CHAPTER 3

Morgan POV 

It had been a day since Damien.

Twenty-four hours since I'd done the craziest thing of my entire life on that plane. Since I'd slipped my panties into his hand and fled.

Twenty-four hours since I'd looked back and seen him breathing in my scent, his eyes dark with a promise that had haunted me ever since.

I should have been exploring. That's what people did when they came to New York for the first time, right? Times Square. Central Park. The Statue of Liberty. All the tourist traps I'd dreamed about visiting since I was a kid.

Instead, I was lying in my hotel room, staring at the ceiling, replaying that moment over and over until I could barely breathe.

The look on his face. The shock, then the raw, predatory want. The way he'd held my underwear like it was a prize. 

This was insane.

I didn't obsess over men. Didn't let them consume my thoughts until nothing else existed.

But Damien was weirdly different. Why? I didn't know. I didn't know why the bare thought of his name make me feel…different.  

He was a storm I'd walked into willingly. And now I was caught in it.

My phone sat on the nightstand, mocking me. His card were still tucked in my wallet. 

Call him. Don't call him. Call him.

I've been having this argument with myself since yesterday. Part of me insisted I should play it cool. Wait a few days, not seem desperate.

But I wanted to hear his voice.

Before I could talk myself out of it again, I grabbed my phone, and pulled out his card. 

My finger hovered over the screen then dialed his number. 

It rang once, then twice. Maybe he wouldn't answer or he'd already forgotten abou—

"I was beginning to think you'd go back on your word." He picked. 

“I’m sorry for calling so late,” I said, hating how uncertain I sounded.

A low chuckle rumbled through the phone. “Late? You think I sleep early, Morgan?”

I swallowed. “I didn’t know if you’d even want to hear from me.”

“After what you did on that plane?” His voice dipped, slow and dark. “You really think I could forget you?”

My breath hitched. “I wasn’t sure. People say things in the moment.”

“And you?” he asked. “Was that a moment, or a promise?”

I hesitated. “Maybe both. I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

Silence. Thick enough to taste.

“Why did you really call?” he pressed, tone softer but edged. “Curiosity? Regret?”

I closed my eyes. “Neither. Maybe I wanted to know if you were real.”

He exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “You should know something before you come here.”

My heart stuttered. “Come where?”

“My place,” he said simply. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Wait,” I whispered. “I didn’t say I was coming.”

“I know.” A pause. “But you will.”

“Damien…”

His voice dropped lower, intimate, dangerous. “Just understand—your visit won’t be one of romance or soft endings. Don’t come looking for that.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Then what am I coming for?”

He didn’t hesitate. “The truth about what you started.”

The line went dead.

A second later, my phone buzzed with a text. An address. 

I stared at my phone, my entire body trembling.

What was I doing?

Going to a strange man's apartment. A man I'd known for a few hours. A man who made me feel reckless and wild and completely out of control.

This was how horror stories started.

But it was also how love stories began.

**********

The address Damien gave me led to a building that made my hotel look like a roadside motel.

A skyscraper. Glass and steel stretching so high into the sky I had to crane my neck back to see the top. 

I'd almost been turned away at the entrance but by the sassy receptionist until she made a call to him. Almost had to give her the middle finger. 

Now I was in the elevator. Alone. Watching the numbers climb higher and higher.

Forty-fifth floor. Fiftieth. Sixtieth.

My reflection stared back at me from the polished walls. I'd changed three times before leaving the hotel. Settled on jeans and a simple black top because I didn't know what to wear to a billionaire's penthouse for what might be a booty call.

Was this a booty call?

God, I didn't even know.

The elevator slowed and my stomach dropped.

What was I doing here?

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

I stepped out into a space that stole the breath from my lungs. The elevator opened directly into his apartment.

Dim lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the entire city spread out below like a kingdom. Modern furniture that probably cost more than my parents' house. 

"Hello?" My voice came out smaller than I intended. I cleared my throat. Tried again. "Hello?"

Silence. Then I heard footsteps.

He appeared from a hallway to my left. He looked different now. 

He'd changed into dark jeans that hung low on his hips. No shirt. Just bare chest and muscle and golden skin that made my mouth go dry. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd just showered.

He looked like sin personified.

“Ahh. You’re here.” His eyes dragged over me slowly, taking their time. “You’re late.”

“I kn—”

“Don’t apologize.” He cut in quietly, moving closer. “You made it. That’s what matters.”

I swallowed hard. “You didn’t answer when I called.”

“Wanted to see if I'm not mistsken it was actually you.” His mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “Guess I have my answer.”

The air between us was heavy. Not awkward, but thick, like the room was holding its breath.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I whispered.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you already know how this ends.”

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze steady. “I don’t,” he said softly. “That’s why you’re here. To find out.”

I exhaled slowly, trying to steady myself. “You said this wasn’t about romance.”

“It isn’t.” His tone was even, but something flickered in his eyes. “It’s about honesty.”

“Honesty?”

He nodded once. “About what we want. About what we’re pretending not to want.”

The silence stretched again, humming with things unspoken.

Finally, he said, quieter this time, “You can still leave, Morgan. If you stay, you do it because you choose to. No pressure. No expectations.”

My heart pounded. “You make it sound like staying is dangerous.”

“It might be,” he said. “But so is denying yourself.”

I took a step closer, just one. Close enough to breathe the faint scent of soap and heat clinging to his skin.

“I’m not leaving,” I whispered.

He searched my face for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose, almost like he’d been holding something in.

“Then don’t,” he murmured. “Just… stay.”

He didn’t touch me. Didn’t tell me to strip. Didn’t demand anything.

He just stood there, the tension alive between us, current neither of us could pretend away.

And somehow, that restraint… that stillness… was more intimate than anything else could have been.

Something in me tore.

Maybe it was the way he looked at me…the steady, patient, certain I’d figure it out on my own. Maybe it was the way my heart wouldn’t slow down, like it knew exactly where this was going long before my brain caught up.

Whatever it was, I moved before I could talk myself out of it.

I stepped forward then I jumped. My hands went to his shoulders, my mouth found his, and all the air between us disappeared.

His breath caught in surprise, then he kissed me back. Hard. Deep. The sound that came from him was low, almost a growl, and I felt it vibrate through my chest.

He stumbled back a step, catching me easily, one arm wrapping around my waist as if he’d been expecting this all along.

The kiss wasn’t neat. It wasn’t practiced or patient. It was messy and real, all the tension and confusion and wanting that had been building since that plane ride.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathless. My fingers were still tangled in his hair. His forehead rested against mine, both of us trying to steady ourselves.

“Guess I ruined your calm,” I whispered, my voice shaking slightly.

He smiled then, slow, dangerous, and beautiful. “No,” he said. “You just made it real because I'm going to fuck you now.”