3

North’s POV

Still stunned, I followed him down the long hallway. He walked with unhurried confidence, his stride smooth and prefect, only glancing back once, just as he reached his door. It was enough to remind me that he was aware of every step I took behind him.

I was slower. By the time I entered the room, he was already seated.

The space stole my breath before he did.

The bedroom was vast, almost gallery-like. Clean lines, high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows veiled with sheer curtains that softened the city lights outside. The palette was restrained but intentional, shades of ivory, slate, and deep blue, accented with sculptural art pieces that looked expensive enough to be untouchable. At the center of it all sat a massive blue cushioned chaise, positioned like a throne rather than furniture.

He lounged there with ease, legs crossed, wine glass still in hand, perfectly at home in excess.

Without looking away from me, he tilted his head toward a glass-walled bathroom to the side. “Clean up.”

Shame wrapped around me instantly. His voice was deep, smooth, edged with a subtle Italian accent he did not bother hiding. It sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I didn’t meet his eyes. I simply nodded and obeyed, acutely aware of his gaze following me every step of the way.

Inside the bathroom, I froze.

Everything gleamed. Marble surfaces. Gold fixtures against black and white stone. A sunken tub that looked more like an indoor pool, a rain shower framed in glass, a sauna tucked neatly into one corner. It felt less like a bathroom and more like a private spa curated by someone who never had to ask the price.

I didn’t know where to put my clothes until I spotted neatly folded robes and fresh towels. That decided it for me.

I stripped quickly, folding my clothes as carefully as I could on the sink counter. I had never done this before, but I knew enough about rich people to understand one thing. They hated wasting time.

The shower came alive with a soft hiss. I washed myself thoroughly, scrubbing away the day, the fear, the humiliation. When my hands drifted lower, between my ass crack, I forced myself to focus. I needed to be clean. Presentable. Prepared.

I had been with a man before. Not often. Not proudly. Not without confusion.

The thought lingered longer than I wanted it to.

Then I realized I had not washed my hair.

Cursing under my breath, I tipped my head back under the water. By the time I finished, my hair was soaked, and I had no idea where a dryer might be. I imagined stepping back out looking like a drowned animal, and felt a fresh wave of dread.

I checked my reflection in the wide mirror. My thick hair stubbornly held some shape despite the water, giving me a small mercy. I hesitated over my briefs before pulling them on. Whatever this was, I was not walking out bare.

I dried myself as best I could and slipped into the robe. The cold bite of the air conditioning hit immediately, raising goosebumps along my skin.

When I stepped back into the bedroom, his eyes were already on me.

He said nothing at first. Just watched.

I stood awkwardly near the bathroom door, suddenly convinced I had failed some invisible test.

“Come here.”

The command was quiet, but my body responded instantly. My legs moved before my mind caught up, fear tightening my chest with every step.

His gaze held mine, unrelenting. Even as he lifted the glass and took the last sip of wine, his eyes never left my face. It felt deliberate, possessive, like he was daring me to look away.

I tried not to.

I failed.

My eyes dropped, and without thinking, I bit my lower lip.

“Fuck.”

The word was barely out of his mouth before he was in front of me.

His hand came up, firm fingers tilting my chin so I had no choice but to face him. Then his lips crashed against mine, decisive and consuming. The scent of him overwhelmed me, expensive cologne layered with the faint bite of cigar smoke. Heat, dominance, certainty.

For a split second, my mind went blank.

Our breaths mingled in the space between us, hot and desperate, though only one of us gasped for air. I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, fingers pressing into my waist with bruising intensity as he drew me flush against his hard body, as he caged me in, his other hand tilting my chin up. My head spun with oxygen deprivation and something else, something intoxicating that made my blood pulse hot beneath my skin.

Only when my vision began to blur did he release me, pulling back with a low chuckle that vibrated through my chest. He turned away, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Kissing on the first meet," he mused, then pivoted back to face me. "What is so special about you?"

I didn't have an answer, but my teeth found my lower lip anyway, worrying at the tender flesh where his mouth had claimed mine. The small sting only drew his attention, his gaze darkening as he watched my tongue soothe the spot. Then he was on me again, kissing me with a ferocity that stole what little breath I'd recovered.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't even be able to spell your name, North." The way my name rolled off his tongue, low, deliberate, promising, made my throat work around a swallow.

He stepped back, raking fingers through dark hair before sinking into the armchair. His legs parted, revealing the stark white briefs stretched taut across his groin. One hand rested casually on his thigh, thumb stroking the fabric as he watched me.

"Fuck," he breathed again. "Everything. Take everything off."

My fingers trembled as I reached for the robe's belt, the sudden violence of his kisses leaving me raw. I peeled away the silk, then hooked thumbs into the waistband of my briefs. The fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me exposed to his hungry gaze. The cool air raised goosebumps across my skin, but it was the heat in his eyes that made me shiver.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, studying every inch of me like I was something to be devoured. The silence stretched, and the thrum of my own heartbeat against my ribs. I stood there, bare and vulnerable, wondering if he'd touch me again or leave me hanging on this precipice of need.