Chapter One

Rielle

It started with a dare. The kind Elise knew I wouldn’t take.

"You’ve been celibate for eight months and it shows. Your legs are practically crossed in your aura, Rie."

I shot her a look but didn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong. After Adrian, I’d sworn off men. 

My parents had that kind of relationship, the kind that had happy endings in movies and cheesy romance books. The slow dances in the kitchen, the forehead kisses, the arguments that always ended in laughter.

I grew up watching what love should look like.

And I’ve never..not once..experienced it myself.

Not in my 24 years of breathing air on this chaotic Earth.

It’s like I was cursed in the romance department. Every guy I gave a chance either left a scar or reminded me why I shouldn’t have bothered at all.  

I Gave up hoping I’d find something like what my parents share. Maybe love like that doesn’t exist anymore.

Or maybe… I’m just the unlucky exception.

  So yeah… after Dante, I gave up on men.

Especially the charming ones. Especially the powerful ones. Especially the ones who thought good dick could excuse bad behavior. 

And Unfortunately, Elise’s idea of healing didn’t involve therapy. It involved lashes, leather, and a ride to the most exclusive club in the city, Noir.

"You need to remember what it’s like to be wanted," she said, tugging the zipper up the back of my dress like she was sheathing a weapon. "Let someone make you forget your own name for one night."

I looked at myself in her mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. The dress was black satin, hugging my waist, dipping low between my breasts. It clung to my hips, riding that dangerous line between elegance and fuck me now. My hair was in loose, dark waves, tumbling past my shoulders. My lips were blood red. Eyes smoky and lined. I looked like a woman men would sin for.

I looked like a woman who didn’t cry herself to sleep over the wrong man.

But under the lashes and lip gloss, I was still a little cracked. Still a little jagged. Still rebuilding.

And I was about to make a beautiful mistake.

Noir was all shadows and seduction. Velvet curtains, gold trim, chandeliers that looked like melted champagne. There was no dance floor, just opulent booths, thumping bass, and a curated guest list that kept the riffraff out.

Men in suits with secrets in their eyes. Women who knew how to use a glance like a blade.

I ordered a drink, something clear, expensive, and on fire, and slid onto a barstool. Elise had already disappeared into the haze with a man who looked like he did terrible things with his tongue.

That was when I felt it.

Heat. Eyes. Presence.

Like someone had pressed a lit match to my spine.

I turned. He was across the room, sitting alone. No drink. No phone. Just... watching me.

He looked like a sin wrapped in a suit, tailored black, open collar, throat like a damn invitation. His hair was dark, messy like he’d been running hands through it all night. He had the kind of face that made you forget your name and your morals. Strong jaw, straight nose, lips made for lies and filthy promises.

Our eyes met. And locked.

I should’ve looked away. I didn’t.

He stood, moved toward me like the world shifted around him. Like people stepped aside instinctively, even if they didn’t know why. There was nothing friendly in his face. Nothing soft. Just confidence and heat and something darker, hungrier.

"That seat does nothing for you," he said.

I arched a brow. "And standing in the shadows makes you charming?"

A flicker of something hit his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

"Dance with me." 

"I don’t know your name."

" You don’t need it. Yet."

God help me, I stood.

We didn’t talk much after that. His hand found my waist. His body found mine. The way we moved, it was less a dance and more a question:

Will you let me?

My body answered for me.

I don’t remember the Uber. I don’t remember the elevator. But I remember the moment he shoved me against the door to his penthouse and kissed me like he owned my next breath.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow.

It was raw.

He kissed me like he was already inside me. His hands were on my ass, yanking me up so my legs wrapped around his waist. My dress bunched around my thighs, and I could feel the hardness straining against his slacks.

"You wore this for me,"  he said, biting my lower lip, dragging it between his teeth.

"You weren’t even invited into my night," I panted.

He carried me to the kitchen island, dropped me on it like I was weightless, and tore the dress off my shoulders until my breasts spilled free. His eyes went straight to my nipples, hard and aching. He leaned down and took one into his mouth without a word.

I gasped, arching into him. My fingers tangled in his hair.

"Fuck," he muttered against my skin. "Your tits are perfect.'

"They’re real too,"  I breathed.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against my chest, then dragged my thong down my legs in one brutal motion.

"No lace. Just this tiny black scrap. You wanted to be fucked tonight, didn’t you?"

"Yes," I whispered, legs spreading on instinct.

He dropped to his knees. No hesitation. No sweet preamble.

His mouth found my pussy like he’d been starving for it.

His tongue licked a long stripe from my entrance to my clit, slow and hot. Then he sucked, fingers digging into my thighs to keep me in place. He didn’t ease me in. He devoured me. Flicked his tongue fast, hard, until my back  arched and my thighs trembled around his head.

"Jesus," I gasped. "What are you doing to me?"

He looked up, lips shiny, eyes dark and glistening. "Feasting."

He slid two fingers into me, fucking them deep, curling them with each thrust.

"You’re wet asl," he growled. "Your ex must’ve been a fucking disappointment."

"He was," I croaked out. "You’re not."

He stood, unbuckling his belt with one hand while he fisted his cock with the other. It was thick. Long. Veiny. A little curve that told me I was going to feel him tomorrow.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t pause.

He lined up w my center and pushed inside in one long, brutal stroke.

"Oh my God!"

He didn’t let me adjust. He fucked. Rough. Each thrust rocked the counter, my bare ass sliding against the cool surface. His hands gripped my waist, hoisting me in place as he used my body like it was his to take.

"You’re dripping for me," he grunted. "This pussy’s so greedy. Like it missed being stretched."

"It did," I cried. "Don’t stop."

He bent me over the counter, one hand pressing my back down, the other gripping my hair. He slammed into me, harder, deeper. My breasts bounced with each thrust. My moans were loud. Shameless. I was a wreck.

Then he flipped me again, hoisted me into his arms like I weighed nothing, and fucked me against the wall.

"You’re a damn goddess," he groaned. "Mine"

He came with a snarl, deep inside me, hips jerking. I followed seconds later, unraveling around him, legs trembling, fingers digging into his back.

We collapsed onto his couch, slick with sweat and our breath ragged.

He held me like he didn’t usually do this.

Which was bullshiit

But for that moment, I let myself believe it.

*The Morning After*

The sun was just rising, pale gold through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He was still asleep, naked. Arm over his face. Mouth parted.

I slipped out of bed, body sore and humming. My thighs ached. My lips were bruised. There were red marks all over my hips from where he gripped me too hard.

And I loved every single one.

I found my dress, stepped into it while trying not to make a sound. Picked up my heels, the last shred of my dignity, and walked barefoot to the elevator.

No note. No goodbye. No name.

Just one thought looping in my head like a curse:

If I ever see him again, I’m fucked.