Chapter 2

Emma's POV

That week crawled by like torture.

Every night, I'd lie in bed staring at that amber bottle on my nightstand. I'd pick it up, unscrew the cap, breathe in that sandalwood scent. Then I'd set it down and try to sleep.

I didn't sleep much.

I kept replaying that moment—his eye through the gap in the door, watching me. And that massage oil he'd left behind. A promise or a test? Maybe both.

By Tuesday morning, I was a mess. I changed four times before settling on a black sports bra that crisscrossed in the back, showing more skin than fabric, and the tightest athletic shorts I owned.

When I checked the mirror, I knew exactly what I was doing. Playing with fire.

Good. I wanted to burn.

The doorbell rang at 10 AM sharp.

I opened it, and there he was. Same black t-shirt, same dark eyes. But this time, his gaze traveled slowly down my body before meeting my eyes again.

"Ready to work?" he asked.

"Always."

Something felt different today. The air was thicker. Charged.

"We're going harder today," he said, dropping his bag in the gym. "I hope you can handle it."

Was that a challenge?

"Try me."

He smiled, but it wasn't friendly. It was dark. Knowing.

The workout was brutal. Burpees until my legs shook. Planks until my arms gave out. Every time I faltered, his voice was there—low, firm, demanding more.

"Don't quit on me, Emma."

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can. Push."

His hand pressed against my lower back, and the touch sent electricity through my entire body. I held on, trembling, sweat dripping everywhere.

"Good girl," he murmured.

Those two words nearly broke me.

By the time we finished, I was flat on my back on the yoga mat, chest heaving, unable to move.

Dominic stood over me, not even breathing hard. He reached into his bag and pulled out another amber bottle.

My heart stopped.

"You're tight," he said. "Let me work on that."

He set up the massage table while I lay there trying to control my breathing. When it was ready, he gestured toward it.

"On your stomach."

I climbed on, face down. My sports bra was damp with sweat. I heard him pour oil into his palms, warming it.

Then his hands were on my shoulders.

God. His hands.

They were strong, pressing deep into my muscles. Professional. Controlled. I started to relax.

He traced a path down my spine, working each knot. Lower. Lower.

Then I felt his fingers at my sports bra clasp.

"This is in the way," he said quietly. "May I?"

My mouth went dry. "Ye..s."

The clasp opened. Cool air hit my bare back. His hands returned, sliding over my skin now without any barrier. Warm. Slick with oil.

"Breathe, Emma. You're so tense."

Tense? I was about to explode.

His hands moved to my sides, and his thumbs grazed the sides of my breasts. Just barely. But enough to make me bite my lip hard.

He said nothing. Just kept working, his touch maddeningly close to where I wanted it but never quite there.

When he reached my lower back, his hands slipped beneath my waistband. Just his fingertips at first, pressing into the muscles there.

"This area holds a lot of tension," he said, his voice lower now.

His hands pushed deeper, fingers sliding along the curve of my ass. I squeezed my thighs together, trying to stop the ache building between them.

"Relax," he murmured, but his breathing had changed. Heavier.

"Turn over," he said suddenly.

My eyes flew open. "What?"

"On your back. Your hip flexors need work."

I turned over slowly, clutching the towel to my chest. But the moment I was on my back, it slipped. My breasts were bare, glistening with oil.

His eyes locked on them. For three heartbeats, he just stared.

Then he poured more oil directly onto my collarbone. It dripped down, following the curve of my breasts. He watched it trail all the way down.

"Your chest," he said, his voice rough. "The pectoral muscles are tight."

His palms settled over my breasts.

Not a massage. A claim.

I gasped, my back arching off the table. His palms were hot, his touch firm, his thumbs circling until I couldn't breathe.

I grabbed his wrists. Our eyes met.

The room was silent except for our ragged breathing.

He was leaning over me now, his face inches from mine. I could see the vein pulsing in his neck. Feel the heat from his body. His eyes dropped to my mouth.

I tilted my head up, lips parting.

He was going to kiss me.

Then he pulled away. Stepped back.

His jaw was tight, hands clenched at his sides.

"I don't mix business with pleasure," he said.

His voice was controlled. Professional. But I saw the bulge in his shorts. Impossible to miss.

"Dominic—"

"We're done for today." He turned and walked straight to the bathroom.

A minute later, I heard the shower. Cold water, from the sound of his sharp breath.

I lay there on the massage table, oil dripping down my body, half-naked and throbbing with need.

Humiliated. Furious. Desperate.

I sat up slowly, wrapping the towel around myself. My hands were shaking—not from shame, from rage and want mixed together.

When he came out, hair wet, expression neutral, I was dressed and waiting.

"Same time next week?" he asked, like nothing had happened.

"No," I said.

He paused, surprise crossing his face.

"I want you here three times a week. If we're doing this right, I need more sessions."

He studied me for a long moment. Then that dark smile returned.

"I'll clear my schedule."

After he left, I locked the door and stood in the empty house, listening to my heartbeat.

My body was still humming. Still aching for him.

But now I had a plan.

No man could resist forever. Especially not one whose body betrayed him the way his did.

He wanted me. I'd seen it, felt it, heard it in his breathing.

He just needed a push.

Three times a week. Three chances to break his control.

I walked upstairs and looked at myself in the mirror. My lips were swollen from biting them. My skin flushed. My eyes bright with something I hadn't felt in months.

Alive.