Later that evening, after the fairground glow had faded into city lights, he turned to her in the car with a glint in his eye. "Dinner?"
"I already ate half a funnel cake and that questionable chili dog," she said. "You sure you want to risk my stomach imploding?"
He smirked. "Fancy dinner. My pick. No chili dogs."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are there real napkins?"
"Linen."
"Do I have to act like I have manners?"
"Just for the appetizers."
She gave a dramatic sigh. "Fine."
He took her to a tucked-away rooftop restaurant in the middle of the city—dim lighting, panoramic views, candlelit tables, and a baby grand piano gleaming in the corner. They were seated at a secluded booth near the window, the city glittering beyond.
They ate slowly, letting conversation stretch and fill the space between courses. Laughter spilled freely between them.
She teased him for ordering duck. He teased her for making erotic sounds over truffle risotto.
"I'm just expressive," she defended, lifting her glass.
"You're seductive."
Her heart tripped. She sipped her wine instead of responding.
After dessert, when she was full and comfortably tipsy, Cassian stood and offered his hand.
She blinked up at him. "What?"
"Come here."
He led her to the piano.
"Are you seriously going to—"
"Yes."
She sat down at a nearby chair, watching him take a seat at the bench, roll his sleeves up to his elbows, and rest his fingers on the keys.
It started soft—light touches, a lull of notes falling like warm rain. But then his hands began to move.
And it was filthy.
His fingers stroked the keys with obscene grace, each glide of skin over ivory making her thighs press tighter together. His left hand pulsed with strong, deliberate bass notes—steady and grounding—while his right hand teased higher, lighter, coaxing out moans from the piano that made her skin prickle. There was rhythm, yes—but more than that, there was intent.
He played like he meant it. Like he was touching something sacred.
And she couldn't stop imagining those same fingers between her thighs. That same smooth press, the rolling flex of muscle beneath his forearms, the barely-there tremble of restraint when the tempo swelled—God, it was pornographic.
Each flick of his wrist, each curl of his fingertips over the keys felt like a sin she wanted to confess.
And he knew.
She knew he knew.
Because while the music surged around her like silk on bare skin, his eyes never left hers.
She was panting. Actually panting.
And when she finally dropped her gaze to his hands again, it hit her like a punch to the core: she wanted them. All over her. Inside her. Pressing, dragging, curling.
And he kept playing.
Kept touching the piano like it was a living thing he'd mastered.
And she? She was unraveling with every note.
And she couldn't look away.
Long fingers stretched with precise elegance, sliding across the ivory keys like they knew every secret of her body. The veins in his forearms flexed with each chord, the tendons shifting like poetry under skin. He played slow, sensual—every note dripping with deliberate rhythm, coaxing sound from the piano like it was something he'd done in another life. Something private. Intimate.
Sienna sat frozen, breath caught in her throat.
Because she wasn't just watching him play.
She was watching him.
And he was watching her.
When she finally met his eyes, the music dipped lower, darker—his gaze heavy-lidded, molten with something unspoken and hungry.
She tried to look away.
She couldn't.
Her eyes dropped to his hands again—those hands she'd memorized, craved, worshipped—and it was like the music wrapped around her body, stroking places that had nothing to do with touch.
It was a performance.
It was a seduction.
And she was drowning in it.
When he caught up to her, she was already trying to compose herself, arms crossed, eyes fixed anywhere but him.
Cassian didn't say anything right away. He simply reached out and offered his hand again.
She looked at it like it might set her on fire. But her fingers slid into his anyway.
Back at the table, they sat side by side now—closer than before. The air between them thick, warm, charged.
His thumb brushed the back of her hand. Once. Twice. A slow, mesmerizing stroke that made her shiver. Every movement was gentle, but purposeful. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Like he was still playing her.
Her thighs pressed together beneath the table. She hated how easily he affected her. Hated that the heat pooling low in her stomach wasn't just about his hands on the piano anymore. It was this.
This closeness.
This quiet tension.
And the maddening man who somehow made her feel like she was the center of the universe by just breathing beside her.
Then he did it again.
That slow glide of his thumb over the back of her hand. Circling. Stroking. Like he was reading her pulse and finding every place she was weak.
Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched tighter.
He wasn't saying anything—but his fingers were having a conversation her body was too flustered to ignore. Those same fingers that had played the piano like they were fluent in seduction were now toying with hers, coaxing sparks along her skin.
She squirmed slightly in her seat, her pulse drumming in her ears.
It wasn't just the touch—it was him. The way he leaned slightly closer. The curve of his mouth as he watched her like he already knew what she was thinking. Like he had the sheet music of her body memorized.
Her breathing grew shallower.
She should've pulled her hand away.
She didn't.
Cassian's other hand moved, brushing lightly against her wrist, his knuckles grazing her forearm as if by accident. But it wasn't. It wasn't.
And when he curled his fingers slightly, the pads pressing in like the beginning of something, her stomach flipped and heat shot through her so fast she had to bite the inside of her cheek just to stay grounded.
He didn't look away.
Didn't blink.
And she was losing it—melting, squirming, soaking in the gravity of him.
All because of his hands.
All because he knew.
Trying to cut the tension, she cleared her throat and muttered, "You planned this. Brought me here just to seduce me with a damn piano."
Cassian's smile was pure sin. "Is it working?"
And when she dared to meet his eyes—those heavy, dark, molten eyes—her breath stuttered again.
It was working.
Too well.