I watched it happen in real-time. Her breath caught—audible even from across the room. Her wine glass froze halfway to her lips. Her entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing like she'd been struck by lightning.

Her pupils dilated immediately. The wine glass in her hand trembled. A visible shiver ran through her—starting at her shoulders and cascading down her spine. Her lips parted, breath coming faster, shallower.

Dissolving the walls she'd built. Surfacing desires she'd buried under seventeen years of being Antonio Torres's wife. Making her feel things that should've been impossible.

She was forty-three. I was sixteen. Her daughter's fiancé. Every logical part of her brain was screaming that this was wrong, inappropriate, impossible.

But her body didn't care about logic.

The aura whispered to something primal in her. Something that recognized strength, power, virility.

And it wasn't just attraction. It was need. Visceral and overwhelming. The kind of need that made you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

She'd met Eros at Voyeur Wellness Center. Had kissed him. Had felt a fraction of this very power. But that had been controlled. Deliberate. A specific encounter in a specific context.

This? This was different. This was Peter Carter—young, brilliant, engaged to her daughter—radiating something that made every cell in her body scream recognition even as her mind tried desperately to deny it.

Her hand tightened on her wine glass hard enough I thought it might shatter. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the plunging neckline drawing attention to the flush spreading across her skin. Her thighs pressed together unconsciously, like her body was already responding in ways she couldn't control.

I didn't break eye contact. Not once.

Every step I took across the marble floor was deliberate, slow, like I was walking through water made of her pulse. The Taboo Aura thickened with every foot closer, coiling around her hips, sliding up under that lethal dress, licking at places she hadn't let anyone touch in years.

Sabrina couldn't move.

Her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow pulls, each breath dragging the edge of that plunging neckline lower, threatening to spill perfection right onto the white tablecloth. The flush had reached her cheeks now, two bright flags of surrender on that flawless face. A single drop of condensation slid down the bowl of her wineglass, tracing the exact path I suddenly wanted my tongue to follow down her throat, between her breasts, lower.

She felt it. I saw her feel it.

Her thighs clenched again (harder this time), the slit parting another dangerous inch. I caught the faintest flex of muscle high on her inner thigh, like her body was already trying to ease an ache she didn't have words for yet.

I stopped right beside Antonio, who was still beaming, still oblivious, arms half-open for the bro-hug he thought was coming.

Sabrina's gaze dropped (just for a fraction of a second) to my mouth. Then lower. To the open collar of my shirt. To the faint shadow of the mark Madison had left on my neck this morning. Her tongue touched her lower lip, a quick, helpless flick, before she caught herself.

Too late. I saw it.

I saw everything.

The way her nipples had tightened beneath that thin emerald silk, two hard points begging for teeth. The way her free hand had curled into a fist on the tablecloth, knuckles white, like she was physically holding herself in her chair. The microscopic rock of her hips (barely there, but unmistakable), grinding against the seat like her body had already decided it needed friction and her mind hadn't been consulted.

Years of perfect manners, charity galas, and "yes, dear" in response to Antonio's indifferent touches, and in ten seconds I had her soaked through her panties in front of her husband and daughter.

I finally let my gaze drag down her body (slow, possessive, deliberate), lingering on the obscene plunge of her neckline, on the tremor in her cleavage, on that slit flashing miles of golden thigh. When I dragged my eyes back up to hers, I let every filthy thing I wanted to do to her bleed straight through the smirk.

Her breath stuttered. A tiny, broken sound escaped the back of her throat (so quiet only I heard it).

It sounded a lot like please.

I let my lips curve slowly. Not a polite smile. Not a friendly greeting. But something else entirely. I did not even bother to toggle on my Plea.

A smirk that held knowledge. A grin that promised secrets. An expression that said I know exactly what you're remembering. I know what you felt. I know what you wanted. And we both know it wasn't a dream.

It was the same look I, as Eros had given her before their kiss. The same dangerous promise.

And Sabrina Torres—sophisticated, control freak, elegant Sabrina—looked like she'd been struck by lightning.

Her hand tightened on her wine glass. Her pulse visible in her throat. Her lips parted slightly, breath coming faster.

Every cell in her body was screaming recognition even as her mind tried desperately to deny it.

Her thighs pressed together under the table (an involuntary, desperate little squeeze). The slit in her dress parted another lethal inch. She didn't notice. She couldn't. Every ounce of that famous composure was currently busy trying to keep her from moaning out loud.

I let the smirk come slow. Lethal. The exact same crooked tilt I'd given her right before I kissed her senseless in that private suite. The one that said I own every dirty little secret you're pretending you don't have.

Her lips parted on a silent gasp. The wineglass shook so hard I was genuinely surprised it didn't shatter.

Recognition. Hunger. Terror. All three at once.

Seventeen years of being the perfect trophy wife to Antonio Torres, and in three seconds flat I turned her into a live wire.

Antonio, bless his oblivious heart, chose that exact moment to spot me.

"Peter!" he boomed, rising from his chair with arms spread like I was the prodigal son returned. "There he is! My boy! Come here!"

Oh, boy.

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