Page 5 of Depraved Temptation

"Cameron is an adult, as are we. Your history, whatever it may be, is separate from what's between us now."

"But..." My voice falters, and I find it hard to look away from those piercing eyes.

Alexander gently interrupts, "Listen, I understand this might be complicated. But there's an undeniable connection here. Wouldn't you agree?"

I want to deny it, to pull away, but the honesty in his gaze keeps me rooted. I nod slowly.

"Why don’t we move this to a more private setting?" he suggests. "A quiet dinner, where we can talk openly, away from prying eyes and this unexpected surprise."

The idea sounds tempting. But my mind whirls, thoughts of Cameron, of the past, of the societal rules I'd be breaking. “And what if Cameron finds out?”

Alexander sighs, releasing my wrist but staying close. “Cameron and I have many things to sort out, but this isn’t about him. It’s about us. And for the record,” he leans in, voice dropping, "my intentions, though fueled by undeniable attraction, are honorable."

My heart races. Every logical bone in my body screams at me to walk away, to not dip my toes into these treacherous waters. But then, there's this inexplicable pull toward Alexander, the man, not the magnate. An urge to explore what lies beneath that suave exterior, to find out what would happen if I were to take this leap of faith.

He watches my internal battle, waiting patiently, giving me space to decide. “Lila,” he murmurs, “I’m not asking for a commitment. Just dinner. A conversation between two adults who've been drawn to each other. Isn’t there a part of you, even a small one, that wants to explore this possibility?”

Breathing deeply, I find my resolve. "Okay," I whisper, surprising even myself, "one dinner."

A slow, victorious smile spreads across Alexander's face. "One dinner," he agrees.

Chapter 4

Alexander

Stepping through the unmarked door, I'm less absorbed by the aura of the exclusive space that's so often entertained me and more by the woman whose hand lightly rests on my arm. Lila's presence amplifies every sense, lending a new intensity to this all-too-familiar setting.

The lanterns overhead cast a subdued glow, but it's Lila who captures and monopolizes my focus. Her beauty under the soft light becomes my sole point of interest. In my mind, the restaurant's atmosphere—meticulously designed to offer privacy and intimacy—pales in comparison to the sphere we've created between us.

The host, a tall, observant figure, arrives with a barely audible acknowledgment. "Mr. Harrington," his voice almost a whisper. He meets my eye, his gaze darting for a moment toward Lila, as if recalibrating the evening's expectations.

"Evening," I say, my voice oozing casual authority. "I've decided to elevate your establishment tonight." With a possessive touch, I pull Lila slightly closer to me. "A woman of her caliber deserves an audience worthy of her, don't you agree?"

The host's eyes flicker with a mix of recognition and newfound respect. "Of course, Mr. Harrington."

We wind through a maze of tables, each one an island of its own, before arriving at our spot. It's a secluded alcove, even more private than the others, with plush velvet seating and a table that gleams in the dim light.

Lila slides into the booth, her eyes taking in everything. "This is different," she says, a hint of wonder in her voice.

"Yes," I say, watching her, realizing how different everything feels with her here. "It certainly is."

As I settle opposite her, I find myself momentarily distracted by the wine list, not because of the variety or rarity but because I'm trying to find something that embodies the essence of the evening, of Lila. After a thoughtful pause, I select a bottle—a robust, earthy red that promises to be as intense and enigmatic as the woman before me.

"Bold choice," Lila observes with an amused smile, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"I thought so," I reply, pouring the wine into our glasses. It’s a dark, almost crimson hue, and I briefly lose myself in its depths.

"So, Lila," I start, swirling the wine gently in my glass, "What's your story?"

She takes a deep sip, her gaze distant for a moment. " Small town, big dreams," she starts off lightly, her tone almost joking. "But it’s not a fairy tale. Dance was my escape from a home that felt suffocating. I waitressed, cleaned, babysat, saved every penny, and endured countless rejections."

I'm taken aback by the raw honesty in her words, the unfiltered truth. It's refreshing, starkly contrasting the rehearsed narratives I usually hear. I find myself leaning in, hanging onto every word. The grit, the determination, the sheer resilience—it paints a picture of a woman I'm only just beginning to understand.

"Your journey is remarkable," I say genuinely. "It's rare to meet someone so candid, especially in the circles I frequent."

She smiles wryly. "I've learned that hiding the truth takes more energy than it's worth. So why not just be honest?"

"I envy that, in a way,” I admit. “You might be the one on stage, but I feel like I’m the one always playing a part.”

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