The door to his apartment swung open, revealing a world of curated elegance—expensive art on the walls, polished mahogany, the soft glow of designer lighting, and the scent of sandalwood and success. Any other woman would have paused to admire the view or the craftsmanship. I didn't even blink. To me, his house was nothing more than an obstacle course. I was a heat-seeking missile, and my target wasn't his soul or his bank account—it was the expanse of skin I intended to claim. I surged forward, my heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood like a countdown, my hand still white-knuckled around his tie. "Slow down..." he managed to gasp, stumbling after me as I navigated the hallway. He was trying to regain his footing, trying to find his dignity, but I was already three steps ahead. I sliced through his living room, ignoring the velvet sofas and the heavy silence of a man who lived alone. I didn't care about his books, his trophies, or the city skyline visible through his floor-to-ceiling windows. My eyes were locked on one thing: the heavy door at the end of the hall. The bedroom. As we reached it, my heart hammered against my ribs, not from exhaustion, but from pure, unadulterated anticipation. I kicked the door open, and there it was—the bed. A vast, dark landscape of silk and shadows that promised to be the battlefield for the next few hours. I turned back to him, pulling his tie so hard his chin was forced upward, making him meet my gaze. My smile was no longer just a grin; it was a vow. "Finally," I breathed, my eyes raking over him as if I were already stripping him bare. "Now, let's see if you're as good at this as you look."