The Unwanted Blind Wife's Sweet Comeback

"I already have my medical files prepared," Chantal said, pulling a sleek, encrypted flash drive from her designer clutch and sliding it across the table. "Everything is up to date. Perfect health, no genetic red flags."

Dallas glanced at the drive, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "Efficient. But I’ll still need to update my own records for you."

"That won't be necessary," Chantal replied smoothly. She reached across the table, her hand open and waiting. "Give me your hand."

Dallas raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her commanding tone. He placed his large, calloused hand in hers.

Instead of a traditional handshake, Chantal’s cool, slender fingers slid past his palm, wrapping around his thick wrist before trailing boldly up his forearm. She pushed back the cuff of his Tom Ford suit jacket, her touch feather-light but electric, sending a sudden, unexpected jolt of heat straight to his core.

She pressed her fingertips against the heavy, thudding pulse at his wrist, then brazenly reached further, her hand flattening against the solid, muscular expanse of his chest, right over his heart.

Dallas’s breath hitched. He sat perfectly still, his eyes locked on her face as she conducted her highly unorthodox, entirely sensual 'examination.'

Her fingers were cool, her skin porcelain-white, contrasting sharply against his dark suit. She was mapping the hard lines of his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart, assessing the raw, athletic strength coiled beneath his expensive clothes.

In Chantal’s mind, she was quickly building a profile. Dallas Cole: prime physical condition, resting heart rate strong and steady, muscle density indicating rigorous, daily physical training. He was a biological masterpiece. The ultimate apex predator.

"You’ll do," Chantal announced, slowly withdrawing her hand. She offered a wicked, knowing smile. "Your cardiovascular health is exceptional. Stamina shouldn't be an issue. I think we are ready to take this to a hotel room."

Dallas actually choked on his espresso.

He stared at the woman sitting across from him. She had the face of an angel, the composure of a queen, and the mouth of a seasoned provocateur. Was she playing a game, or was she truly this unapologetically bold?

"You don't waste any time, do you, Chantal?" Dallas murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming desire. He tossed a hundred-dollar bill onto the table and stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the booth.

Thirty minutes later, the private elevator of the Baccarat Hotel opened directly into the penthouse suite.

The sound of rushing water echoed from the massive marble bathroom. Chantal sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, her emerald dress discarded, wrapped in a plush white robe. Her hands were folded in her lap, her expression unreadable.

In truth, her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She had initiated this, driven by a fierce need to sever all ties to Kayden and bind herself to the most powerful man she could find. But the reality of what was about to happen was suddenly daunting.

The water stopped.

A moment later, Dallas stepped into the bedroom. He was wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, his broad shoulders and sculpted chest still gleaming with droplets of water. The scent of expensive cedarwood soap and raw, masculine heat filled the room.

He looked at Chantal, sitting perfectly still on the bed, and sensed a sudden shift in the atmosphere. The bold, demanding woman from the club suddenly looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"We don't have to rush this," Dallas said, his voice a low, soothing rumble as he walked toward her. "We can just have a drink. Talk."

Chantal’s head snapped up. This was exactly what she wanted, but her pride refused to let her back down. She stood up, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the knot of her robe.

"I'm not backing out," she said, her voice wavering before she forced it steady. She let the robe fall to the floor, standing before him in nothing but a matching set of sheer, black La Perla lingerie.

Dallas’s eyes darkened to the color of a stormy sea. He stepped into her space, the heat radiating from his large body enveloping her. He reached out, his large hands gently gripping her waist.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

"Yes," she breathed, tilting her head back to give him access.

He kissed her. It started slow, a gentle exploration, but the moment she tasted him, the tension in her body snapped. She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a desperate, clumsy fervor.

Dallas groaned, sweeping her off her feet and laying her back against the cool, silk sheets. He followed her down, his heavy body pressing her into the mattress. He was a master of control, his hands tracing the curves of her body, igniting fires wherever he touched.

But as his hands moved lower, and the intimacy deepened, he felt her body go rigid. Her breathing turned shallow, and her fingers dug painfully into his shoulders.

Dallas froze. He pushed himself up on his forearms, looking down at her flushed, terrified face.

"Chantal," he said, his voice rough with disbelief. "You... you've never done this before."

It wasn't a question.

Chantal bit her lower lip, her cheeks burning with a furious blush. "I... Kayden and I never... he always said he wanted to wait."

Dallas stared at her, the realization hitting him like a freight train. The sophisticated, bold heiress who had practically ordered him into bed was a virgin. And Kayden, that absolute fool, had left her untouched while he rolled around with Hayleigh.

A fierce, primitive wave of possessiveness washed over Dallas.

"I can stop," he offered, though every muscle in his body was screaming in protest.

"No," Chantal said, her voice suddenly firm. She reached up, her hands cupping his strong jaw. "I read the medical texts. I know the anatomy. Just... proceed. I'm not afraid of a little pain."

Dallas let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. "Sweetheart, this isn't a medical procedure."

He lowered his head, capturing her lips in a kiss that was infinitely more tender, yet undeniably hungry. "Just follow my lead."