POV Noelle
For two weeks, I've been pulling out all the stops.
Tiny shorts, crop tops, strategic bending, accidental touching.
I've made comments that dance right on the edge of inappropriate, worn perfume that probably violates several international treaties, and bent over so much I'm starting to develop a permanent crick in my back.
And it's fucking working.
Yesterday, when I "accidentally" brushed against him while reaching for my coffee, his jaw clenched so hard I thought he might crack a tooth.
And this morning, when I bent over to pick up my dropped earring in that barely-there sundress, I caught him staring at my ass for a full three seconds before he remembered he was supposed to be professional.
Three seconds doesn't sound like much, but for Owen Tate? It's practically a standing ovation.
The victory is intoxicating.
Every crack in his composure, every momentary lapse in that infuriating control, sends a thrill through me that's way more intense than it should be.
When his eyes linger on my legs, when his breathing changes just slightly, when that muscle in his jaw ticks like a time bomb—I feel powerful. Dangerous. Alive.
And fucking turned on.
Which is absolutely not the point.
But my traitorous brain keeps conjuring images of those careful, controlled hands losing all that professionalism.
Of him backing me against a wall, all that restraint finally snapping.
Of finding out what Owen Tate sounds like when he's not being the perfect bodyguard.
I imagine he'd be rough. Demanding. The kind of man who'd take control and make me forget my own name. Those hands that check my injuries so carefully would probably know exactly how to touch me.
How to ruin me completely.
That mouth that stays in such a tight line would probably feel incredible against my skin, on my lips, between my…
No. Stop it.
This is about freedom. About getting daddy's lapdog out of my life. About proving I don't need a babysitter.
It's definitely not about the way my pulse quickens when he looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.
It's not about wondering what it would feel like to have all that controlled power focused on me. Not about fantasizing what would happen if I pushed him too far and he finally snapped.
But Christ, the man is gorgeous when he's fighting himself.
And I'm apparently a masochist who gets off on torturing us both.
"I have a meeting," Owen tells me earlier, adjusting his cufflinks with that infuriating precision he brings to everything. "Won't be long. Behave yourself."
"Mmmrrrhhh," I make a long, disapproving sound that probably registers on the Richter scale.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
Owen's mouth does that thing where it almost-smiles but doesn't quite commit. "Try not to burn down the house while I'm gone."
"No promises."
The second his car disappears through the gates, I'm in motion.
Tonight's the night I break free from Owen fucking Tate.
I'm going full nuclear with my outfit choice. Black leather mini-dress that's more a suggestion than actual clothing, thigh-high boots that scream "daddy issues," and a red lip that could stop traffic.
Perfect.
I grab my clutch, stuff it with cash and enough condoms to supply a small army. Not that I'm planning to use them, but a girl's gotta be prepared.
Tonight's about freedom, not fucking.
The club is everything I hoped it would be. Loud, dark, and packed with people who definitely don't have bodyguards. Jamie's already claimed a spot at the bar, looking like sex on legs in his fitted jeans and mesh shirt.
"You made it!" He pulls me into a hug that smells like expensive cologne and rebellion. "And you actually escaped."
"Freedom tastes like tequila," I announce, signaling the bartender. "Six shots. The good stuff."
The alcohol hits like liquid courage, burning away every inhibition I've ever had. One shot becomes two, two becomes four, and suddenly the world feels bright and dangerous and absolutely perfect.
"Dance with me," I grab Jamie's hand, pulling him toward the packed dance floor.
The music pounds through my bones, bass so heavy it feels like a heartbeat. I move like I'm twenty-two and invincible, like I've got nothing to lose and everything to prove.
The leather dress clings to my sweat-slicked skin, and I can feel every eye in the place tracking my movements.
This is what freedom tastes like.
“You’re incredible!” Jamie shouts over the music, spinning me until I’m dizzy with laughter.
I spot a table in the center of the dance floor, and suddenly I know exactly what I need to do.
I climb up, leather boots finding purchase on the sticky surface, and suddenly I’m above the crowd, goddess of my own little kingdom.
The cheers are intoxicating. I move like I’m performing for an audience of thousands, shaking my ass like it’s a religious experience.
The dress rides up with every movement, and I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything except this moment, this feeling, this perfect slice of rebellion.
That's when I see him.
Owen stands at the edge of the dance floor, dark suit making him look like death personified. His eyes find mine across the crowded room, and even from this distance, I can see the fury radiating off him in waves.
Perfect.
A guy with swimmer’s shoulders and bedroom eyes pushes through the crowd, reaching up toward me. “Come down here, beautiful.”
“Why don’t you come up here?” I purr, extending my hand, but my eyes stay locked on Owen.
He hoists himself onto the table, and suddenly we’re grinding against each other like we’re auditioning for a music video.
But I'm not dancing for him.
I'm dancing for Owen.
Every movement is designed to drive him insane. Every hip roll, every arch of my back, every time I let my head fall back in mock ecstasy—it's all for him.
I want him to see exactly what he's missing.
Want him to remember what it feels like to want something he can't have.
The guy's hands get bolder, sliding lower, and I let them. Owen's jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised it doesn't shatter.
I turn in the guy's arms, pressing my ass against him while maintaining eye contact with Owen. The guy's hands find my hips, and I move like I'm performing for an audience of one.
Owen's eyes are dark, dangerous, and completely focused on me. On the way the dress rides up my thighs. On the way my body moves against another man's.
On the way I'm deliberately, methodically driving him out of his fucking mind.
And God help me, I'm getting turned on by it.
The guy's hands slide lower, grabbing my ass with a familiarity that crosses every line.
“I’ve got a private booth,” he breathes against my ear.
“Show me.”
I’m about to climb down when strong hands wrap around my waist, lifting me off the table like I weigh nothing at all.
Before I can react, he spins me around and tries to kiss me, his mouth descending toward mine with alcohol-fueled confidence.
One second the guy's there, the next he's gone, stumbling backward into the crowd. Owen stands between us, looking like controlled violence in an expensive suit.
"Time to go home," his voice is calm, controlled, and absolutely furious.
"I'm not done dancing," I say, but my voice wavers.
"You're done." His hand wraps around my wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to leave no room for argument. "We're leaving."
The way he says it, low and dangerous, sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. This isn't the professional Owen who checks my ankles for injuries. This is something else entirely.
Something that makes my knees weak and my pulse race.
"You can't make me—"
"Watch me."
“Put me down!” I scream, pounding my fists against his back as he throws me over his shoulder like a sack of designer potatoes. “Put me down right now!”