A Plus-Size Woman Kissed the Monster in the Corner for a Dare...

Part 2: His mouth did not move, but something in his eyes sharpened.

“I lost a bet,” she said.

Then, before courage could become common sense, she leaned down.

She meant to kiss his cheek. A quick brush of lips. Enough to satisfy the dare. Enough to walk back with her pride intact.

But he turned his head.

His hand came around her waist, firm and enormous, not bruising, not rough, but absolute. Clarissa gasped as her balance vanished. In one smooth motion, he pulled her down across his lap, her palms landing against the hard wall of his chest.

The room disappeared.

His mouth covered hers.

Not a polite kiss. Not a joke. Not a punishment.

A claim.

He kissed her slowly, deeply, like the dare had been made by fools but the consequence belonged to him. His hand spread over the curve of her waist, fingers sinking into sapphire fabric. His other hand rose to the back of her neck, steadying her, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

Clarissa should have pushed away.

Instead, for one wild second, she kissed him back.

Her body betrayed fear and chose fire.

When he finally lifted his head, the jazz seemed to have stopped. Or maybe she had simply forgotten how sound worked.

He looked at her mouth.

Then at her eyes.

“You taste like lime,” he murmured.

His voice was deep, rough velvet dragged over gravel.

Clarissa stared at him, breathless.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Panic crashed through her.

She scrambled off his lap, nearly stumbling in her heels.

“I have to go.”

“Wait.”

It was not loud.

It did not need to be.

Clarissa ran anyway.

She did not return to Samantha’s booth. She did not retrieve her purse until Paige chased her outside with it. She did not answer Samantha calling after her, laughing too sharply, asking if she had finally found her wild side.

Clarissa burst onto the cold Chicago sidewalk and waved down the first cab she saw.

Only when the city lights blurred through the window did she press a shaking hand to her waist.

She could still feel him there.

The next morning, reality arrived with a headache and a client file.

Clarissa stood in front of her bathroom mirror at 6:15 a.m., studying the faint smear of last night’s lipstick still staining the edge of her memory.

“You are an adult,” she told her reflection. “Adults do not spiral over strangers in clubs.”

Her reflection looked unconvinced.

By 8:40, she was walking through the glass lobby of the Marlowe Building downtown, wearing a charcoal wide-leg suit, cream silk blouse, and the expression that made junior accountants sit straighter when she entered a room.

Bristol & Mercer occupied three floors near the top. It was not the biggest accounting firm in Chicago, but it had old clients, polished partners, and enough political connections to make people careful.

Clarissa had earned her place there the hard way.

She was early. She was precise. She found missing money the way other people found typos. She did not flirt with clients, gossip with partners, or laugh when men made jokes that depended on women pretending not to understand them.

Her managing partner, David Miller, was already waiting outside the main conference room, sweating through his collar.

“Clarissa,” he said, relief flooding his face. “Good. Good. You’re here.”

“I usually am.”

“This client is important.”

“You said that in four emails.”

“No, I mean important.” David lowered his voice. “Romano Holdings is moving into legitimate port logistics, warehousing, municipal contracts, infrastructure. This review could change the future of the firm.”

Clarissa narrowed her eyes. “You assigned me a preliminary forensic risk assessment. Not a sales pitch.”

“Of course. Yes. Absolutely. But be diplomatic.”

“That usually means ignore things.”

David’s laugh came out thin. “Just don’t go looking for monsters under the bed.”

Clarissa opened the conference room door. “If there are monsters, they should stop keeping receipts.”

She stepped inside.

Five minutes later, the monsters arrived.

The double doors opened, and four men entered.

The first three looked like executives only because someone had put them in suits. Their eyes checked corners, exits, reflections in the glass. The fourth man walked in last.

Clarissa’s heart stopped.

The stranger from The Violet Tower.

Today he wore a navy suit and a white shirt open at the collar. No tie. No smile. No sign that he had spent the previous night kissing a woman he had never met in front of half of Chicago’s hidden elite.

David hurried forward. “Mr. Romano. Welcome. Thank you for trusting Bristol & Mercer. I’m David Miller, senior partner, and this is our lead auditor, Clarissa Robinson.”

Romano.

The name moved through Clarissa like cold water.

Dominic Romano.

Every city had names that appeared in newspapers only between careful lines. Romano was one of Chicago’s oldest. Shipping. Concrete. Restaurants. Real estate. Charities. Rumors.

Especially rumors.

Dominic ignored David’s outstretched hand.

His eyes found Clarissa and stayed there.

A slow, almost private smile touched his mouth.