The rain had slowed, but the city was still slick with it—pavement glowing in the amber cast of streetlamps, air heavy with the smell of wet asphalt and smoke. Inside the glass-paneled high-rise, warmth hummed against the night. Music low, amber lights reflecting in polished floors, a quiet meant only for those who knew how to savor it.Elena Vargas wasn’t savoring it.She was tense, shoulders drawn tight under the silk of her blouse, pacing in her heels as if the floor were burning her. She wasn’t supposed to be here, not in this tower where men like Dominic Hale made and unmade empires with signatures. She was supposed to be on the other side of the city, head down, unremarkable, working through files and numbers that no one would ever remember.Yet here she was, because he had noticed her.Dominic Hale didn’t notice people the way ordinary men did. He consumed them. When his attention landed on someone, they felt it like a hand pressing against their skin, demanding they bare thems
Rain sheeted against the high-rise windows of the Granton Tower, Manhattan’s skyline blurred in a storm that showed no sign of letting up. Midnight hummed through the city like a restless beast, but inside the building, silence reigned. The last of the office workers had gone home hours ago—except two.Leah Moreno adjusted the strap of her leather satchel, her blouse sticking faintly to her skin after a long day of running from meeting to meeting. She should have been gone by ten, but a last-minute proposal had kept her typing furiously until the lights overhead flickered into night mode.Now it was past midnight. Her heels clicked down the deserted corridor toward the elevators. She only wanted one thing: to get home, shower, and collapse into her sheets.The elevator doors parted with a slow mechanical sigh. She stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor, when a hand shot forward, stopping the doors from closing.A man slid in, the storm dripping from his dark hair ont
The bar was quiet, tucked into the edge of the luxury hotel’s lobby where golden light poured down from a chandelier too grand for anyone sitting alone. He was already there, a drink in hand, jacket discarded on the stool beside him, when she walked in.“I’ll buy your next round,” he offered.“I don’t take drinks from strangers.”“Then maybe I won’t stay one.”The line should’ve been too forward. It should’ve made her scoff. But something in his tone disarmed her. The bartender set down a fresh glass, and before she could protest, he slid it toward her. She let her fingers curl around the stem, deliberately brushing his hand.“You’re bold.”“And you came over.”She smirked, sipping. The drink burned, just enough to loosen her chest.“What do you want?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes.She hadn’t planned to stop. She hadn’t even planned to look at anyone. But the pull was magnetic. Their eyes met across the glossy counter, holding for one second too long. She felt it: the weight of
The restroom door slammed shut behind them, the echo of it cutting through the hush of the office floor. Adrian barely had his tie straightened, the collar of his shirt still wrinkled from the way she had fisted it a moment before. She was a mess—lipstick smeared, breath shallow, hair falling out of its tie. They didn’t even make it ten feet before the air between them cracked again.“You think you can just walk out like that?” His voice was low, gravel dragged across stone, but it carried the kind of authority that had boardrooms shutting up at once.She turned sharply, eyes blazing, chest still heaving. “You dragged me in there. Don’t start acting like this was only me.”The look he gave her was lethal, like she’d spat at his control. He took a step closer, his jaw tight, his entire frame coiled. “Dragged you?” he bit out. “You didn’t say no. Not once.”Her laugh was sharp, almost broken. “Because you don’t give anyone room to breathe, Adrian. You push, you take, and you look at me
I told myself it was over.That night at his apartment — the tearing, the bruising, the way he split me open until I screamed his name — I swore it was the last time.But lies have a way of sticking to the back of your throat.Because two days later, I was in the office long after everyone else had gone, typing furiously under the glow of the desk lamp, and all I could think about was the way Adrian had growled into my ear when he came inside me.The elevator dinged.My heart sank.He stepped out, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, hair a little messy like he’d been dragging his fingers through it. He froze when he saw me, then smirked, slow and infuriating.“Burning the midnight oil, Sinclair?”I didn’t look up from my screen. “Some of us actually work for our wins.”His laugh was low, rough. “Cute. You think your grind matters when you can’t even stop thinking about me.”I whipped my head up, heat flooding my face. “You wish.”But the way his eyes burned told me he k
I couldn’t sleep.Hours after the party, after storming out with my lips still swollen and his taste still burning on my tongue, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. Arrogant, smug, kissed-raw.I hated him. I hated that one kiss had left me aching, restless, wet.And when my phone buzzed past midnight, I knew who it was before I even reached for it.Blackwell: You left lipstick on me. Thought you’d want it back.My stomach flipped. My fingers hovered. I should’ve ignored him. Instead, I typed:Me: Keep it. Choke on it.The typing bubble appeared, then vanished. A moment later, another text lit the screen.Blackwell: Come here. Unless you’re scared.My pulse thundered. My body moved before my brain could stop it. Ten minutes later, I was outside his apartment door, my fist raised like I could knock sense into myself instead of wood.The door swung open before I touched it. He was there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair mussed like he’d been dragg