The Prototype

66. Forgiveness

A deep chuckle rumbled from my chest.

She has no fucking idea what she's playing with.

We walked in sync, Tempest allowing me to guide the way, her arm still linked with mine, her body exuding that untouchable confidence making me want to touch her more. Own her more.

"We're going to take a different elevator," I told her, leading us down another hallway. "It'll put us closer to the ballroom that the Gala is held in."

Tempest tilted her head, wicked curiosity flashing in her eyes. "A different elevator?" Her brow lifted, full lips curling. "How many elevators does this damn building have?"

I let out an arrogant chuckle, my smirk deepening. "Quite a few."

Her eyes locked on mine, the tension between us thickening with every step. Tension that feels like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap. Making the air between us heavier, denser.

We rounded the corner making it to the elevator. I pressed the button for the elevator, the soft chime signaling its ascent. But my eyes remained on her. On the way the back of her dress dipped low, exposing the expanse of her smooth, golden-brown skin. The way the lighting hit, making it glisten, slick and soft, like she's been dipped in gold. A dainty chain draping down the length of her spine, teasing me, taunting me. Mocking me.

My lips parted slightly, my tongue dragging over them as I exhaled slow, controlled. My hands twitched inside my pockets, curling into fists, fighting the primal urge to reach out and trace the chain with my fingers. My mouth. My fucking teeth.

The soft ding of the elevator doors opening snapped me back into the present, but my blood was already running too thick, too hot.

We stepped inside, the doors sliding shut behind us. Tempest let go of my arm, drifting to the opposite side of the elevator. Space. Distance. An illusion of control.

I pressed the button for the first floor, but my attention never left her.

"What are you thinking?" she finally asked, her curiosity betraying her usual unreadable expression.

I leaned back against the elevator wall, dragging my eyes down her body, slow and deliberate, before finding her eyes again.

"I thought you said you weren't going to be easily tempted into asking what I'm thinking," I murmured, a devilish smirk curling on my lips, one brow raised.

Tempest scoffed, rolling her eyes. "And yet, clearly, I'm asking."

My smirk deepened.

That damn mouth of hers. So defiant.

The elevator slowed as it neared the first floor, I stepped toward her. Not too fast. Not too aggressive. Just enough to watch her chest rise, her breath hitch ever so slightly. Just enough to feel the heat radiate from her.

"You look so fucking good," I murmured, my voice dipping into something darker, something lethal. My fingers dragged along the inside of her arm, slow and deliberate, feeling her shiver beneath my touch. My hand slid down, fingers intertwining with hers, gripping just enough to remind her—to warn her.

I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my breath hot against her skin.

"Edible," I whispered. Low. Dangerous.

With perfect cue, the doors to the elevator opened, welcoming us to the first floor. Laughter and conversation from the gala spilled into the space, dragging us back into reality. But I wasn't fucking finished with her.

I straightened, expression unreadable, and began leading her toward the ballroom. Enjoying how silent my words made her.

I guided her forward, leading her toward the ballroom. The closer we got, the heavier the tension between us became—thick, suffocating, damn near tangible. Wrapping around us like smoke, curling and tightening, laced with the kind of heat that burned slow but destructive.