Chapter 2

A loud phone rang in the dark, cutting the silence.

Lucas ignored the noise, not giving a glance the direction the ringtone was coming from, his eyes fixed on me. 

The moment the door of the penthouse closed, the air changed. It wasn’t the sweet, airy romance of a movie. It was heavy. It was dark. It was the kind of silence that happened right before a storm breaks everything in its path.

Lucas didn’t turn on the lights. The only glow came from the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the silver reflection of Florence across the polished floor. He stood there, his silhouette tall and imposing, while I stood a few feet away, my heart thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He didn't move toward me. He just watched. His gaze felt like a physical weight, pressing against my skin, stripping away the silk of my dress until I felt completely exposed.

"You're remarkably quiet, Ariana," he said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in the small space between us.

"I don't have anything to say," I whispered. My throat felt tight. I wasn't scared, but I was on edge. The adrenaline from the car ride was still buzzing in my veins, making my fingertips tingle.

He finally moved. He prowled and circled me, his eyes never leaving mine. It felt like being hunted by something beautiful and hungry. When he finally stopped, he was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

"Good," he murmured. "I don't want to talk. I want to see if you're as brave as you acted in the car."

He reached out then, his large hand wrapping firmly around the back of my neck. It wasn't a gentle caress. It was a claim. He tilted my head back, forcing me to look up at him. His face was a mask of intense, dark focus.

When he kissed me, it wasn't a question. It was a demand.

He tasted like the expensive bourbon he’d had at the gala, smoky and sharp. It was a hard, bruising kiss that left me breathless. I reached up, my fingers digging into the muscles of his arms, trying to find my footing as the world tilted. He groaned against my mouth, a sound of pure, frustrated need, and backed me up until my spine hit the cold glass of the window.

The contrast was staggering as the freezing glass hit against my back and the scorching heat of his body against my front.

His hands were everywhere. They weren't hesitant. They were sure, moving over my curves with a possessive rhythm that made my brain go foggy. He bunched up the silk of my dress, his palms rough against my thighs. Every touch felt like a brand, marking me as his for the night.

"Lucas," I gasped, my head falling back against the window as his lips moved to my collarbone.

"Don't think," he growled against my skin. "Just feel."

He lifted me easily, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried me toward the bedroom. When we finally moved to the bed, it was a chaotic mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothes, his movements urgent and heavy. There was no "sweetness" here. It was a collision of two people who were tired of being perfect, tired of the roles they had to play.

Everything was heightened. The sound of our ragged breathing, the scent of his sandalwood cologne, the friction of skin against skin. He was powerful, his strength overwhelming mine, but I didn't pull away. I met his intensity with my own, my nails scratching against his back as I searched for more.

Grasping my hips, he began to move in and out, slowly and rhythmically. Despite the initial pain, my body appeared to like the feeling of fullness, of being stretched, and responded by producing even more lubrication. As his pace picked up, my breathing accelerated and helpless moans escaped my throat each time he pushed deeply into me.

Suddenly, with no warning, my muscles tightened as my senses reached fever-pitch. The release rippled through me, the pleasure stunning in its intensity leaving me trembling and hollowed out. Behind me, I could hear his groan as my climax provoked his own and felt the warm spurt of his seed inside me.

We both collapsed on the bed, his body heavy and slick with perspiration on top of mine.

Silence reclaimed the room and the heat began to dissipate, replaced by the chill of the night air. Lucas lay beside me, his breathing finally slowing down. One of his heavy arms was draped over my waist, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle on my hip. He looked like a different man in the moonlight, less like a predator, more like a person.

.

.

In the darkness, I looked at his profile. He was gorgeous, yes. He was powerful. But I didn't know him. I didn't know his middle name, his favorite color, or what made him laugh. I only knew how he felt when he held me.

Suddenly, the room felt too small. The expensive furniture, the high ceiling, the scent of him on my skin, it all felt like a trap. I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table. 3:14 AM.

Slowly, carefully, I lifted his arm. He stirred but didn't wake. I was glad he was in a deep sleep that only comes after total exhaustion.

I slid out of the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. I felt a sharp pang of loneliness as I looked back at him, but I pushed it down. This night was a mistake. A beautiful, dark mistake that I couldn't afford to repeat. I was a girl trying to build a life from nothing; I could tell he was a man who already owned the world. We didn't fit.

I gathered my clothes from the floor. My silk dress was wrinkled, a sad reminder of the gala that felt like a lifetime ago. I dressed in the dark, my movements quick and silent, and I carried my heels in my hand fearing the clicking sound would wake him up if I wore them now.

I walked to the door of the bedroom and paused. I looked at him one last time. He was a shadow among shadows. Part of me wanted to go back, to crawl under the covers and wait for the sun to come up. I wanted to see who he was in the daylight.

But the fear was stronger. The fear of being just another conquest. The fear of losing myself in someone who was clearly built to break things.

I turned away and slipped out of the bedroom.

The penthouse felt even more like a museum in the middle of the night. I walked through the living room, my heart hammering. Every creak of the floor sounded like a gunshot. I reached the heavy front door and pressed the release.

The hallway outside was brightly lit and sterile. I stepped out, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that made my stomach drop.

I didn't take the elevator. I found the service stairs and ran down flight after flight until my lungs burned. I needed the physical exertion to drown out this strange feeling and the confusion.

When I finally reached the street, the air was crisp. The city was quiet, the cobblestones damp with dew. I stood on the sidewalk, shivering in my thin dress, and hailed a passing taxi.

As the car pulled away, I looked up at the top floor of the hotel. One window was still dark.

I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes, and told myself it was over. I told myself I would never see him again. I would go back to my studio, back to my sketches, and forget that I had ever tasted the fire.

If only I knew at that moment how wrong I was.