Blonde

Caesar's POV

Fuck, she turned out to be a mistake I didn't regret, even if I told myself I should and now the bed was empty, and for reasons I couldn't explain, that bothered me more than it should have. I should have pretended she was just another night that had passed by but she wasn't. I should've been relieved she's gone, as she wasn't supposed to stay, yet here I am, still sitting there, staring at the empty space beside me, the sheets tangled and faintly warm from where she'd been. The room felt hollow. My chest is even more so.

As if shifting my body could shift my thoughts, I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, fingers dragging through my hair, trying to forget her but I couldn't.

For hours afterward, I told myself it didn't mean anything. That it was just heat, impulse, and a momentary lapse, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw her, I felt the hitch of her breath when I touched her and the way her body had given in even as her words tried to fight me off, because she wanted to win.

And now, seated here, I knew the truth: she had won. She had won the game, leaving behind a memory that refused to fade. She wasn't just another woman I could forget. She was the kind of woman who walked away and somehow carried the air with her, leaving a hollow space behind that nothing else could fill. The one I couldn't stop remembering.

My jaw tightened as my gaze dropped to the floor, but a vibration on the nightstand pulled me back. My phone buzzed once. Then again, I reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen. A notification from my assistant.

Janevera Hansley.

The name "Hansley" caught me off guard. Familiar, like a whisper from somewhere I couldn't quite place. It tugged at the back of my mind, but I forced the thought aside and kept reading.

Age: 23

Background: Graduated top of her class in business administration. Intelligent.

Family: Deceased parents. No extended records. No loose ends. Like someone had gone through her life with a fine-tooth comb and erased everything that didn't fit.

Strange...

Below the summary was her contact information. I stared at it longer than I should have, my thumb hovering above the screen. One call, just one, and hearing her voice again could make me lose control, but I didn't press it. I couldn't just yet. Not until I'd calculated every angle and weighed every consequence, because this wasn't just a want. It was hunger. Possession. A fire that had taken root and refused to die.

Every thought circled back to her, her defiance, her fire, and the soft curve of her lips when she thought I wasn't looking this morning. The way she stole glances at me after waking, torn between fleeing and staying. I knew I shouldn't. I told myself that over and over. She was reckless, dangerous, and a threat to everything I'd built. She could unravel me in ways no one else ever had, and maybe that was the point. Maybe that was exactly why I couldn't resist her.

Then my gaze dropped to the small black scrap of fabric lying on the floor. Her panties. My pulse hitched. I bent and picked them up, turning the delicate piece over slowly in my hand. Bringing it to my nose, I closed my eyes as her scent hit me, faint yet unmistakably hers, sweet and addictive.

For a second, the present melted away and everything blurred into memory; the ragged sound of her breath breaking against my ear and the tremor in her body when she finally whispered my name with every shiver and every heat-soaked moment rushed back, vividly and impossible to ignore.

And in that moment, as the scent of her clung to me, my eyes snapped open with clarity because I'd just realized something: that I already had the perfect way to bring her back and remain in control.

I straightened slowly, the scrap still caught between my fingers, and reached for my phone. Her name and number glowed on the screen, thanks to my assistant, who hadn't dared question why I needed it so urgently. I considered calling her first, but hearing her voice now would undone me completely. No. This had to be played my way.

So I texted her and attached a photo of what she'd left behind. I wanted her to recognize it instantly, to know it was me and as I waited, I imagined her reading the message, the slight hitch of her breath, and the sharp flicker in her eyes as she realized my intentions. I pictured her trying to resist, trying to hold her ground and failing, because she already belonged in the orbit I had claimed for her.

I would make her remember, make her remember that night, and make her remember what it felt like to tempt me, to challenge me, to almost escape me. And this time, there would be no almost, because I wouldn't let her go.

I set the phone down, and my thumb hovered just above the fabric, imagining the chaos I would unleash the moment she realized how much control I still held, not just over her, but over the storm she had awakened in me. I would draw her back in, bend her to my will, break her defiance piece by piece, and I'd enjoy watching her fight every second of it.

The phone buzzed against the sheets moments later. I snatched it up. Her name lit across the screen, and my pulse kicked harder than I cared to admit.> You think this is funny?

That was all she wrote.

I couldn't help the quiet scoff that escaped me as I leaned back against the headboard, eyes tracing her words, a low hum of satisfaction curling in my chest. She wanted to play pretend like she wasn't affected, but if there's one thing I've mastered, it's reading the silence between the words.

When I replied, I could almost feel her hesitation bleeding through the screen, every pause between her typing and sending made my blood heat. She thought she could resist, thought she could hold her ground, but I kept pushing, each message another calculated strike.

I could see her without seeing her, the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers lingered over the phone, and the battle flickering behind her eyes. The hesitation. The conflict. The heat rose beneath her skin as she read my words. She wouldn't resist for long.

My gaze drifted to the lace caught between my fingers, my thumb brushing over the soft fabric as I watched the screen. Seconds ticked by, then three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. She was hesitating. Perfect.

When her message finally came, it said, "You're impossible."

And a smirk tugged at my lips. I let out a quiet laugh. She was trying to sound unaffected, to play it cool, but defense was a tell. I could picture her steadying her breath before typing back, pretending last night hadn't gotten under her skin. She wanted to sound untouched, like she hadn't spent the night unraveling beneath my hands but I heard it in the rhythm of her text, the extra pause between her words, the hesitant punctuation, and the shift from confidence to restraint. That tremor, that small crack of hesitation, betrayed her. She was still thinking about me. >Yet you're still reading.

I sent it, watching the screen with a smirk as my thumbs glided over the keys, typing one more message, bait carefully wrapped in suggestion. Then I stopped. Waited and gave her time to think.

I'd already sent her the location and told her to come get what she'd left behind, then I tossed the phone aside and leaned back against the headboard, still holding that soft scrap of lace between my fingers. She could pretend all she wanted, but the truth was simple, she was already under my control, and I didn't just want to control her. I wanted her to burn for me. To crave me. To need me in ways she couldn't even admit to herself. I wanted her to be mine, not tomorrow, not after some careful chase, but now.

I didn't need to see her to know what she was doing on the other side, probably chewing her lip, fingers hovering above her phone, fighting the pull she swore she didn't feel. She could act indifferent, but the moment she replied, she'd already taken the bait.

I waited. Longer than I should have. Her silence stretched thin, teasing my patience. She was making me wait, and when her reply still didn't come, a slow grin curved into my mouth. Patience was never my virtue. I'm not a man who waits but I'm a man who decides.