Page 53 of Ruthless Arrangement

I grasp her hand, my fingers encircling her wrist. “Dance with me,” I say. Not a request, more a gentle command.

She looks up at me, uncertainty flickering across her features. For a moment, I think she might refuse. Then something shifts in her expression, a decision made, a boundary crossed.

Without waiting for further invitation, I lead her onto the floor. The crowd seems to part instinctively, creating space around us as though sensing the electric charge between us. I position us near the center, where the bass is strongest, and the lights cast alternating shadows and brightness across her face.

I settle one hand on her waist, drawing her close until our bodies align. She’s rigid at first, her frame tense against mine. I can feel her warring impulses, the desire to maintain distance battling the need to blend in with the surrounding crowd.

“Relax, piccola,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Let the music guide you.”

She exhales, a small shudder running through her as she surrenders. Not completely, but enough that her body loosens against mine. We move together, finding a shared rhythm as the DJ transitions between tracks. Her hips sway, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence as she acclimates to our proximity.

The song shifts to something slower but more sensual; a pulsing electronic beat layered with breathy vocals in a language I don’t recognize. The tempo invites closer contact, more intimate movement. I slide my thigh between her legs, a deliberate escalation that draws a sharp inhale from her.

Her eyes fly up to meet mine, surprise and something darker swimming in their depths. I hold her gaze as I guide her hips with my hands, forcing her to move against me in a way that mimics more primal rhythms. Her body responds even as uncertainty clouds her features.Such a beautiful contradiction.

“Your mind may resist,” I say, splaying my fingers across her lower back and drawing her closer until I can feel every curve pressed against me. “But this doesn’t lie.”

A telling tremor runs through her, and I watch her pupils dilate in the flickering lights. Her lips part, breath coming faster, as our bodies move in synchronized motion. The heat between us builds with each beat of the music, with each slide of fabric against fabric.

For a moment, I imagine taking this further. Backing her against one of the shadowed walls, sliding my hand beneath the hem of her dress, discovering if she’s as affected by our dance as the flush on her chest suggests. The image is so vivid it sends desire straight through me, and I tighten my grip on her waist to steady myself as much as her.

Lost in this fantasy, I almost miss the figure watching us from the edge of the dance floor. My gaze flicks over Lea’s shoulder, and recognition is instant. He’s tall, angular, wearing a dark, well-cut suit, with the deliberate stillness of someone accustomed to observing undetected. It’s the same man from the surveillance photos with Professor Song. Marco hasn’t been able to identify him despite exhaustive research.

The stranger lifts his glass in a subtle salute, his eyes never leaving mine. The gesture carries unmistakable meaning: acknowledgment between players in the same game. Then he melts back into the crowd, disappearing as smoothly as he appeared.

I stiffen, protectiveness surging through me with unexpected intensity.This man’s presence here, tonight, cannot be coincidence. Either he’s following Lea, or he’s following me. Neither option sits well. And his connection to Eunji Song complicates matters further.

Lea senses the change in me. “What is it?” she asks, trying to turn to see what caught my attention.

I tighten my hold, preventing her from looking. “Nothing,” I lie. “Just someone I’d rather avoid discussing business with tonight.”

She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she notices how tightly I’m now holding her, how possessively my body curves around hers. A question forms in her expression, but the music swells before she can voice it.

“Come with me,” I say, not waiting for her response as I lead her from the dance floor toward a narrow corridor flanking its edge.

The passage is dimly lit and lined with alcoves, each separated from the main hallway by heavy curtains that provide varying degrees of privacy for couples or small groups seeking escape from the club’s energy. I guide her toward one at the far end. It’s not completely secluded, but discreet enough for what I have in mind.

She follows, unsteady from our dance, or perhaps from the tension still crackling between us. When we stand amidst the subdued lighting and plush cushions of the alcove, she looks up at me with questioning silence.

Heart still pounding from our dance and the unwelcome observer, I crowd her against the velvet-padded wall. The thick curtain conceals us from passing glances, creating a pocket of relative privacy amid the club’s controlled chaos. My gaze sweeps over her, taking in the flush that extends from her cheeks down her neck, the way her dress clings to her skin where a light sheen of perspiration makes the silk adhere to her curves.

I lean in, allowing my lips to hover just above her throat. I can feel her pulse hammering beneath the delicate skin, smell the intoxicating blend of her perfume and natural scent. When I make contact, the lightest brush of my mouth, she gasps, her hands flying up to grip the lapels of my jacket.

I trail kisses along the column of her throat, each one a deliberate tease. Her grip on my jacket tightens, her body arching toward mine despite her obvious effort to maintain control. I revel in it, this delicious contradiction of resistance and surrender, the way she fights her own desire even as it overwhelms her.

My hands slide to her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh with enough pressure to leave marks, a primal part of me wants to brand her, to ensure that long after tonight, she’ll carry physical reminders of this moment. I nip at the juncture where her neck meets her shoulder, drawing another sharp inhale from her.

I’m about to deepen the kiss, to taste more of her skin, when voices pass nearby, a reminder that we are, in fact, in a public space, surrounded by people who would pay close attention to any hint of weakness or distraction on my part.

I pull away, noting the flicker of disappointment and confusion that crosses Lea’s face. I smooth my expression, affecting a coolness I don’t feel as I step back.

“Don’t forget your purpose,” I admonish, though whether I’m reminding her or myself is unclear. “You came for a story, not this.”

The words come out harsher than intended, half-sneer, half-warning, a desperate attempt to regain control over both her reactions and my own spiraling hunger. Something flashes in her eyes, hurt, perhaps, or anger at being reminded of the transactional nature of our arrangement.

I lead her out of the alcove, straightening my jacket with practiced nonchalance. As we emerge back into the main corridor, I cast one last glance at her parted lips, the lingering flush on her cheeks, the slight tremble in her hands as she smooths her dress.

The evidence of her desire only confirms what I already know: she’s close to craving this world, and me, more than she dares admit. It should bring me satisfaction, a sense of victory in my careful seduction.

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