Chapter 60 A kiss so dangerous
IRIS
The restaurant is dimly lit, the kind of place where the candles do more work than the chandeliers. Soft jazz plays in the background, blending seamlessly with the gentle clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations.
I sit across from Darian at a table adorned with crisp white linen and gleaming silverware.
He looks effortlessly elegant tonight, his dark suit tailored to perfection, the top button of his shirt undone just enough to hint at the strength beneath.
His eyes, those intense, stormy eyes, meet mine, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us.
"You look beautiful, Iris," he says, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down my spine.
I smile, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. "Thank you, Darian. You clean up well yourself."
He chuckles, and it's a sound I realize I've come to cherish. Over the past few days, we've spent more time together than ever before. His suspension from duties has given us the opportunity to connect, to explore the undercurrents that have always existed between us.
But with that closeness comes a tension that's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Every glance, every accidental touch, feels charged, like a spark waiting to ignite a fire.
The waiter arrives, placing our meals before us with practiced grace. I pick up my fork, but my appetite is secondary to the awareness of Darian's presence.
"So, how have you been spending your newfound free time?" I ask, attempting to steer the conversation into safer waters.
He leans back slightly, considering. "I've been thinking." He pauses, his gaze fixed on me. "Mostly thinking about you."
My heart skips a beat, and I struggle to maintain composure. "Darian..."
He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "Iris, I know how the situation is.” I hate that he refers to the whole bond thing and Adira drama as a situation, but I keep quiet , chewing slowly on my food.
He continues, “But every moment with you makes that promise harder to keep."
I look down at our hands, the contact sending a jolt through me.
He stares at me for a bit before speaking again. “Is the food too fancy for your taste?” he asks, his voice low and smooth.
“Why? I’m not the one who looked at the menu like it personally offended me,” I shoot back, trying to distract myself.
His lips twitch. “Fair point.”
The silence that follows shouldn’t be heavy. We’re just eating, talking and breathing the same air.
But I feel him. Every time he shifts, leans back in his seat, fingers tapping lightly against his glass, I feel it like a pull in the center of my chest.
The tension between us has thickened over the past few days with charged glances, hands brushing too long and silences that feel more like stares. He’s been around more. Less guarded. Less busy. And somehow, more dangerous.
I take a sip of wine, desperate to cool the heat curling in my stomach.
“Tell me something,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “Did you know this restaurant has exactly five exits, two of which are hidden behind the bar?”
His brow lifts. “Are you planning an escape?”
“Maybe,” I murmur, “if you keep staring at me like that.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Can you blame me?”
My breath catches.
I know I should look away, shift the energy, do anything to break the moment, but I can’t. The way he looks at me is unraveling me thread by thread.
“Iris,” he says, and I swear he’s trying to ruin me.
“Yes?” My voice is barely audible.
He leans forward, and suddenly it’s just the two of us in this crowded room. “I’ve been trying to be good. To keep things easy between us.”
I blink, heart pounding. “And?”
“I’m not doing a great job.”
The words hit me low, like a spark in dry grass. I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how close our feet are under the table, how warm the room is, and how the air between us feels static.
“Maybe I don’t want you to be good,” I say before I can stop myself.
His jaw clenches. “Careful.”
“Why?”
“Because if you keep talking like that, Iris, I might forget we’re still in public.”
My breath leaves me in one sharp exhale. I press my thighs together under the table and look away, flustered, annoyed at myself for how easily he can do this to me.
He doesn’t press. He just watches me with that unreadable expression while the waiter sets down our dessert. I barely even register what it is.
Darian picks up his fork, scoops a bite, and offers it to me.
“Really?” I arch a brow.
“Say no and I’ll eat it myself.”
I lean in, keeping my gaze locked with his as I close my lips around the fork. The bite is sweet, rich, but all I can taste is him watching me.
His eyes darken just slightly.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he mutters.
“You started it.”
He leans back in his chair, like he’s trying to create distance, but his eyes never leave me. His hands flex on the table. He looks tense. Coiled. Like a man trying very hard not to do something reckless.
And God, I want him to be reckless.
Ever since that night when he fucked me senseless, I’ve wanted nothing more than to experience it all over again.
But instead, he pays the bill and offers me his hand. I take it, and even that small touch feels like a fuse being lit.
Outside, the night air is cool, but it does nothing to settle the heat burning beneath my skin. We don’t speak for a moment, walking slowly, his hand brushing mine but never quite holding it. The tension follows us like a shadow.
He stops walking.
“I don’t think I can pretend this is nothing anymore,” he says, voice rougher than usual.
“I’m not pretending,” I admit, heart hammering in my chest.
He looks at me, then, really looks. “I want to kiss you right now.”
“Then kiss me.”
It’s not soft. It’s not shy.
His hands are on my face, his mouth on mine, and I melt into him like I’ve been waiting very impatiently since that one night. The kiss is hungry, restrained only by the last threads of control. His fingers slide into my hair. My hands grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to him like the ground beneath me might disappear.
And maybe it already has.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathless. His forehead rests against mine.
“This thing between us,” he whispers, “it’s not going away.”
I nod. “I don’t want it to.”
Not anymore.
Not when he kisses me like that.