It crept up on him like a whisper. Delicate, floral, with just a hint of spice—like jasmine blooming at midnight, touched by moonlight and mystery.
It wasn't just pleasant; it was devastating. The aroma wrapped around him, slid into his lungs, and coiled low in his gut with heat.
His eyes narrowed slightly. He'd never slled anything like it. It wasn't synthetic, it wasn't cheap—this was sothing else. Exotic. Primal.
He felt his body react before he had ti to brace for it—his heartbeat quickened, blood surged downward, and his pants grew tight in a way that made standing still suddenly uncomfortable.
He inhaled again, unintentionally, and the reaction only deepened. His thoughts flickered, unbidden, to things better left unspoken.
What the hell is this perfu…?
Unbeknownst to Thomas, the fragrance had a story. It wasn't sothing picked up from a high-end store or crafted by so luxury boutique.
No—this perfu had been one of Ross Oakley's more extravagant indulgences.
Ross wanted a perfu gift to his wives and he let his undead servants scour the entire multiverse for a fitting item.
He only wanted the best for his wives also and he brought only the best for them in the end.
It wasn't ant to be sold, let alone worn by a human woman. It was a scent brewed with intent—to beguile, to seduce, to tempt.
Ross had bought it for his wife not just as a gift, but as a mark of possession.
And now, it was assaulting every one of Thomas's senses.
He clenched his jaw, trying to steady his breath. This wasn't the ti to lose control. Not now.
He forced his gaze upward, away from the subtle curve of her waist behind the desk, away from the small glimpse of smooth skin peeking beneath the collar of her silk blouse.
He focused instead on stillness. Discipline. Will.
He stood there silently, waiting, his hands relaxed at his sides, betraying none of the storm raging beneath his skin.
At last, the woman looked up from her papers.
Her eyes t his.
And the room shifted.
She paused, blinking once as if unsure she was seeing him correctly. And then, slowly, she smiled.
It wasn't just a polite smile—it was the kind that softened the edges of her face, lit her eyes with quiet amusent, and made sothing flutter in Thomas's chest he hadn't expected.
Her beauty, already striking, beca sothing else entirely. The soft curve of her lips, the glint in her eyes, the subtle blush that colored her cheeks—it all ca together in a mont of disarming perfection.
"I apologize for the wait, Mr. Jones," she said, her voice calm and professional, though Thomas detected the faintest tremor of curiosity. "Please, take a seat."
Her tone was courteous, but the mont her gaze took in the full view of him—his stature, his chiseled face, the confidence in the way he carried himself—her expression changed.
There was a flicker. A mont of pause. Her breath caught, almost imperceptibly, and Thomas saw the way her pupils dilated ever so slightly.
He wasn't just handso. He was dangerous. And the effect was imdiate.
He let his lips curl into a faint smile—not too cocky, but just enough. Enough to let her know he'd noticed. Enough to fan the fla.
"Thank you," he replied, his voice a deep, velvet baritone that filled the space between them with warmth.
She blinked again, trying to compose herself. Thomas could practically feel the heat rising from her skin.
It made him wonder how often Ross ca to visit. How long had it been since she'd been seen like this—as a woman, not a wife or a trophy?
He moved to the chair across from her, his steps slow, deliberate, confident.
He sat down, crossing one leg over the other, resting his hand on the armrest, completely at ease.
The silence lingered between them, not awkward, but charged.
"Well, Mr. Jones," she said at last, clearing her throat gently, "what can I help you with today?"
Thomas didn't answer imdiately. He took a mont to look at her. Really look.
She was composed, polished—an image of the perfect corporate woman. But behind that exterior, there was sothing else. A spark.
A crack in the porcelain. And Thomas saw it. He always saw it.
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I think," he said slowly, "you already know why I'm here."
Her lips parted, but no words ca out. Not right away.
The ga had begun.
"I don't think I understand what you're trying to say, Mr. Jones," Mrs. Oakley said with a hint of suspicion in her voice, her brows pulling into a faint frown.
"Thomas," he said smoothly. "Please, call Thomas." His voice was low, rich, with a kind of quiet confidence that seed to settle into the space between them. "And may I call you Jade?"
Jade blinked at him, caught off guard by the easy intimacy in his tone. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, he smiled.
It wasn't forced or polite—it was genuine, warm, and devastatingly charming. It made her stomach flip.
She felt it instantly—the shift in atmosphere, the quiet hum in the air that hadn't been there a mont ago.
That smile lit up his entire face, and for a second, she forgot how to breathe. It wasn't just that he was handso.
It was the way he carried himself—relaxed, confident, undeniably masculine.
Her breath hitched slightly as he stepped closer and extended a hand toward her.
It wasn't a demand—just a quiet invitation. But it sent her pulse racing.
For a mont, she hesitated, unsure if she should take it. Touching him felt like stepping into dangerous territory.
But sothing inside her—curiosity, maybe, or sothing deeper—compelled her to close the distance.
She slipped her hand into his.
The contact was imdiate, electric.
Her fingers curled instinctively around his, and a rush of heat blood through her chest and fluttered low in her belly.
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