Screwed Into Forever [Forbidden Collection]

Alexandra's POV

The rain hammered the windows of The Velvet Room like it was trying to break in. I sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a bourbon that burned just right, trying to drown out the echo of another failed client pitch.

My hair was still damp from the downpour, clinging to my neck in dark curls. I felt exposed, raw, like the storm had stripped away the armor I usually wore.

That's when I saw him.

He walked in like he owned the place—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair slicked back from the rain, white shirt clinging transparently to his chest.

Jace Reyes.

I didn't know his name yet, but something about the way his eyes scanned the room, hungry and unapologetic, made my pulse kick hard against my ribs.

He slid onto the stool next to mine without asking. Close enough that I caught the scent of him—cedarwood, rain, and something darker, like smoke and sin.

He ordered whiskey, neat, voice low and rough, the kind that vibrates through your bones.

"You look like you've had a day," he said, turning those hazel eyes on me. They were flecked with gold, like firelight trapped in amber.

I smirked, tracing the rim of my glass with a fingertip. "You have no idea."

He leaned in, elbow on the bar, body angled toward me like gravity had already decided we were colliding. "Do tell."

I could have brushed him off. I should have. But the storm outside matched the one building inside me, and his gaze was stripping me bare without a single touch.

So I talked.

About the asshole client, the endless revisions, the way design felt like bleeding on paper sometimes. He listened—really listened—nodding, asking sharp questions that made me feel seen.

Two drinks in, the conversation shifted. His knee brushed mine under the bar, deliberate. Heat shot straight to my core. I didn't pull away.

"You smell like trouble," I murmured.

His laugh was dark, velvet. "Good. Because you look like exactly the kind I want tonight."

The air between us crackled. His fingers grazed the back of my hand, light as a promise, and my breath hitched. I felt the pull low in my belly, insistent, wet already just from that small contact.

When the bartender called last orders, he stood, offering his hand. "There's a hotel two blocks away. Come with me."

I didn't hesitate.

We barely made it through the lobby. The elevator ride was torture—his mouth crashed into mine the second the doors closed, hands gripping my hips, pinning me against the wall. I tasted whiskey and rain on his tongue, felt the hard length of him pressing into my stomach. My fingers tangled in his wet hair, pulling him closer, deeper.

A moan escaped me when he bit my lower lip, just hard enough to sting.

The doors dinged. We stumbled into the hallway, laughing, breathless. His keycard trembled in his hand. The room door clicked shut behind us, and then it was on.

He backed me against the wall, hands sliding under my blouse, palms hot against my skin. I arched into him as he cupped my breasts through lace, thumbs circling my nipples until they ached. "Fuck, Alexandra," he growled—somehow he'd gotten my name from the bar tab earlier. The way he said it, like a curse and a prayer, made me shiver.

I yanked his shirt open, buttons scattering. His chest was sculpted, dusted with dark hair, muscles flexing under my palms. I raked my nails down his abs, loving the way he hissed. He lifted me effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me to the bed.

Clothes came off in a frenzy—my skirt hiked up, panties torn aside, his belt clinking to the floor. He knelt between my thighs, eyes locked on mine as he dragged his tongue up my center, slow, deliberate.

I cried out, fingers fisting the sheets. He devoured me like I was his last meal—circling my clit, sucking, two thick fingers sliding inside, curling just right.

The pressure built fast, too fast. I came on his tongue, shaking, thighs clamping around his head.

He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking like he'd won something. "That's one."

I pulled him down, rolling us so I straddled him. His cock—thick, hard, veined—jutted up against my stomach. I ground against him, slick and teasing, watching his jaw clench. "Condom?" I whispered.

Wallet. Foil packet. Then I sank down, inch by slow inch, feeling every ridge stretch me open. God, he filled me perfectly. We both groaned, loud and broken.

I rode him hard at first—nails digging into his shoulders, hips snapping. He thrust up to meet me, hands bruising my hips, guiding me faster. Sweat slicked our skin. The headboard slammed the wall. His mouth found my neck, sucking marks I'd have to hide tomorrow.

When he flipped me onto my back, hooking my legs over his shoulders, the angle changed everything. Deep. Relentless. His thumb found my clit again, rubbing tight circles as he pounded into me. I clawed his back, chanting his name—Jace, Jace, fuck—

I came again, harder, walls pulsing around him. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep, groaning my name against my throat as he spilled inside the condom.

We collapsed, panting, tangled. His weight on me felt safe, dangerous, perfect.

For a moment, I let myself believe it could be more than one night.

Then reality crept in. The storm outside had quieted. Dawn was close.

I slipped out of bed while he slept, heart pounding with something like panic. I dressed in the dark, left my earring on the nightstand like an apology I couldn't voice, and walked out into the cool morning air.

I didn't look back.