Chapter 2: The Stranger

Ninette's POV

My pulse kicked up before I even turned my head. A shiver ran down my spine, my body reacting to something my mind hadn't caught up to yet. The air felt heavier and charged.

I looked up.

He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car, tailored so perfectly it might have been sewn directly onto his body. Dark hair swept back from a face that was all sharp angles and dangerous beauty. But it was his eyes that made my breath catch.

Silver-gray, storm clouds eyes. Nothing I'd ever seen before.

He didn't ask if the seat was taken. He simply sat down, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, and gestured to the bartender. "Whiskey. Neat."

His voice was deep and smooth, the kind that made you think of dark rooms and secrets.

We sat in silence. I should have felt uncomfortable, should have moved away. But I didn't. Something about his presence felt like an anchor as if as long as he sat there, I wouldn't completely fall apart.

My heart was still beating too fast.

Finally, he spoke without looking at me. "Are you trying to forget or trying to disappear?"

The question was so perfectly accurate I almost laughed. Just almost.

Instead, I drained my seventh shot and set the glass down harder than necessary. "Both."

He nodded like this made perfect sense. "How's that working out?"

"Not great." I gestured for another drink. The bartender hesitated, but the stranger gave him a look that made him pour immediately. "Turns out tequila can't erase the image of your husband fucking your best friend in your bed."

The words came out flat and emotionless. Somewhere around shot five, I'd moved past hysterical and landed in numb.

The stranger turned to look at me fully for the first time. His eyes scanned my face with an intensity that made me feel exposed, like he could see every broken piece inside me.

My pulse stuttered.

"Your husband is an idiot."

I let out a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough." He took a sip of his whiskey, never breaking eye contact. "I know you're beautiful, and he made you believe you weren't. I know you're here drowning in tequila instead of at home burning his clothes, which means you're too kind for your own good."

He leaned closer, not invading my space, but closing the distance enough that I caught his scent. Something expensive and woodsy that made me want to lean in.

"And I know," he said quietly, "that right now, you want to feel anything except the pain you're in."

Every word landed like a caress. Or a punch. I couldn't tell anymore.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

"Does it matter?"

It didn't and shouldn't. But my hands were shaking.

"I can help with that," he said, his voice dropping lower. "With feeling something else. Just for tonight."

This is insane. This is dangerous. This is…

"Okay." The word came out before I could stop it. "Help me forget."

Something flashed in those storm-cloud eyes. Triumph, maybe. Or hunger.

He stood and offered me his hand.

I stared at it for three heartbeats. Then four. This was a choice. A line I couldn't uncross.

I took it.

His fingers were warm and strong, and the moment our skin touched, electricity shot up my arm. He pulled me to my feet gently, steadying me when I swayed.

"Room number?"

"412." My voice came out breathless.

He didn't let go of my hand as we walked through the lobby. His thumb traced small circles on my palm, such a simple touch, but it made my skin burn, made me hyperaware of every point of contact between us.

In the elevator, he stood close. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell his cologne, count the heartbeats thrumming in my throat.

"You can change your mind," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the climbing floor numbers. "At any time. Just say the word and I'll leave."

The fact that he said it made something clench low in my belly.

"I won't." My voice trembled. "I won't change my mind."

The elevator dinged, announcing the fourth floor.

We walked down the hallway in silence, my hand still in his. At room 412, I fumbled with the key card, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it.

He took it gently. His fingers brushed mine, just that… just a brush, and I sucked in a breath.

He noticed. His eyes darkened.

The door swung open. We stepped inside and everything changed.

He moved fast, backing me against the door before it even clicked shut. His hands framed my face, and for a moment he just looked at me, his eyes searching mine.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.

"Last chance," he murmured.

Instead of answering, I grabbed his tie and pulled his mouth down to mine.

The kiss was hungry and desperate. His lips were firm and demanding, and he tasted like expensive whiskey and something darker. Something that made heat pool low in my belly and my toes curl in my shoes.

I moaned into his mouth.

He growled in response, the sound vibrating through me, and his hands moved from my face to my waist, pulling me against him hard. I could feel every inch of him, the solid muscle, the heat, and the evidence of his desire pressing against my hip.

Oh fuck.

His fingers found the top button of my blouse. He paused, his lips moving to my jaw, my neck. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

"Don't stop." The words came out broken, needy.

He undid the first button, then the second, slowly. Each one punctuated with a kiss to my collarbone, my shoulder, the hollow of my throat.

I was shaking. Actually shaking.

My blouse fell open. He pushed it off my shoulders and it hit the floor. Then his hands were on my hips, finding the zipper of my skirt. The sound of it seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room.

My skirt pooled at my feet.

He stepped back just enough to look at me. Standing there in my simple cotton underwear, nothing fancy, nothing seductive. Just plain beige because I'd stopped trying months ago.

I wanted to cover myself, to hide.

But the way he was looking at me…

"Gorgeous." His voice was rough. "Every single inch of you is perfect."

My eyes stung with tears I refused to shed.

Then he dropped to his knees.

My breath stopped. My heart stopped. The world narrowed to this moment, this man kneeling before me like I was something sacred, his hands sliding up my thighs with deliberate slowness.

"Tell me…" His voice was barely a whisper. "Tell me you want this."

I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. My fingers found his hair, tangled in the dark strands.

"Yes," I managed. "Please. Yes."