But my goal was not to date her. It was to entrap her soul for all eternity.

I really was terrible.

“Let’s have some wine.” I put my hand on the small of her back, barely bothering to glance at my surroundings as I lead her towards the candlelit table.

She looked utterly delectable in that dress. It was such a pale pink as to almost appear translucent. Tiny silver chains snaked across her chest, keeping the fabric that barely covered her breasts in place. Her vibrantly pink hair was pinned up, revealing another chain that wound around the back of her neck, holding the entire thing up. It was so delicate … it would be the work of a mere second to break it, to have the whole thing fall to the floor.

Her back was bare to the waist, her skin flawless and creamy, and I wanted to put my mouth on every inch of it.

But I couldn’t … Could I?

No. I most certainly could not. She did not want that sort of attention from me. And giving it to her would only make my own task all the more difficult.

I wanted to groan out my frustration, but instead, I guided her into her chair and took a seat opposite her. Wide-eyed, she took in the floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, which gave an almost panoramic view of the city lights.

“It’s so beautiful,” she murmured wistfully. “I never stop to appreciate how lovely the city is at night.”

You’re so beautiful, you put the city to shame. I wondered what would happen if I said those words out loud to her. I had blurted out to her earlier that she was beautiful, but I’d punctuated it with bashing my leg on her furniture, and the moment had been broken.

But I couldn’t tell her. It had been a mistake to let those words out earlier. I’d been … overcome by the image of her in that dress as it clung to every curve.

Her gaze roved towards the interior, and more specifically, the art adorning the whitewashed brick walls.

“Does the décor meet your expectations?” I asked, reaching for the wine, already set out, as ordered by Alessio, the chef who’d happily handed over the eternal rights to his soul for that silly little star.

“It’s even better than I imagined,” she breathed, and as I poured, she was up again, her hips swaying far too enticingly as she walked over to a painting. She examined it, then gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

“This is … this is a Dante Bruno piece! From his Fiamme Spazzatura series!” Her cheeks went pinker than her hair, her eyes wide as she gaped at me. “I didn’t know there were pieces of this series outside of national galleries!”