Clementine, a social media manager with fiery red hair and emerald green eyes, was a contradiction. Shy in person, her mind buzzed with fascinating trivia just waiting for the right listener.
Sebastian Montgomery as the tabloids dubbed him, was an...
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Clementine barely remembers the drive back to the office.
She knows she sat stiffly in the passenger seat, fingers tangled in the hem of her skirt, hyper-aware of every breath, every shift of the car, every fleeting glance from the man beside her. But she doesn't remember a word spoken.
Because there weren't any.
Sebastian didn't say a thing.
Not about the meeting. Not about the hotel. Not about the way his fingers had grazed the sensitive skin of her throat when he buttoned her coat.
And definitely not about Melanie Laurent.
The image lodges itself in her brain, unshakable, ugly, consuming.
Sebastian standing by the door, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up. The way he looks at her, really looks at her—not with the cold detachment he reserves for Clementine, but with something else. Something dark. Something dangerous.
And Melanie—Melanie with her perfect red lips, her effortless confidence, the way she had touched him so easily, so naturally, like she had every right to.
Did she touch his arm when no one was looking?
Did she lean in too close, whisper something in his ear, something that made his mouth twitch, his fingers flex?
Did he let her?
Clementine grips the pen tighter, her breath shallow.
Because now she's thinking about it.
Really thinking about it.
Sebastian's room, dimly lit. The scent of his cologne lingering in the air, heady, masculine, unmistakable.
Melanie sitting on the edge of the bed, tilting her chin up at him, that sultry little smirk on her lips.
I always wondered what you'd be like in bed, Mr. Montgomery.
And Sebastian—he wouldn't laugh, wouldn't smile, but he wouldn't stop her, either.
He'd just look at her. Assessing. Silent.
And then, maybe, he'd reach for her.
Maybe he'd sink his fingers into her hair, tilt her head back, drag his thumb over her bottom lip just to see how she reacts.
Maybe he'd kiss her, slow at first, then harder, until she was breathless, until she was his.
Clementine's stomach twists.
Because it's too easy to imagine it.
Too easy to picture him undoing the buttons of her blouse, pushing it off her shoulders, watching as it pools at her feet.
Too easy to hear the rustle of sheets, the soft hitch of breath, the low, rough sound of his voice against Melanie's skin.
