight jaw, the slight flex in his throat when he swallows. He’s aroused already. Not obvious, not yet. But it’s coming.

I cross the distance between us, slowly. My hand grazes the top of his shirt near the shoulder, adjusting nothing and touching just because I can.

“You talk a big game, Luke,” I murmur. “I’m curious if you know how to back it up.”

His brow tics. “I know what I am.”

I smirk.

“No,” I whisper, stepping closer. “You know what you think you are.”

And I intend to take that from him—piece by piece.

He tries to look composed.

That’s the first tell.

He walks deeper into the room like he owns space, but his eyes are betraying him. He doesn’t look at my face. Not right away. His gaze dips, hovers just below my collarbone—drags, slow and unwilling, across the lines of the dress. The satin feels like skin to me. Smooth. Tight. Barely moving as I breathe.

His throat flexes once, and the muscles in his jaw twitch.

He looks away too fast.

But I catch it. I catch everything.

Then he sees the slit—how it parts with every step, how much thigh I’ve left visible, how high it cuts when I lean my hip just slightly toward the candlelight. I watch the change in his stance. It’s nearly imperceptible, but it’s there: the shift of his weight, the tension building low in his abdomen. He adjusts his feet, like something’s starting to press against his zipper, and he doesn’t want me to notice.

I notice.

Of course I do.

Luke is already hard. Not fully, not yet. But it’s annoying him. Enough that he’s trying to suppress it. Pretend he’s unaffected.

That’s adorable.

He’s not used to being this off-balance and not used to women weaponizing what they wear, how they move. Or maybe he is—but none of them had my patience. My focus. My precision.

I lean against the counter, one hand bracing my weight behind me, the other lifting the water glass to my lips again. I keep my gaze level. Controlled. There’s power in letting him know I see everything—I don’t react.

He’s aroused. I’m not flattered.

I shift slightly where I stand, just enough for my thigh to slide along the inside of the slit, fabric sliding against skin. The dress pulls tighter across my hips, the satin pressing up between my legs in a way that sparks a flicker of pressure right where it counts. I let it happen. I want him to look. Not because I need him to, but because I know he won’t be able to control his eyes from gazing at my slit.

I don’t even get to count to three before his eyes dip; that's just a reaction every guy has to trying to catch a glimpse of panties. I see the shock in his eyes that I am not wearing any. His jaw tightens hard this time. He shifts again, feeling uncomfortable now.

I don’t move. I don’t adjust the fabric. I just let it linger for one long, heavy heartbeat. Let him see the tension I’m holding, and make the mistake of thinking it’s for him.

It isn’t.

Then I straighten, smooth the front of my dress with a single graceful flick of my hand, and continue sipping my water as if I hadn’t just cracked something inside him wide open.

“You’re not drinking,” I say softly.

He clears his throat. “Didn’t think I’d stay long.”

“Oh,” I say, brushing my hand through my hair, letting it fall over one shoulder. “You will.”

He watches my hand move. Watches the hair fall. Watches everything now, as if it might change if he blinks.

I step away from the counter slowly and cross over to him, deliberately keeping each step silent. When I’m close enough to touch, I reach out and trace one finger down the inside of his forearm, just above his sleeve.

His skin jumps.

“You’re used to getting what you want,” I murmur. “But I’m not interested in what you want.”

He opens his mouth, but I keep going—my finger moving to the center of his chest, where I let it rest for a moment.

“I’m interested in what you’ll do when you don’t get it.”