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Vivian’s POV

I wanted a drink. In fact I needed the whole bottle. I sat at the sticky bar counter, the thumping bass of the club vibrating in my teeth, and I just wanted the world to stop spinning. Derek Blackwell--the man I'd foolishly loved--was getting engaged tomorrow morning. To another person. The thought tasted like heartbreak and bile. I wanted to drown every memory of his smile, his laugh, and his stupid lies in the strongest liquor the bartender could pour.

And for a while, it worked. The edges of the world got soft and blurry. The pain in my chest finally died.

Then someone had an arm around my waist and was leading me upstairs. I didn't battle it. I didn't even see who it was. Mad dizzy circles wheeled in the hallway. My knees went from under me and I staggered forward, completely off balance. I didn't hit the floor, I fell right into the arms of a man sitting on a big leather couch.

I ended up sitting on his lap, my hands immediately finding his shoulders to keep me from falling. He was a rock. My brain registered two things separately through the thick, comfortable cloud of alcohol. He smelled like expensive cedar and danger. He had a ridiculously good body. Broad, thick and firm.

He didn't push me off. He was completely still, his big hands resting lightly on my hips. I took his silence as complete permission to go on.

"You know," I mumbled, leaning in so my chest was pressed fully against his. You feel good. So much better than him.

"I am. His voice was low and dark, a rumble that vibrated against my own skin. It was a sound terrifyingly sexy.

“Mhm," I hummed, dragging my hands down his chest to grab his shirt. "Derek is a softy. Safe and boring. You... you seem dangerous. More powerful. I bet you know what to do with those big hands." I lightly ran my nails down his collarbone feeling the hard muscle move under his clothes. "Want to take me to bed? Because honestly, I've decided tonight doesn't count. I just want to feel good. I want to forget everything."

'You talk too much,' he whispered, his hands tightening just a fraction on my hips.

"Then shut me up." I dared recklessly, moving closer, my lips a breath away from his. I am giving myself to you on a silver platter, practically. “Are you going to take it or are you scared?”

He didn't even kiss me. He caught my chin between his thumb and index finger instead. His grip was not painful, but it was complete. He raised my face.

He ordered, "Look at me." The raw authority in his voice sent a hot, heavy shiver right down to my core. "Look at me good."

I blinked, battling the alcohol to clear my eyes in the dark room. Sharp aristocratic jawline. Cold, piercing eyes. A handsome mouth, cruel.

The alcohol left my blood at once. My stomach fell to my shoes.

Ethan Blackwell

Derek's youngest uncle. The most elite, the most powerful and the richest person in the whole city. A man I'd seen maybe a handful of times in my entire relationship with Derek, always standing across a crowded room, always completely untouchable. We had never even talked.

I screamed, scrambling backwards off his lap like I’d just caught fire. I threw every limb I had, hit the floor, crawled backward on my hands and knees until my back hit the nearest wall. I sat there hugging my knees, my heart pounding so hard I thought my ribs would break.

Ethan didn't even flinch He was in no hurry. He got up slowly and smoothed out a wrinkle in the front of his dark shirt carefully. "Finished?

I... I..." I panted, my chest heaving. I thought you were somebody else. Just a guy.”

Some guy, he repeated, mockingly, dryly. "You brought me here." "What?"

"You held my arm downstairs at the bar," he said evenly, stepping closer. “You made me come in this room with you. And then you practically threw yourself on my lap.

I looked at him, my mouth gaping in horror. I had no recollection whatever of doing that. But when I looked at his calm, imposing figure I had no evidence to argue otherwise. Why would a billionaire lie about a drunk girl dragging him upstairs? "I... I am so sorry, Uncle Blackwell. I was drunk. I didn't know it was you."

His dark eyes narrowed at once, flashing with something sharp and predatory. "Uncle Blackwell?

I swallowed the big lump in my throat. I knew immediately how silly and childish that sounded now. "Uh-huh. That doesn’t work anymore. Derek and I are finished. Mr. Blackwell. Sorry, Mr. Blackwell.

"Get your stuff," he said. "I'm taking you home.

He didn't even wait for my answer. The car ride was stifling. I kept my face turned all the way to the passenger window, chewing my bottom lip until it bled. The silence between us was thick and heavy, almost hard to breathe. I was locked in a small, expensive box with the most dangerous man I knew.

His sleek car pulled up outside my apartment building, and I grabbed for the door handle, desperate to get away from the heat rolling off his body.

I pulled the knob. Nothing. The door wouldn’t open from the inside.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I turned my head slowly and looked at him. His long fingers were tapping lazily on the steering wheel, and his eyes were already on me. The streetlights cast harsh shadows on his handsome face. "Have you stopped calling me Uncle Blackwell?" he asked quietly. The way he said it was not a polite question. It was hard.

I held my breath. “I told you. That title doesn't apply any more."

He looked at me for a long, quiet moment. The heat in the car cranked up, hot and low in my gut. He was the first to get out, he walked around the hood and opened my door. The cool night air hit my face but did nothing to cool the fire under my skin.

"I'll walk you up," said he.

I walked out on to the pavement. I examined the room carefully. I looked at the feral hunger burning dark in his eyes.

"Are you..." I whispered, my voice trembling. "Are you going to stay?"

He came closer, his chest nearly bumping mine. “Is that a problem?”

I parted my lips, looking at his. I could not answer.

We climbed upstairs in dead silence. I opened my door, my hands shaking so much I dropped my keys twice. We stepped inside and the heavy door clicked shut behind us. I went for the light switch on the wall.

His big hand went around my wrist, pinning it against the wall.

The light never switched on.

"You wanted to know if I know how to use my hands," he growled right in my ear, his lips skimming my jawline. "Let's see." "Ethan," I managed to say in the dark, before I could stop the word from leaving my mouth. "Good," he said roughly, his hands sliding down to grip the back of my thighs. He carried me up against the door, his mouth slamming down on mine. “Don’t stop saying my name.”

My hands wildly fumbled for his belt. The bedroom door clicked behind us.

When I woke up, the bright morning sunlight was stabbing me right in the eyes. My body felt good, in a specific, good way, but my mind was just pure panic.

I could hear the water running in the bathroom.

I pulled the covers up to my chin tightly. What had I done? I’d slept with Ethan Blackwell. Derek's uncle.

At last the bathroom door clicked open. He stood up and I felt my mouth go instantly dry. He wore a white towel slung perilously low around his waist. Water dripped down his tanned, broad chest, tracing the hard lines of his stomach. But that didn’t make me stop.

Deep, bright red scratches were across his back and shoulders. My scratches.

I looked away fast, staring hard at the wall across the room, because looking at those marks made them feel too real. It felt like confessing exactly what we'd done in the dark.

I gulped. I couldn't let him see how afraid I was of the reality crashing down on me. I kept my voice absolutely even.

"Mr. Blackwell," I said, staring at the paint on the wall.

He put away the second towel and looked at me.

"We're both adults," I told him, keeping my voice as flat and professional as I could. “And I hope that when you walk out that door, you can forget that any of this ever happened.”