*The Night I Met My Match* I should have walked away the moment I saw her, but something about that night felt like fate had set a trap just for me. It was one of those nights—the type where the air is thick with bad decisions and good whiskey. My guys and I were at this lounge, just vibing, when I saw her. Red dress. Satin. Low-cut back. Legs crossed like she owned the entire damn place. She wasn’t looking at me, but she knew I was looking at her. The kind of woman who could make a man forget he had sense. I leaned over to my friend. “Who’s that?” He smirked, shook his head. “Forget it, bro. That one is trouble.” That’s exactly why I went over. I slid into the seat across from her. She didn’t even flinch, just ran a manicured finger along the rim of her wine glass before finally—finally—looking at me. “You took your time,” she said, voice like dark honey. “Had to make sure you were worth it,” I replied. She smiled, slow, like she had already won. That’s how it started. Banter, eye contact that lasted a second too long, her testing me at every turn. She liked to argue. She wanted to see if I’d bend, but I wasn’t about to break—not yet. “So what do you want?” she asked after a while, swirling her drink. “You.” She exhaled a soft laugh. “And what exactly do you think you can do with me?” I leaned in, fingers grazing the stem of her glass before taking it from her and placing it aside. My hand slid under the table, trailing up her thigh slowly, deliberately. “Everything,” I murmured. “And maybe more.” Her breath hitched, but she recovered fast. She grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Careful,” she warned, nails digging into my skin. I smirked, shifting closer, lips brushing just beneath her ear. “I don’t do careful.” We didn’t even finish our drinks. She dragged me out of there, fingers curled around my wrist like she was the one in control, but we both knew better. Outside, she backed me against my car, her breath warm against my jaw. “I don’t do love,” she whispered, hands slipping under my jacket. I smirked, fingers tracing the line of her spine, feeling her shiver beneath my touch. “Good. I don’t do limits.” She exhaled sharply, her hands tugging at my shirt, lips barely brushing mine. “You talk too much.” I closed the distance. Her lips were fire—hungry, demanding, tasting like wine and danger. I let her lead for a moment, let her think she was in control, before flipping the script. My hands slid down, gripping her hips, pressing her against me so she could feel exactly what she was doing to me. She gasped, nails raking up my chest, dragging me deeper into the heat of her. The world blurred—just her, her scent, her body melting into mine. By the time we stumbled into her apartment, we were all hands, all heat, all desperation. Her dress slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. My jacket hit the floor next. She pushed me back onto the couch, straddling me, her fingers threading through my hair, tilting my head back so she could devour me properly. “Still think you’re in charge?” she murmured against my lips. I gripped her waist, flipped her under me in one swift motion, pinning her hands above her head. “I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.” Her lips parted, a sharp inhale—surprise, excitement. She told me to slow down. I didn’t. She told me she was in control. She wasn’t. Skin on skin, lips tracing fire, nails dragging promises along my back. She wasn’t soft. No, she took what she wanted, and I gave just as much. Every moan was a dare, every gasp a victory. By the time the night was over, we were breathless, bodies spent, sweat glistening under dim lights. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, then finally turned to me. “Maybe,” she murmured, “you’re more dangerous than I thought.” I smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Told you—I don’t do limits.” She exhaled, shaking her head. And just like that, I knew—I wasn’t walking away from this one. Not yet.