chapter 2. revenge to get wet for a Stanger

I walked until my feet hurt and the city lights blurred. Somewhere between the quiet residential streets and the neon edge of downtown I found a hotel with a bar that didn’t ask questions. Dark wood, low lighting, the kind of place where people came to forget their names for a few hours. I sat at the far end of the counter, ordered something strong and cold, and stared at the condensation sliding down the glass.

I didn’t look up when the stool beside me shifted.

A man settled into it like he owned the space. Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Dark suit that looked expensive without trying. He didn’t speak at first. Just ordered whiskey, neat, and let the silence stretch until it felt deliberate.

When I finally glanced sideways, his eyes were already on me. Grey. Steady. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch from wreckage.

“You’re not here for the drink,” he said. Voice low, rough around the edges, like he had spent the day giving orders and was done being polite.

I almost laughed. It came out broken. “Neither are you.”

He turned the glass once between his fingers. “Tell me what you need.”

No names. No small talk. Just that.

I looked at him fully then. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his mouth rested in something close to a frown. The quiet power in the way he held himself, like the room rearranged itself around him without permission. Something in my chest—something that had been hollow and cold since I left the house—stirred.

“I need to stop feeling like a fool,” I said.

His eyes darkened. “Then stop.”

He stood. Left money on the bar without counting it. Held out a hand. Not asking. Offering.

I took it.

The elevator doors closed behind us with a soft mechanical sigh. The second they did he had me against the mirrored wall. One hand braced beside my head. The other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. His mouth found mine like he had been waiting years for the permission. No softness. Just heat and demand and the sharp taste of whiskey. I opened for him and he took, tongue sliding deep, claiming every corner while his body pressed me flat against the glass.

The elevator climbed. I didn’t care what floor. His thigh pushed between mine and I rocked against it without shame, the friction already building low and mean in my belly. He broke the kiss only long enough to drag his mouth down my throat, teeth scraping the sensitive skin just below my ear.

“You want this rough?” he asked against my pulse.

“I want it honest.”

He made a sound that was almost a growl. The elevator dinged. He pulled me out into a private hallway, key card already in his hand, and the second the suite door shut behind us he had me against it.

Clothes came off in pieces. My dress shoved up to my waist. His belt yanked open with a metallic clink. He didn’t bother with the rest of his shirt. Just freed himself—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip—and shoved my panties aside. Two fingers found me soaked and open. He thrust them in deep, curling, watching my face while I gasped.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re dripping.”

I didn’t answer. I hooked one leg around his hip and pulled him closer. He replaced his fingers with the blunt head of his cock and pushed in one long, relentless stroke until he was buried to the hilt. The stretch burned. Perfect. I cried out and he swallowed the sound with another kiss, hips already moving.

He fucked me against the door like he was trying to rewrite every memory I had of being touched. Hard, deep, the slap of skin loud in the quiet suite. Every thrust drove me up onto my toes. His hand fisted in my hair and yanked my head back so he could bite the side of my neck while he slammed into me. I came the first time with my nails digging into his shoulders, walls clamping down around him so tight he cursed.

He didn’t stop.

He carried me to the floor-to-ceiling windows without pulling out. My back hit cool glass. The city glittered behind me—lights and rain and strangers who would never know. He hiked my thighs higher around his waist and started again, slower this time, grinding deep so I felt every thick inch. One hand braced beside my head. The other slid between us and found my clit, circling with ruthless precision.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

I did. His eyes were almost black now. Jaw tight. The control in him was cracking, and I wanted it to break completely.

“Harder,” I whispered.

He gave it to me. The window rattled with every thrust. My breasts bounced against the open front of his shirt. Sweat slicked the places our skin met. He leaned in and sucked a mark onto the soft skin above my collarbone while his fingers worked my clit in tight, perfect circles. The second orgasm tore through me so hard my vision went white at the edges. I clenched around him and he groaned like it hurt, hips stuttering, but he still didn’t come.

He pulled out. Turned me. Pressed my palms flat against the glass and kicked my feet apart. Then he was inside me again from behind, one arm banded around my waist, the other hand spanning my throat—not squeezing, just holding, claiming. The new angle let him go deeper. Every stroke dragged over the spot that made my knees weak. I pushed back to meet him, chasing the friction, the fullness, the way he filled every empty place Gabriel had left.

“That’s it,” he rasped against my ear. “Take it. Take every fucking inch.”

I did. I took it until my arms shook and my voice broke on sounds I didn’t recognize as mine. He reached around and rubbed my clit again, faster, meaner, and the third orgasm hit like a wave that dragged me under. My whole body locked. I came so hard I felt it in my teeth. Only then did he let go—three final, brutal thrusts and he buried himself deep, pulsing, flooding me while his forehead dropped to the back of my shoulder and a low, raw sound tore out of his throat.

We stayed like that, locked together, breathing hard against the glass. The city kept glittering. My reflection looked like someone I almost recognized again.

He slipped free eventually. Turned me carefully. Brushed damp hair from my face with surprising gentleness.

No names.

No questions about tomorrow.

Just the quiet, heavy understanding that for a few hours I had not been a fool.

I left before dawn while he still slept. My body ached in places that felt brand new. Between my thighs I was sore and slick with him. I walked out of the hotel into the pale morning light and did not look back.

Somewhere behind me a stranger had rewritten the map of my skin.

I already wanted him to do it again.