The conference hall had been transformed. The usually sterile, intimidating space where board members shredded reputations over quarterly earnings was now unrecognizable. The harsh overhead fluorescent lights had been killed, replaced by the warm, wavering glow of hundreds of candles and the low, ambient hum of golden wall sconces. A massive oak table, usually the centerpiece of serious negotiation, had been shoved to the side to make room for a scattering of velvet armchairs and a sprawling, expensive Persian rug that was currently suffering the abuse of spilled champagne and high heels.

The air was thick, heavy with the scent of expensive liquor, sweet perfume, and the electric, reckless energy that only comes when corporate hierarchy dissolves into drunken chaos. It was the office New Year's party, the one night of the year where the hierarchy didn't matter—mostly.

But even in a circle of drunk colleagues on the floor, Dustin Thorne sat like a king holding court.

He was lounging back in a deep crimson armchair, his long legs stretched out carelessly, ankles crossed. His black suit jacket was discarded, tossed carelessly over a nearby lamp, leaving him in his black dress shirt with the top three buttons undone. The silver chain around his neck glinted in the candlelight, catching the eye as it shifted against his pale skin every time he laughed—a low, mocking sound that cut through the giggles of the secretaries surrounding him. He held a tumbler of amber scotch loosely in one hand, his silver ringed fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the glass. The feather tattoo on his neck seemed to stretch as he tilted his head back, his eyes half-lidded in bored amusement.

"Spin the bottle? Really?" Dustin murmured, his voice deep and laced with skepticism, his gray eyes sweeping over the circle of employees. "Are we twelve?"

"Oh, come on, Dustin! Don't be a buzzkill," a tipsy marketing coordinator whined, practically leaning her entire weight against his armrest. She looked up at him with blatant adoration, her hand resting far too close to his thigh for professional courtesy.

Dustin didn't even look at her. He just took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze drifting across the circle until it landed—inevitably—on you. A smirk curled the corner of his lips, sharp and infuriating. He saw you sitting stiffly on the opposite side of the circle, clearly regretting your decision to attend. He enjoyed that. He enjoyed your discomfort.

"Fine," Dustin sighed, setting his glass down with a definitive clink. "Let's get this over with. I need another drink."

He reached forward, his fingers brushing the neck of the empty wine bottle spinning lazily in the center. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning. The glass whirred against the hardwood floor, a blur of green reflecting the candlelight. The room seemed to hold its breath—mostly the women, who were praying it would land on them.

The bottle slowed. It passed Jessica from HR. It passed the intern. It passed the blonde who had been rubbing his arm.

It stopped.

The neck of the bottle pointed unerringly at Dustin.

A collective groan of disappointment rippled through the women, mixed with a few cheers from the guys who knew exactly what was coming. This was the rule. If the bottle lands on you, you have to do the dare given by the spinner.

Dustin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. The silver chain dangled, swaying slightly. "Well?" he drawled, looking at the guy who had spun. "Don't bore me."

The guy, a junior analyst drunk enough to be brave, grinned sloppy and wide. "Okay, okay. Truth or dare, Dustin?"

"Dare," Dustin said instantly, his voice dropping an octave, daring the man to challenge him.

"Okay... I dare you..." The guy looked around the room, his eyes sweeping over the eager faces of the women, then glancing over the quieter, more reserved ones. He paused. "I dare you to kiss the prettiest girl in this room."

The room erupted.

"Pick me!" "Obviously it's Sarah!" "Dustin, look at me!"

It was a cacophony of desperate pleas. The women began fixing their hair, pushing their chests out, licking their lips. They were throwing themselves at him verbally, begging for the validation of his mouth on theirs. Even the ones who usually pretended to ignore him were leaning in, drawn by the gravity of his presence.

Dustin sat back, a look of utter disdain washing over his features as he watched the display. He looked at the blonde still clinging to his armrest and gently but firmly removed her hand, setting it back in her lap. He looked at the redhead who was calling his name. He surveyed every single one of them—their beauty, their eagerness, their availability.

And he scoffed. A short, harsh sound of dismissal.

He stood up. The movement was sudden, fluid, and commanding. The chatter died down instantly as he rose to his full height, smoothing down the front of his black shirt. He looked bored. Unimpressed.

"All of you..." he started, his voice silencing the room, "are truly... transparent."

He turned away from them. His eyes, dark and stormy, locked onto yours.

You felt the impact of his gaze like a physical blow. It was heavy, intense, and possessive. He didn't look at anyone else. He didn't scan the room to double-check. He just stared at you, a predator who had finally decided which prey he wanted to hunt.

Dustin began to walk. He stepped over outstretched legs and ignored the spilled drinks. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea, a murmur of confusion and realization rippling through the office staff as they traced the line of his sight.

He was coming for you.

He stopped right in front of you, blocking out the light from the chandelier, casting you in his shadow. The smell of him hit you instantly—crisp cold air, expensive cologne, and the sharp bite of scotch. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were burning.

"You," he said, the word hanging in the air. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

He crouched down, bringing himself to your eye level. His hand reached out, his fingers gripping the armrest of your chair, effectively trapping you. He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, so close you could see the flecks of silver in his dark eyes and the feather tattoo shifting on his neck as he turned his head.

"Are you going to run?" he whispered, so softly that only you could hear. "Or are you going to let me ruin that reputation of yours?"

Before you could answer, before you could even draw a breath to tell him to get lost, his hand moved from the armrest to your chin. His grip was firm, his fingers cool against your flushed skin. He tilted your head up, forcing you to look at him.

"Look at them," he murmured, his gaze flicking briefly to the stunned faces of the women who had been begging for his attention moments ago. Then he locked eyes with you again, a dark, arrogant satisfaction settling on his features. "They all wanted it. But I didn't even see them."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "The only person in this room worth looking at... is the one who hates my guts."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his expression suddenly serious, almost hungry.

"Hold still," he commanded.

And then he closed the distance.

The kiss wasn't tentative. It wasn't sweet. It was a collision. His lips crashed against yours with a bruising intensity, immediately dominating the space between you. He tasted like scotch and sin. One of his hands moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the angle, claiming you in front of everyone.

The room went dead silent. You could feel the weight of their stares—the shock, the jealousy—but none of it mattered because Dustin was consuming you. He kissed you like he was starving, like he had been waiting for this moment since the first time you argued in a meeting. He bit your lower lip, a sharp, sting that made you gasp, and he used the opportunity to sweep his tongue into your mouth, groaning low in his throat—a sound of pure possession.

He didn't pull away until he was good and ready. When he finally did, he lingered, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing heavy and uneven. He opened his eyes, looking at you through half-lidded gaze, a smirk playing on his swollen, wet lips.

"Prettiest girl in the room," he whispered again, loud enough for the people nearest to hear, his voice husky and wrecked. "Don't ever forget who chose you."

He pulled away slowly, his hand lingering on your shoulder for a fraction of a second before he turned back to the crowd. His expression instantly shifted back to cool indifference, as if nothing had happened, but the flush on his cheeks and the wild look in his eyes betrayed him.

"Anyone else want to spin?" he asked casually, picking up his drink and downing the rest of it in one go, though his eyes never left your face.