Alina Wayland’s eyes blazed with an untamed fire, awakening emotions I thought I had long buried—excitement, tension, and that dangerous thrill of anticipation. He was devouring me with his gaze, hungry and possessive, and judging by the way his pants were straining, he clearly liked what he saw. I swallowed hard, unable to stop my thoughts from wandering to the magnificent weapon trapped behind that fabric—something I remembered all too well. One look at him, and I was ruined. Gods, he looked incredible. That tuxedo clung to his powerful frame like it had been sewn onto him by fate itself. So infuriatingly perfect it made my mouth go dry, my heart skip, and my eyes linger far longer than they should’ve. His scent—rich, masculine, unmistakably his—mixed with that overwhelming aura of dominance, filled the car like a storm cloud. And it was slowly, surely, tearing apart my carefully built defenses. Damn him. I missed the bastard. I really missed him. More than I wanted to a
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