Chapter 4

Morning light sliced through unfamiliar curtains, too bright and unforgiving. My head pounded. My body ached in places I'd forgotten could ache, a sweet soreness that reminded me of everything we'd done. And someone was watching me.

I opened my eyes slowly.

He lay beside me, propped on one elbow, those dark eyes studying my face like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. In the morning light, he was even more striking. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw. His hair was messy from my hands. He looked satisfied and dangerous and completely in control.

"Good morning, Master," he said, his voice rough with sleep and amusement.

Heat flooded my face as memories from last night came rushing back. His hands on my body. His mouth everywhere. The way he'd made me beg. The things I'd said, done, felt.

I shot up, clutching the sheet to my chest even though he'd seen and tasted every inch of me hours ago. My clothes, or what passed for clothes, were scattered across the floor. That stupid red lingerie that had started this whole nightmare.

"I need to go." I swung my legs out of bed, then froze. I couldn't walk out in lingerie again. Once was humiliating enough. Twice would be pathetic.

Behind me, the mattress shifted as he moved. "Leaving so soon? I was hoping for a review of my performance. You know, rate my services. Leave a tip. Maybe some feedback on technique."

I turned to glare at him. He'd stretched out across the bed, completely naked and completely comfortable with it. The black sheet draped low across his hips, barely covering him, and he looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Sin incarnate.

"How much?" I asked, forcing myself to meet his eyes instead of letting my gaze wander down his perfect body.

He raised an eyebrow. "For?"

"Last night. Your services. How much do I owe you?" I tried to sound businesslike, like I did this sort of thing all the time.

His smile was slow, predatory, amused. "One hundred thousand dollars."

I choked on air. "Are you insane? I should rob a bank. It would be easier than paying you."

"You said you'd tip generously if I performed well." He tilted his head, studying me. "I was very, very good. You screamed my name at least six times. Or was it seven?"

He wasn't wrong. My body still hummed with proof of exactly how good he'd been. I could feel him everywhere, the ghost of his touch on my skin.

He stood, gloriously naked, and walked to a large closet. I tried not to stare at his body. Failed miserably.

He pulled out clothes and tossed them on the bed. Real clothes. A soft black sweater, dark jeans, even underwear and socks still in packages. Everything looked expensive and new.

"How did you..." I started, confused.

"I had them brought up this morning while you were sleeping." He pulled on his own pants, much to my disappointment, and I watched the muscles in his back flex. "Figured you'd need them. You can't exactly walk out in what you wore in. Well, you could, but I'd prefer you didn't. Those are for my eyes only now."

There was a possessiveness in his tone that sent a shiver through me. I snatched the clothes and turned my back, dressing quickly. Everything fit perfectly, like he'd somehow known my exact measurements. Of course it did. This man seemed like someone who was used to getting exactly what he wanted, exactly how he wanted it.

When I turned back, he was fully dressed, looking every inch the powerful businessman instead of the man who'd made me scream his name in the darkness. Or had I screamed his name? I realized with a start that I still didn't know what it was.

I spotted the twenty dollar bill on the nightstand and grabbed it. Then I crawled around the room collecting every other bill I could find, determination overriding my embarrassment. Some had fallen under the bed. Some were stuck to the champagne bottle I'd stolen from the bar. One was somehow on top of the curtain rod.

I counted it quickly. Three thousand dollars and forty-seven cents. I'd had emergency cash hidden in various places, and I'd grabbed it all before Travis could freeze everything.

I shoved the crumpled pile at him. "That's all I have. Three thousand and forty-seven dollars. Take it or sue me."

He took the money slowly, his fingers brushing mine and sending electricity up my arm. "I'll make you pay me back. Every single penny. With interest."

"Good luck with that," I said, heading for the door. I needed to leave before I did something stupid like ask his name or if I'd ever see him again.

"I will!" he called after me, and there was absolute certainty in his voice. "You owe me ninety-six thousand, nine hundred and fifty-three dollars, and I always, always collect my debts. Remember that."

I ran. Down the stairs, through the club that looked sad and sticky in daylight, out into the morning that was too bright and too real. The December cold hit me again, but the clothes he'd given me were warm, expensive. Even his cast-offs were better than anything I'd owned.

My phone had twenty-three missed calls. I ignored them all and pulled up Tessy's contact with shaking fingers.

Can I crash at your place?

The response came immediately: Of course. Are you okay?

I looked back at The Crimson Room, at the penthouse three blocks away where my old life had ended, at the man upstairs who'd given me one perfect night of forgetting and made me feel alive again.

I will be, I typed back. Then I added, I need to tell you something crazy.

Tessy's response was instant: I'm making coffee. Strong coffee. Get here now.

As I walked toward the subway, my phone buzzed with an email notification. I almost ignored it, but something made me look.

The subject line made my heart stop: RE: Fashion Design Opportunity.

I opened it with trembling fingers.

Ms. Thorne, Your sustainable luxury concept is intriguing. The design portfolio you submitted three months ago to Vance Fashion House before they were acquired caught our attention. We'd like to discuss a potential position. Are you available tomorrow at 2 PM? Rachel Kim, Executive Assistant Cross Luxury Group

Cross Luxury Group. I knew that name. Everyone in fashion knew that name. They were one of the biggest conglomerates in the industry, known for buying struggling brands and turning them into powerhouses.

And they'd just acquired Vance Fashion House. My old mentor's company.

This was it. My chance to get back into fashion. To rebuild my career from the ashes of my marriage.

I typed back a response immediately: Yes, I'll be there. Thank you for this opportunity.

As I descended into the subway, I pressed my hand against my stomach. Something felt off. Different. But I pushed the thought away.

I had an interview tomorrow with one of the most powerful companies in fashion. I had a best friend who would help me get back on my feet. And I had a night with a stranger that proved I was still alive, still desirable, still capable of feeling something other than numb despair.

Whatever happened next, I would handle it.

I had to.