My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the club’s relentless bass. Go somewhere quieter? With him? A man whose suit probably cost more than my entire semester’s tuition? Panic was a cold fist in my stomach, but underneath it, a treacherous little flame flickered – curiosity, yes, and something hotter, darker.
His smile didn't waver; it deepened, as if he could read every chaotic thought racing through my mind. “Don’t look so terrified, Amelia.” His voice was still that low, hypnotic rumble that seemed to bypass my ears and resonate deep in my chest. “It’s just an offer.”
He lifted a hand, his fingers lightly brushing my arm where a stray drop of my spilled drink had landed. The casual touch sent a jolt through me, way more potent than the cheap vodka. “Though I admit, I’d prefer a yes.” His thumb gently wiped the moisture away, his skin warm against mine. Just like that, a simple gesture felt incredibly intimate. The air crackled. I swear it did.
I swallowed, my throat tight. “I… I should tell my friend,” I managed, my voice a thin, shaky thing. My eyes darted towards where Chloe was, still watching, her expression a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated glee. This was exactly the kind of trouble she loved to see me get into.
Damien’s gaze followed mine for a split second before returning to my face, even more focused, more intense. He didn’t rush me. He just waited, an easy confidence radiating off him that was both intimidating and incredibly alluring. “Of course. Your friend.”
Then he leaned in a fraction closer, his scent – sandalwood and something uniquely masculine – wrapping around me. “There’s a lounge, just a couple of blocks from here. The Oberon. It’s quiet. Perfect for… conversation.” His eyes, a warm, dangerous hazel in the club lights, held mine. “My name is Damien, by the way. Damien Maxwell.”
Damien Maxwell. The name echoed in my head. It sounded… significant. Expensive. Powerful. My knees felt suspiciously weak, and not just from Chloe’s borrowed heels. My skin prickled, a strange heat flushing through me at the way he said his own name, like a quiet claim. He watched me, a tiny, almost imperceptible curve to his lips, knowing he had me teetering on some invisible edge.
I looked over at Chloe again. She was practically bouncing, giving me two enthusiastic thumbs-up. Her grin was so wide it looked like it might split her face. So much for a subtle escape plan if this Damien Maxwell turned out to be a creep. Chloe was already planning our wedding, I could tell.
Damn it. What was I supposed to do? This was insane. I didn’t go off with strange, devastatingly handsome billionaires. I went home and stress-ate cereal while re-reading romance novels. This only happened in books, not to Amelia Hayes, architecture student extraordinaire in awkward social situations.
But his eyes… they promised things I’d only ever fantasized about. An adventure. Maybe a disaster. Probably a disaster. But what if… what if it wasn’t?
The desire to just say yes, to throw caution to the wind and see what happened, was a dizzying, terrifying rush. My pulse throbbed in my throat.
Damien waited, utterly patient. His unwavering gaze was like a warm hand on my back, gently urging me forward. There was no pressure in it, just a calm expectation that I would eventually see things his way. It was strangely compelling, this quiet certainty of his.
Before I could form another coherent thought, or more likely, stammer another excuse, Chloe was suddenly beside me. She’d navigated the throng with the speed and determination of a heat-seeking missile aimed squarely at my indecision.
She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in slightly. “Well?” she hissed, her voice a low, urgent whisper in my ear, her eyes wide and sparkling with mischief and excitement. Her breath smelled faintly of vodka and opportunity.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I just sort of… gaped at her, then at Damien, who was watching us with an expression of amused interest. He was enjoying this, the bastard. He knew he had backup.
Chloe gave my arm a little shake, a not-so-gentle nudge. “Amelia,” she whispered fiercely, her eyes flicking to Damien, then back to me, full of meaning. “For God’s sake, go for it, you idiot! He’s a ten! A certifiable, smoking hot, probably-rich-as-sin ten! What in the actual hell are you waiting for? A written invitation from the Pope?”
Her voice, though a whisper, was filled with such conviction it almost physically pushed me. Her eyes pleaded with me to not screw this up. Then, she gave me a small, but decisive, shove towards him. Just a little nudge from her shoulder to mine, but it was enough to make me stumble a step closer to Damien Maxwell, and to whatever came next.
