Chapter Three: The Stranger in the Shadows

The car's interior smelled of leather and expensive cologne, a scent that wrapped around me like a physical touch as the door closed, sealing us in darkness broken only by the city lights streaming past the tinted windows.

He didn't touch me immediately, and somehow that was worse—or better, I couldn't decide. The space between us crackled with tension so thick I could barely breathe, every nerve in my body hyperaware of his presence beside me, the heat radiating from his body, the sound of his controlled breathing in the quiet cabin.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, not sure I actually wanted to know the answer.

"Somewhere we won't be interrupted." His voice was low, rough with barely restrained desire. "Somewhere I can hear every sound you make without an audience."

Heat flooded through me, and I pressed my thighs together, trying to contain the ache building between them. I'd never felt anything like this—this overwhelming, consuming need that made my skin feel too tight, made every breath feel insufficient.

The stranger shifted slightly, and suddenly his hand was on my thigh, just above my knee, his touch burning through the denim of my jeans. I gasped, my body jerking at the contact.

"Tell me something," he murmured, his fingers tracing slow, maddening circles against my leg. "Have you ever done this before? Left a bar with a man whose name you don't know?"

"No." The admission came out breathless. "Never."

"Good." His hand moved higher, achingly slow, and I felt my pulse hammering everywhere—my throat, my wrists, between my legs. "Tell me to stop, and I will. But tell me now, because once we reach my place, I won't have the control to be noble."

I should tell him to stop. I should ask the driver to turn around, take me back to my gilded prison where I belonged. Good girls didn't do this. Good girls didn't burn.

"Don't stop," I whispered, and turned to face him in the darkness.

The moment our eyes met, something shifted. In the bar, with distance and crowd between us, I'd been able to maintain some semblance of control. But here, in this intimate space with nowhere to hide, the full force of his attention hit me like a physical blow.

He was beautiful in a way that seemed almost cruel—all sharp angles and raw masculinity, with those storm-gray eyes that saw too much. But it was more than physical attraction. There was something in the way he looked at me, as if he recognized something broken in me that matched something broken in him.

"You're running from something," he said, not a question but a statement.

"So are you," I countered, reading the shadows in his expression, the tension in his jaw that spoke of demons he carried.

His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Maybe we can run together. Just for tonight."

Before I could respond, the car stopped. I glanced out the window and felt my breath catch. We were in front of a high-rise building, all glass and steel and obvious wealth, the kind of place I recognized from my mother's architectural magazines. The kind of place that cost more per square foot than most people made in a year.

"Who are you?" I breathed, reality intruding on my fantasy of anonymous freedom.

"Tonight?" He leaned closer, his lips barely an inch from mine. "I'm whoever you want me to be."

The driver opened the door, and the stranger—my stranger—stepped out, then extended his hand to help me. I took it, his fingers closing around mine with that same possessive confidence, and let him guide me into the building.

The lobby was all marble and modern art, intimidatingly expensive. A doorman nodded respectfully, and I caught the way his eyes widened slightly when he saw me, then quickly looked away. Clearly, this man didn't usually bring women home.

Or maybe he did, and the doorman was just well-trained not to show it.

We stepped into a private elevator, and as soon as the doors closed, he was on me. His hands cupped my face, tilting it up to his, and for a breathless moment, we just stared at each other, the tension so thick it felt solid.

"Last chance," he growled, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "Once I kiss you, I won't be able to stop."

"Promise?" I whispered, and that was all it took.

His mouth crashed against mine, and the world exploded into sensation. This wasn't the gentle, tentative kiss I'd imagined for my first real kiss—this was possession, claim, demand. His lips moved against mine with expert precision, coaxing my mouth open, and then his tongue swept inside, tasting me, conquering me.

I moaned into his mouth, my hands fisting in his suit jacket, trying to pull him closer despite the fact that our bodies were already pressed together. He tasted like whiskey and sin, and I wanted more, wanted everything, wanted to drown in this feeling.

His hands moved from my face to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands I'd left down specifically because my mother always insisted I wear it up. He tugged gently, angling my head to deepen the kiss, and I whimpered at the sharp pleasure-pain.

"Fuck," he breathed against my mouth, "you're so responsive. So perfect."

The elevator chimed, and he pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with desire, his breathing as ragged as mine.

"My penthouse," he said unnecessarily, as the doors opened directly into what was clearly a private residence.

I barely registered the space—all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern furniture and artwork that probably cost more than my car—because he was kissing me again, walking me backward toward what I assumed was the bedroom, his hands roaming my body with barely restrained hunger.

We stumbled through the apartment, shedding barriers—my jacket, his suit jacket, his tie. His fingers found the hem of my shirt, and he paused, pulling back to look at me with an intensity that stole my breath.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, his voice rough. "Tell me you want me."

Standing there in his penthouse, this beautiful stranger's hands on my skin, I realized this was it—the moment everything changed. After tonight, I could never go back to being the obedient daughter, the perfect porcelain doll. After tonight, I would know what it felt like to burn.

"I want this," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "I want you."

Something flashed in his eyes—triumph, desire, and something darker I couldn't name. His hands tightened on my waist, and he lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as he carried me toward the bedroom.

"What do I call you?" I asked breathlessly as he laid me on sheets that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. "I need something to call you."

He braced himself above me, his body a welcome weight, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made me shiver.

"L," he said after a moment. "Call me L."

Just a letter. Just enough to give me something to gasp when he made me fall apart. Not a real name, not a real connection—just this moment, suspended outside of reality.

"L," I breathed, testing it on my tongue, and watched his eyes darken further.

"And you?" His hand traced down my side, fingers finding the button of my jeans. "What should I call you when I make you scream?"

I thought of my name—Evelyn Charlotte Ashford, spoken in my mother's disapproving tone my entire life. I thought of Richard Pemberton III, who would learn my name tomorrow, who my parents had already given ownership of my future.

"E," I whispered. "Just E."

He smiled then, and it transformed his face from devastating to absolutely lethal. "E," he repeated, making the single letter sound like a prayer and a promise. "Let me show you what freedom tastes like."

His mouth found my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin, and I arched into him with a gasp. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered like fallen stars, a thousand lives being lived while mine finally, finally began.

I didn't know his real name. Didn't know anything about him except the way he touched me like I was precious and disposable all at once, like he understood exactly what I needed—to be seen, wanted, chosen for one perfect night.

Tomorrow, I would belong to Richard Pemberton III.

But tonight, I belonged to the stranger in the shadows, the man who made me feel alive for the first time in my carefully controlled life.

Tonight, I belonged to L.

And God help me, I never wanted this night to end.