Chapter 2 _ Dawn's Regret

Jace's POV

The room still smelled like her.

Sex and rain and that faint citrus-vanilla perfume that had clung to my skin the moment she pressed against me in the elevator. I woke up hard, cock aching from the memory of her tight heat, her nails raking down my back, the way she'd gasped my name like it was the only word that mattered.

I reached across the sheets instinctively.

Empty.

Cold.

My eyes snapped open. The other side of the bed was smoothed out, pillow barely dented. No note. No number. Just silence and the faint imprint where her body had been.

I sat up too fast, head pounding from whiskey and lack of sleep. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 6:47 a.m. December 24, 2025. Christmas Eve morning, and I'd somehow managed to fuck the most intoxicating woman I'd ever met and then lose her before sunrise.

"Fuck," I muttered, scrubbing a hand over my face.

I scanned the room. Her skirt was gone. The torn lace of her panties—God, I'd ripped them in half—nowhere in sight.

My shirt lay in a ruined heap by the door, missing buttons. And on the nightstand, glinting in the weak gray light filtering through the curtains, was a single silver hoop earring. Small. Delicate. The kind of thing a woman wears every day without thinking.

I picked it up, rolling it between my fingers. It was still warm, like her skin had just left it. I closed my fist around it, hard enough that the metal bit into my palm.

She'd left me a souvenir. Or maybe a fuck-you. Either way, it felt like a brand.

I dropped back against the headboard, dick still half-hard just thinking about her.

Alexandra Thorne.

I'd caught her full name when the bartender slid her tab toward me last night. I'd memorized it the way I memorized code—sharp, clean, unforgettable.

I replayed the night in fragments: her laugh when I told her my startup pitch was basically "adult LinkedIn with better privacy," the way her thighs had trembled when I sucked her clit, how she'd ridden me like she was trying to outrun something.

Every thrust had felt like a confession neither of us was brave enough to speak.

And then she was gone.

I should have been pissed. Used. Instead I was… restless. Hungry. Like she'd taken a piece of me with her and left a void in its place.

I swung my legs off the bed and padded to the bathroom. The mirror showed evidence of the night: red scratches down my shoulders, a dark bruise blooming on my neck where she'd sucked too hard, bite marks on my chest. I looked like I'd been claimed. And I fucking loved it.

Shower. Cold. Brutal. Didn't help.

I dressed in yesterday's clothes—wrinkled shirt, missing buttons, fuck it—and headed out. The city was waking up slow, Christmas lights blinking in shop windows, people carrying paper bags of presents. I felt like an intruder in their holiday glow.

By the time I reached Reyes Innovations' downtown office, the sky had lightened to a bruised steel. The building was quiet—most people were already home prepping for Christmas—but my team knew better than to expect me to take a day off.

I rode the private elevator to the top floor, unlocked my office, and dropped into the leather chair behind my desk.

The earring went on the keyboard. A tiny silver accusation.

I tried to work. Pulled up the latest build for the app—anonymous connections, encrypted, no bullshit profiles. The thing I'd been pouring my life into for two years.

Numbers looked good. Traction was climbing. Investors were circling.

None of it mattered.

My dick twitched every time I shifted, remembering how she'd clenched around me when she came the second time. How her eyes had fluttered shut, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, mouth open in a silent scream.

I groaned, head falling back.

This was ridiculous. One night. One fucking night.

I needed to move on.

I pulled out my phone. Scrolled contacts. Landed on Vanessa—blonde, ambitious, corporate lawyer, always up for a quick, no-strings release.

We'd hooked up a few times. Clean. Convenient.

I texted: You in the city? Need to blow off steam.

Her reply came in under two minutes: My place. 20 minutes. Bring that filthy mouth.

I stood. Grabbed my coat. Pocketed the earring.

Vanessa's apartment was ten blocks away, all glass and chrome and cold modern lines. She opened the door in nothing but a silk robe, smirking like she knew exactly why I was here.

"Bad night?" she purred, tugging me inside.

"Something like that."

No small talk. She dropped the robe. Perfect body—tanned, toned, predictable. I kissed her hard, trying to overwrite the memory of Alexandra's mouth. It didn't work.

We made it to the couch. She straddled me, grinding against my hardening cock through my pants. I yanked her hair back, bit her neck the way Alexandra had bitten mine. She moaned—pretty, practiced.

I flipped her onto her back, spread her thighs, buried my face between them. She tasted like expensive lotion and nothing like rain. I worked her clit with my tongue, fingers sliding inside, curling. She arched, fingers in my hair, coming fast and loud.

It should have satisfied me.

It didn't.

She reached for my belt. I let her. She freed my cock, stroked me once, twice. Then sank down, taking me in one smooth glide.

I fucked her hard. Deep. Mechanical. Chasing something that wasn't there.

She came again, nails digging into my shoulders—different nails, different pain. I closed my eyes and pictured dark curls, hazel eyes, that sharp little gasp when I'd hit the perfect angle.

I came with a low curse, spilling into the condom, hips jerking.

Vanessa kissed my jaw, satisfied. "Better?"

I forced a smile. "Yeah."

Liar.

I left twenty minutes later. No lingering. No promises.

Back in my office, I sat in the dark, city lights glittering below. The earring sat on my desk like a challenge.

I picked up my phone again. Opened a private browser. Typed her name into the search bar.

Alexandra Thorne.

Graphic designer. Freelance. Portfolio site. I*******m. Sparse. Professional. Beautiful shots of her work—bold, emotional, alive.

No personal photos. No tags. No trace of where she might be right now.

I leaned back, thumb rubbing the earring.

She'd left me with nothing but questions and a hunger that wouldn't quit.

But I was Jace fucking Reyes.

I didn't lose.

I found.

And I was going to find her.

Even if it took every dirty, desperate, brilliant thing I had.