Trading Passion With The Ruthless Tycoon

"Are you sure about this?"

Chloe Hayes plucked the freshly lit cigarette from the man's fingers and brought it to her lips. Her gaze held his, calm and steady. "Once it starts, no regrets."

The bar was dim. The music throbbed in the distance. They stood at the dead end of the corridor. No one else around.

He looked at her. Dark eyes, deep and unreadable.

"Regret isn't in my vocabulary," he said.

Chloe studied him. He wasn't like the others. Clean. Composed. Exactly what she needed.

She had haptodysphoria. Her skin craved touch like lungs craved air.

She designed high-end pleasure objects for a living—three years in the industry, prices climbing, awards stacking up. Her toys sold. Her life didn’t. No friends. No lovers. Just prototypes and silence. Tonight, her skin had screamed louder than her pride.

He opened his mouth, probably to ask if she was heartbroken or drunk. She didn’t let him. She grabbed his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him.

He stumbled back a step. His hands landed on her waist, warm and hesitant. Her dress was thin. She felt every finger. His knuckles brushed the back of her knee. The contact hit her nervous system like a live wire. Too much. Too fast. Her condition made her sensitive to him in a way she couldn’t control.

Panic spiked. She tore herself away, breath ragged, and ran to home.

Her apartment was small and cluttered. Sketches littered the floor. On the worktable sat "The Pearl," her newest prototype. Elegant. Streamlined. Supposed to be her ticket out of financial hell. Next to it, a stack of bills. The most prominent was the for her brother Leo's long-term care facility.

Her phone buzzed. Mr. Berman.

“Final prototype is overdue. Failure to deliver by the tenth results in breach of contract. Penalty applies.”

The fee was five to ten times her advance. Money she didn’t have.

Chloe took a breath, pushed the panic down. The prototype had been finished for three months. She’d held onto it because something felt off. No more time. She had to test it herself and ship it.

She activated the high-frequency mode. The hum was smooth. Promising. Then she shifted on the sofa, lost her balance, and landed directly on the device. A sharp crack. Pain tore through her lower back. The internal component had burst under her weight. Hot conductive gel splattered her hand.

She screamed.

Red, angry blisters formed on her skin immediately. She stumbled to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was empty. Of course.

A sharp knock at the door.

"Open up. Noise complaint."

Her scream. Someone had reported her scream. Embarrassment and pain swirled. She clutched her burned hand to her chest and looked through the peephole.

A man in work pants. Toolbox in hand. Tall. Familiar.

She opened the door. He looked up.

It was him. The man from the bar.

Her brain went completely blank. All coherent thought evaporated, replaced by a roaring static.

His dark eyes flickered from her face down to her hand, the one she was cradling against her stomach. His brow furrowed. He took a step forward, and that same scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him washed over her again. The proximity was overwhelming. The desperate crawling under her skin returned with a vengeance, so powerful it momentarily eclipsed the throbbing pain in her hand.

Chloe flinched back, shoving her injured hand behind her back as if hiding a shameful secret. Heat flooded her face. "I'm fine. You can go."

He ignored her, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic state of her apartment before landing on the broken prototype on the floor. A small pool of gel was congealing beside it.

"Looks like you have a bigger problem than a noise complaint," he said, his voice flat, unreadable.

Shame and anger warred inside her. Her professional failure and her private, physical agony were laid bare for this stranger to see.

He stepped past her into the apartment, setting his toolbox on the floor. He opened it, revealing not the jumble of wrenches and screwdrivers she expected, but a neatly organized set of professional-grade tools and a comprehensive first-aid kit. He pulled out the kit and turned to her, his expression unyielding. He took her wrist.

His touch was firm, his fingers surprisingly warm against her cold skin. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up her arm. Chloe trembled, a full-body tremor she couldn't control.

"It was just an accident," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Some accidents are expensive," Julian replied, his eyes meeting hers as he began to clean the burn with an antiseptic wipe. His gaze was intense, invasive, as if he could see every one of her pathetic secrets. His movements were gentle, practiced, a stark contrast to the raw power she felt radiating from him.

The sting of the antiseptic, the warmth of his hand, the relentless craving of her skin-it was a dizzying cocktail of sensation. She felt too weak to fight, too exposed to resist. She could only watch as he expertly applied a soothing balm and wrapped her hand in a clean white bandage.

When he was done, he didn't let go of her wrist. He stood up, pulling her gently to her feet, and walked over to the broken prototype. He nudged it with the toe of his boot.

"I can fix this."

Chloe stared at him, incredulous. "You? You're a handyman."

He didn't answer. He just pulled out his phone, the screen illuminating the hard lines of his jaw. "Your number. I'll call you when it's done." His tone wasn't a request. It was a command.