Chapter 5 #2
I step forward before Sophie can respond. "Any business arrangements can be discussed through proper channels," I say smoothly, my tone pleasant but my meaning clear. "Sophie's schedule is quite full these days."
William's eyes flick to my hand, now firmly at Sophie's waist, and understanding dawns. "Of course," he says, backing down immediately. "Just a thought."
Sophie glances up at me, something between irritation and gratitude in her expression. I meet her gaze steadily, challenging her to object. She doesn't.
"Sophie," Eleanor interjects, "how did you and Christian meet? He's been unusually secretive about you."
"We danced together at a charity auction," Sophie answers before I can speak. "Christian was…generous in his bidding."
"Fifty thousand dollars for three minutes," I add, watching Eleanor's eyebrows rise. "The best investment I've ever made."
The possessiveness in my tone is unmistakable. Sophie's cheeks flush again, that delicious pink that makes me want to trace it with my fingers, follow it down beneath the neckline of her dress.
"Well," Eleanor says with a knowing smile, "that explains a great deal."
We excuse ourselves shortly after, making our way through the crowd toward the bar. I keep Sophie close, my hand never leaving her body for more than a few seconds at a time. Each touch is deliberate, calculated—a message to her as much as to everyone watching.
I notice how the room reacts to us—the speculative glances, the whispered conversations behind raised hands.
By tomorrow, gossip about Christian Hawthorne and the small-town shopkeeper will have spread through every corporate boardroom and social club in the city.
The thought satisfies something deep within me. Let them talk. Let them know.
"You don't have to keep touching me," Sophie murmurs as we wait for drinks. "I'm not going to run away."
"I know." I slide my hand from her waist to the bare skin of her upper arm, a slow, possessive caress. "I want to."
Her pulse jumps visibly at her throat, her pupils dilating. Despite her words, her body responds to my touch like it was made for me.
"People are getting the wrong idea," she persists, though her voice lacks conviction.
"What idea is that?" I challenge, stepping closer.
"That we're…together."
"Aren't we?" I hold her gaze, daring her to deny what's happening between us. "Here. Now."
She swallows, unable to look away. "Just for tonight."
"We'll see." I accept two champagne flutes from the bartender, handing one to her. Our fingers brush, and I deliberately prolong the contact. "I'm not a man who settles for temporary arrangements, Sophie."
Uncertainty flashes across her face, but there's something else there too—a curiosity, a hunger that mirrors my own. She's fighting it, but losing. I can be patient. I've built an empire by recognizing when to push and when to wait.
"You make it sound like you're planning some kind of hostile takeover," she says, attempting humor to break the tension.
"There's nothing hostile about it." I sip my champagne, never taking my eyes from hers. "A successful acquisition requires both parties to recognize the value in the arrangement."
"Acquisition?" She stiffens slightly. "Is that what this is?"
"It's a metaphor, Sophie." I trace my thumb along her wrist where her pulse beats rapidly. "Though not entirely inaccurate."
Before she can respond, I notice Daniel watching us from across the room, his expression calculated. When he sees me looking, he raises his glass in a mock toast, his eyes fixed not on me but on Sophie. A challenge. A test of boundaries.
I shift, angling my body to block his view of her. The movement is subtle but unmistakable to anyone watching—a predator protecting what's his.
Sophie belongs here, by my side. The certainty of it settles in my chest like an immovable weight.
I've spent a lifetime acquiring things—companies, properties, assets.
None of them stirred this bone-deep need to possess, to protect, to claim.
None of them mattered the way she does, after just one dance, one night.
It should concern me, this swift and consuming obsession. It doesn't. Instead, it feels like recognition—like finding something I've been searching for without knowing what was missing.
"Christian?" Sophie's voice pulls me back to the present. "You were somewhere else just now."
I look down at her—really look at her—and allow myself a rare, genuine smile. "No. I'm exactly where I need to be."
And so is she.
The orchestra shifts to something slower, more intimate.
A perfect opportunity to reinforce the message I've been sending all evening.
I take Sophie's champagne flute, placing it alongside mine on a passing server's tray.
"Dance with me," I say, not a request but not quite a command either.
Something in between—an inevitability. She hesitates only a moment before nodding, allowing me to lead her back to the dance floor.
The brief resistance in her eyes is fading with each touch, each moment spent in my orbit.
She's beginning to understand what I've known since the charity auction—this isn't temporary.
This isn't chance. This is destiny asserting itself with the same inevitability that guides Benets and empires.
This time, she comes to me more willingly, her body fitting against mine as if designed specifically for this purpose.
My hand splays across her lower back, fingers playing at the edge where fabric meets bare skin.
Her warmth seeps through the velvet, through my palm, straight into my bloodstream like the most addictive drug.
"You're staring," she murmurs, a fresh blush coloring her cheeks.
"I'm appreciating," I correct her. "There's a difference."
We move together more fluidly now, her body following mine instinctively.
The dance is a waltz, traditional in steps but nothing traditional in execution.
I hold her closer than propriety dictates, my thigh occasionally pressing between hers as we turn, my chest brushing against the softness of her breasts with each step.
The possessiveness that's been building all night crystallizes into something harder, sharper, more defined. Sophie Winters has awakened something in me I didn't know existed—a territorial instinct so primal it bypasses logic, reason, control. The pillars I've built my empire upon.
"You're different tonight," she observes, her blue eyes searching mine.
"Different how?" I ask, though I know exactly what she means.
"More…intense." Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes. "Less controlled."
"You bring that out in me." The admission comes easily, surprising us both. "Consider yourself responsible."
A small smile plays at the corners of her lips. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered or terrified by that."
"Both," I tell her honestly. "Both is appropriate."
We turn again, and I catch sight of familiar faces watching us—board members, business associates, rivals. None of them matter. Nothing matters except the woman in my arms and the way she's slowly, inexorably surrendering to whatever this is between us.
"May I cut in?"
The voice comes from behind me, intruding on our moment, our space, our connection.
I don't turn immediately, taking my time, making him wait.
When I do, I find exactly who I expected—Victor Chambers, CEO of Chambers Industries, my chief competitor in three Benets.
His smile is all polished charm, but his eyes are calculating.
"Victor," I acknowledge coolly. "You're interrupting."
"Just following tradition," he replies smoothly. "It's customary to share the dance floor, isn't it? Especially with such a lovely partner."
His eyes move to Sophie, traveling down her body in a way that makes my blood simmer. Not an overt leer—Victor is too sophisticated for that—but a thorough appreciation that crosses professional boundaries. I feel Sophie tense against me, uncertain how to navigate this situation.
"Sophie isn't interested in tradition," I say, my voice dropping to a register I rarely use outside of boardroom takeovers. "Or in dancing with anyone else tonight."
Victor's smile doesn't waver, but something shifts in his eyes—recognition of the territorial display, amusement at discovering a pressure point he didn't know existed.
"Perhaps we should let the lady decide," he suggests, extending his hand toward Sophie.
I don't move, don't create space between us for her to potentially step away. Instead, I tighten my grip fractionally, keeping her anchored against me.
"She's with me," I say, the words coming out as a low growl that surprises even me with its raw possessiveness. "Find another partner, Victor."
The message isn't subtle. Neither is the warning in my tone—a promise of consequences that has nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with the most primitive rules of engagement between men.
Victor's eyes widen slightly at the naked aggression in my voice. I never lose control, never show emotion in business settings. He's witnessing something unprecedented—Christian Hawthorne staking a personal claim, drawing a line that has nothing to do with profit margins or Benet share.
I feel Sophie's heart rate accelerate against my chest, her breathing quickening. Not from fear, I realize, but from something else entirely. The primal display of dominance has affected her. Intrigued her. Aroused her.
Victor raises his hands in mock surrender, his smile tightening. "No offense intended, Christian. Just being sociable." He nods to Sophie. "Perhaps another time."
"There won't be another time," I say, simple and final.
He retreats, but the damage is done—not to our dance, but to my carefully constructed facade. In that moment, I revealed more than I intended about what Sophie means to me. About how far I'm willing to go to keep her.
Once he's gone, Sophie tilts her head back to study my face. "That was…intense."
"He overstepped," I reply, guiding her back into the rhythm of the dance.
"You growled at him." There's wonder in her voice, and something darker, more intrigued. "Actually growled."
"Did I?" I ask, though I know perfectly well what happened.
"You know you did." Her eyes don't leave mine as we move across the floor. "Why?"
I could give her a sanitized answer. Could frame it in terms of professional courtesy or social norms. But the raw honesty between us deserves more.
"Because you're mine tonight," I tell her, watching her pupils dilate at the possessive statement. "And I don't share what's mine."
I expect her to protest, to remind me again that she doesn't belong to me or anyone. Instead, she swallows hard, her fingers tightening on my shoulder.
"Just tonight?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the orchestra.
The question sends a surge of satisfaction through me. She's acknowledging the possibility of more, opening the door I've been methodically unlocking all evening.
"That," I say, drawing her impossibly closer, "depends entirely on you."
Our bodies move in perfect synchrony now, the pretense of formal dancing abandoned for something more intimate, more honest. Her softness yields against my hardness, creating a friction that has nothing to do with the dance and everything to do with the inevitable conclusion of this night.
"I should be running from you," she confesses, the words breathed against my collar. "Everything about this—about you—screams danger."
"Not danger," I correct her, my lips close to her ear. "Certainty. There's a difference."
The music swells around us, but all I hear is her breathing, all I feel is her body against mine, all I want is to take her somewhere private and show her exactly what this certainty means.
"Christian," she whispers, my name a question and a surrender all at once.
The music ends, but I don't release her. Not yet. I hold her gaze, letting her see everything I usually keep hidden—the hunger, the possession, the absolute determination.
"This is just the beginning, Sophie," I promise her. "The night has barely started."
And I intend to make every moment of it count.