Zen…

“You’re delusional if you think that wine was worth the hype.” Your voice is silk over steel.

“Overripe tannins. No balance.”

His glass halts mid-air. A slow blink. Then, a smirk—dangerous, lazy. “And yet, it outsold yours.”

You step closer, heels clicking against marble. “Popularity doesn’t mean quality, CEO.”

He chuckles, low, rich. “And yet, here you are, tracking my numbers like an obsessed ex.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “Oh, please. If I were your ex, you’d still be crawling back.”

The smirk vanishes. His gaze dips, lingering at your lips. “You think so?”

Something crackles between you—too thick, too loud. Guests are watching. A few exchange glances.

He leans in, breath grazing your ear. “If you want me to crawl, sweetheart, you should ask nicely.”

You exhale sharply, stomach flipping. “You’re insufferable.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you’re still talking to me.”

The tension snaps. He downs his drink, steps past you, and walks out.

You stand there, pulse hammering. People murmur. You inhale, straighten your spine. Damn him.

Five minutes later. Rooftop.

He’s alone, city lights reflecting in his glass.

You fold your arms. “Walking out of your own event? Not very CEO of you.”

He doesn’t turn. Just swirls his wine. “Why are you here?”

You shift on your heels. “I—” The words catch. Apologies aren’t your thing. “You didn’t have to leave.”

He laughs under his breath. “Didn’t I?”

Silence. A breeze lifts your dress slightly. He finally faces you.

Eyes darker. Strained.

“You like this, don’t you?” His voice drops, low and rough. “This back and forth.”

Your throat dries. “I like winning.”

He steps closer. Close enough that you can smell the oak and spice in his cologne. “So do I.”

A beat. Then another. His fingers brush your wrist. Just barely. It shouldn’t feel this electric.

You exhale, tilting your chin. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

His hand slides to your jaw, firm, warm. “Shut up.”

And then his lips crash into yours.

You gasp, hands fisting into his suit as he kisses you like he’s starving for it.

Tongue sweeping, breath ragged, his grip tightens at your waist, pulling you into him.

You don’t resist. Can’t. Your body melts, shivers rolling down your spine as his teeth graze your bottom lip.

“This is—” He pulls back slightly, forehead pressed to yours. “—a fucking mistake.”

“Then stop,” you whisper.

His fingers dig into your hips. A tremor runs through him. “I don’t want to.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper—like he’s savoring every second.

His hands roam—your back, your waist, molding you to him. You arch, heat pooling low.

He growls softly, gripping your thigh and hitching it around his waist. You feel him—hard, aching, needing.

Your back meets the cold rooftop railing. His mouth trails lower, down your jaw, your throat.

“I hate you,” you whisper, breathless.

His teeth graze your collarbone. “No, you don’t.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging. His groan vibrates against your skin.

His knee nudges between your legs. Your dress rides up. “Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head. “I won’t.”

His hand slips under the fabric, fingers teasing, just enough to make you whimper—

Footsteps.

You both freeze. Your pulse slams against your ribs.

Voices. Someone’s coming.

He exhales sharply, pulling back, jaw clenched. Frustration.

Need. Something more.

You both stand there, breathless. Your lipstick smudged, his tie askew.

“Shit,” you whisper.

He drags a hand through his hair, then looks at you. Long. Hard.

“This isn’t over.” His voice is wrecked.

You swallow. “I know.”

You don’t look at him as you step away, smoothing down your dress, catching your breath.

He stays leaning against the railing, jaw clenched, eyes still dark with want.

The voices grow louder. A door creaks open. Someone steps onto the rooftop.

You don’t turn to see who it is.

You just walk away. You feel his gaze burning into your back the entire way down.

Back at the event.

You return to the ballroom, face composed, body still humming.

You find a glass of wine. Sip it too fast. You need something to cool your skin.

Across the room, he steps back inside. Tie loosened. Hair slightly mussed. A muscle ticking in his jaw.

You ignore him. Try to.

He doesn’t ignore you.

People greet him, pull him into conversation, but his eyes flick to you. Once. Twice. Again.

You set your glass down, grab your purse, and head for the exit.

His voice finds you before he does. “Running again?”

You stop, exhale. Turn. “From what?”

He steps closer, towering, but his voice is quiet. “From whatever the fuck this is.”

You tilt your head. “It’s nothing.”

He laughs under his breath, sharp, disbelieving. “Right.”

You swallow. Hold your ground.

“You’re my competition.”

He leans in slightly, just enough for only you to hear. “Didn’t stop you from nearly letting me fuck you on that rooftop.”

Your breath catches. He smirks.

He’s an asshole. A cocky, insufferable—

You step closer, chest brushing his. “If I ever let you fuck me, CEO, you’d be on your knees, begging for more.”

His jaw tightens. His fingers flex. You can almost feel the restraint snapping inside him.

Then someone calls his name.

He blinks. You step back.

You don’t wait for his response.

You turn and walk out, feeling his eyes on you until the doors shut behind you.

His Penthouse – That Night

He stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, scotch in hand, watching the city stretch out below.

He should be unwinding. Should be thinking about anything but you.

Instead, he hears your voice in his head. Feels the ghost of your body against his.

His fingers flex around his glass. He exhales, long and slow.

He should stay away. You’re his competition. This is reckless.

But then he remembers your lips. Your heat. The way you didn’t pull away until you had to.

He downs the rest of his drink and makes a decision.

​

The Next Day – Your Company’s Boardroom

You don’t expect him when he walks in.

Your team is mid-presentation.

The CEO of your competitor should not be in this room.

But there he is. Confident. Unbothered. Eyes locked straight on you.

Your breath hitches. Your spine straightens. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He slides into a chair, relaxed, powerful. “Sitting in.”

Your boss looks pleased. “We’re discussing the upcoming industry partnership event.”

Your pulse spikes. He has no business being here. No reason—

Then you realize. He made a reason.

You glare at him. His lips twitch. The bastard is enjoying this.

The meeting goes on. You try to focus, but he’s watching you. Not speaking. Just watching.

When it ends, you bolt. Out of the boardroom, down the hall. You need air.

“Running again?” His voice chases after you, amused, dark.

You whirl around. “What the fuck do you want?”

He doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of you.

“You.”

Your breath shudders. “No.”

His hand lifts, barely brushing your wrist. “Liar.”

You snatch your hand away. “I have a job to do.”

His eyes flick to your lips. “And I have a problem to solve.”

“What problem?”

“You.” He exhales sharply. “I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

Your heart slams. Your fingers twitch. You hate how much you like hearing that.

“Then unthink me,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens. Then, suddenly, he steps back. “Fine.”

You blink. “What?”

He turns, walking past you, hands shoved into his pockets. “If you want me gone, say so.”

You should say it. Should let him leave.

Instead, your voice catches. “I—”

He stops. Slowly looks over his shoulder.

You swallow. Your nails dig into your palm.

He watches you struggle, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

Then, just as quickly as he appeared, he turns and walks away.

You let out a shaky breath, heart hammering.

You should feel relief.

Instead, you feel something dangerously close to regret.

You don’t sleep that night. You toss, turn, stare at your ceiling. His words coil in your head.

“I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

Your body still remembers the heat of his, the way he looked at you on that rooftop—like he wanted to ruin you and save you in the same breath.

You should hate him. You do hate him.

But you want him, too.

And that’s the problem.

The Next Encounter – Another Event, Another Collision

You don’t know he’ll be here.

You tell yourself you don’t care.

But the second you step into the gallery, glass of wine in hand, you feel it.

Him.

You don’t look for him.

But he finds you anyway.

“Nice to see you, Analyst.” His voice is smooth, taunting.

You turn.

He’s leaning against the bar, suit crisp, lips curved in that infuriating smirk.

“CEO.” You sip your wine. “Following me now?”

“Hardly.” His eyes flick down your dress—black, sleek, almost dangerous. “Though if I were, I’d have good reason.”

You scoff. “That reason being?”

He steps closer. The air tightens. “You walked away from me.”

Your pulse spikes. “And?”

“And I hated it.”

The words send a bolt of heat through you. You keep your face blank. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He exhales sharply, jaw ticking. Then his voice lowers. “Come outside with me.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

He takes your hand—not rough, not gentle. Just firm.

You let him.

The Alley Behind the Gallery

He presses you against the brick wall, his breath uneven, his hands gripping your hips.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters. “You do it on purpose.”

“And you let me,” you breathe.

His fingers flex against you. “I should leave you alone.”

You tilt your chin up. “Then go.”

His throat bobs. His eyes drop to your lips. “Say it like you mean it.”

You don’t. You can’t.

He swears under his breath.

Then he breaks.

His mouth crashes into yours—rough, desperate, laced with every ounce of restraint he’s losing.

You gasp, fists tangling in his suit jacket, heat licking down your spine

His tongue slides against yours, deep, slow, like he’s memorizing the taste of you.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips. “I knew you’d feel like this.”

You yank at his tie, pulling him closer. “Then don’t stop.”

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your jaw.

He’s hard against you, breath ragged.

He unbuckles himself. “You drive me insane.”

Your eyes are heavy-lidded. “Better show me.”

He exhales sharply, forehead resting against yours. He’s on edge. So are you.

Then, footsteps. Voices.

He pulls back, chest heaving.

You stare at each other, panting, flushed, raw.

Not here. Not now.

But this time, when you walk away—

He doesn’t let you.

He pulls you into the shadows.

And when you try to raise your skirt, he helps you.

He slides in.

And he fucks you so good you cry.

Because you know—

You can’t go back to hating him after this.

***

You’re in your office, trying to forget last night, when your assistant pokes her head in.

“Uh… He’s here.”

Your stomach drops. “Who?”

She gives you a knowing look. “You know who.”

And then—he walks in.

Confident. Dark-eyed. Dangerous.

You stand. “What the hell are you doing—”

“Dinner.”

You blink. “What?”

He exhales, shoulders tense. Not cocky. Not arrogant. Just… raw.

“I want you to go on a date with me.” His voice drops. “Please.”

Your lips part. You weren’t expecting that. You don’t know what to say.

And for the first time since meeting him—he looks like he’s afraid of your answer.

“Fine.” Your voice is steady, but your fingers curl around your wine glass like you need something to hold onto. “One date.”

He smirks, slow and knowing, but there’s something deeper behind it—like he isn’t sure he believes you.

“When?”

You pretend to think, swirling the wine in your glass. “Friday.”

“Text me the time and place,” he says, lifting his drink. His fingers brush yours as he sets it down.

You don’t move. Not until his eyes lock onto yours again.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Friday. And then—it wasn’t.

At six, you cancel. No explanation. No apology.

He sees the text. Exhales slow. He should’ve expected it.

But when you walk into the next event—glowing, poised, like you hadn’t just fucked with his head—he sees red.

You feel him before you turn. The heat of his gaze licks up your spine like fire.

“Busy, were you?” His voice is low when he steps behind you.

You take a sip of your drink. “Something came up.”

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t have to. The space between you hums like a live wire.

“Wow.”

You turn, slow, tilting your head. “I changed my mind.”

His jaw flexes. “Did you?”

Your lips part—about to say something smart, something sharp.

And then he steps closer. Just enough.

“I don’t think you did,” he murmurs.

Your breath hitches. He catches it. Hears it.

Then you make the mistake of looking at his mouth.

His restraint snaps.

His hand curls around your waist, pulling you in, his lips crashing against yours. Desperate. Infuriated.

Insatiable.

You gasp, but your fingers are already twisting into his jacket, holding him there.

He deepens the kiss, groaning into your mouth like he needs you closer—like he’ll lose his mind if he isn’t inside you soon.

“Tell me you changed your mind,” he rasps.

You don’t. You can’t.

Because he’s already pulling you outside, shoving you into his car, slamming the door.

“Drive.”

His driver turns “Where?”

“Home.” His hand slides over your thigh, fingers pressing in, voice dark. “Now.”

From Ruin to Reverence

The moment the door shuts behind you, you’re against it.

His lips crash into yours again, his hands gripping your thighs, hoisting you up.

“You drive me insane,” he breathes against your skin, mouth trailing down your throat.

You arch into him, breathless. “You’ll live.”

He growls, carrying you to the couch, dropping onto it with you straddling him.

His hands slide up your thighs, under your dress, pushing it higher.

“You’re done running,” he murmurs.

You don’t argue.

Because he’s already pulling your panties aside, dragging a finger through your wetness.

You shudder. “F-fuck—”

“Yeah.” His eyes darken. “You’re mine tonight.”

His mouth is on you again.

Trailing down, down, until he’s lowering you onto your back, spreading you open.

The first swipe of his tongue has your back arching, a cry slipping from your lips.

He devours you like he’s starving.

Slow. Deep. Ruthless.

Your fingers clench the couch cushions. Writhing. Gasping.

And then—he sucks.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

“Oh my god—”

His grip tightens, holding you in place as he ruins you.

When you come, it isn’t gentle. It’s violent. Mind-numbing. Body-breaking.

He wipes his mouth, exhaling against your thigh. “That’s one.”

You barely have time to breathe before he’s on you.

Spreading your legs wider. Pressing into you.

His forehead against yours. “Look at me.”

You do. Right as he slides inside, slow, stretching you open.

You gasp. Claw at his back.

He shudders. “Awf- you-are-killing-me-t—”

He moves. Deep and slow at first. Making you feel it. All of it.

Then harder. Deeper. Faster.

His hands grip your wrists, pinning them above your head as he fucks you.

And then—it shifts.

His thrusts slow. His lips press against your jaw. Your temple. Your mouth.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps. “So perfect.”

You shiver. “You’re—”

His hand slides over your cheek, thumb brushing your lips.

“Yours. All parts of me.”

You melt. God, you melt.

And when you come again, it’s with him.

His forehead against yours. His breath breaking. His grip tightening like he doesn’t want to let go.

He buries himself deep one last time, shuddering.

“F-fuck,” he groans, face against your neck.

You run your fingers through his hair, holding him there.

The silence stretches.

Something unspoken settles between you.

Aftermath—The Date

He lifts his head first, eyes searching yours.

Then—quietly, carefully—he says it. “Go out with me.”

You smirk. “That was the deal, wasn’t it?”

His brow arches. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a ‘ask me properly.’”

He exhales, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You kiss him. “And yet, here we are.”

Later

The city stretches out beneath you, a blur of lights and movement.

He watches you instead. The way your fingers dance along the glass, the way your eyes soften at the view.

“You like it?” he asks.

You turn to him, lips curving. “It’s different.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You study him. “Neither is yours.”

He smirks. But it’s softer this time.

“I wanted to see you without the noise.”

You tilt your head. “Without the ambition?”

“Without the war.”

You swallow. Look away. “That’s new.”

He nods. “Yeah. It is.”

The silence stretches again.

But this time, it isn’t tense.

This time, it isn’t war.