The Encounter

‎The charity event was held at the Whitney,it was less than an hour she arrived and Aurora's jaw already hurt from smiling. She had spent forty minutes circling the same white walls, the same glass sculptures, the same people who spoke in low voices about their summer homes in places she was sure she would never visit. Her feet ached in heels she had bought specifically for this, black strappy things that cost three hundred dollars and made her feel like an imposter.

‎She was an imposter. That was the point? She had no business in these kind of place. I was a world of elites and she did not need to be told that she did not belong.

‎Aurora Miller. That was the name on the invitation she had manufactured, it was the name on the business cards in her silver clutch, the name she had worn like armor for three years to protect herself. Before that she had been Aurora King, daughter of Thomas King, founder of King Tech Solutions, a man who had believed that building something good was enough to protect it. He had been wrong. Lucian Vale, the devil himself had taught him how wrong he was for such naive thoughts and Thomas King had died six months later with nothing but a rented apartment and a heart that gave out from the stress of losing everything.

‎That was three years ago. Aurora was twenty-five now. She had built her consultancy firm from nothing, helping small companies fight off predators exactly like the man who had destroyed her father. She told herself she was here tonight to network, she told herself the ticket had been an investment, she told herself a hundred things while her eyes kept drifting to the center of the room where Lucian Vale stood holding a champagne flute and laughing at something a woman in red said to him.

‎He was taller than she expected. That was the first betrayal. In her head he had been a small man, compressed by her hatred into something mean and cornered. But he was broad-shouldered and moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never been told "No" and most likely will never be told so. His hair was dark and slightly too long, brushing the collar of his tuxedo in a way that suggested he knew exactly how disobedient it looked. He was thirty, maybe thirty-one. Young for what he had done. Young for what he had taken and the life he ruined.

‎Aurora watched him tip his head back to finish his drink and felt something hot and unwelcome curl in her stomach. She had not expected him to be beautiful. That was her second betrayal.

‎She turned away and walked toward the bar, needing the motion to clear her head. The bartender was young and pretty and asked what she wanted with genuine interest, as if the answer mattered.

‎"Vodka soda," Aurora said. "With lime."

‎"Rough night already?" The bartender asked to console.

‎"You have no idea."

‎"Be good" She heard her say as she took the drink and found a corner near a window that looked out over the Meatpacking District, the streets below crawling with people who had no idea that three floors up, Lucian Vale was breathing the same air as her. She had planned this moment for years. She had rehearsed what she would say if they met, how she would look at him with cool indifference, how she would make him feel small without him ever knowing why. Now that she was here, her hands were shaking.

‎Three years. Her father had been dead for three years and she still woke up some mornings reaching for the phone to call him. She still walked past his old office building on Houston Street and had to cross to the other side of the street. She still kept his watch in her nightstand, the one he had worn every day, the one that had stopped at 3:47 PM, the exact moment his heart stopped beating a day later.

‎And Lucian Vale had caused it. As much as she had loved to make him answer for her heart that he was not directly the cause of his death, but she held him responsible. Truly there were no laws broken, nothing she could take to the police. It was just a hostile takeover, it was legal and brutal, stripping King Tech for parts and leaving her father with nothing but debt and shame. Lucian had been twenty-seven at the time. The youngest shark in the water, and he had fed until there was nothing left.

‎Aurora finished her drink in one long swallow. The alcohol burned down her throat and settled in her chest like a coal. She was reaching for her phone to call a car, to admit defeat and flee into the night, when she felt someone step into the space beside her.

‎"You're hiding," a man's voice said.

‎She knew it was him before she turned. She had watched videos of him speaking at conferences, had memorized the cadence of his voice, the slight rasp that suggested he smoked when no one was looking or that he had screamed himself hoarse at some point in his life. She turned slowly, arranging her face into polite disinterest.

‎"I'm sorry?"

‎"You're hiding," Lucian Vale repeated. He was closer now, close enough that she could smell him. Bergamot and something darker underneath, something that made her think of warm skin and closed doors. His eyes were gray-green and assessing, moving over her face with the same focus he probably used to evaluate quarterly earnings. "Everyone else is working the room. You're standing in the corner staring at the street like you want to jump."

‎"I was contemplating it," she said. "The view is better down there."

‎He smiled. It was not the smile she had seen him give the woman in red, all teeth and performance. This was smaller, more genuine, and it hit her like a sweet blow. She hated him for it. She hated him more for noticing that her hand had tightened on her empty glass.

‎"Lucian," he said, extending his hand.

‎She looked at it. His fingers were long and elegant, the fingers of a pianist or a strangler, she told herself he was a strangler. She thought of those hands signing the documents that had dissolved her father's company. She thought of them on her skin and felt her face flush with something that was not entirely rage.

‎"Aurora," she said, and took his hand. His grip was firm and warm and she pulled away too quickly, hating the loss of contact. "Aurora Miller."

‎"You're not on the guest list, Aurora Miller." He said

‎"I bought a ticket."

‎"People who buy tickets usually want to be seen." He tilted his head, studying her. "You look like you'd rather be invisible. So either you're terrible at philanthropy, or you're here for something else entirely."

‎The accuracy of it made her breath catch. She rallied, forcing a smile that felt sharp enough to cut. "Maybe I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. The great Lucian Vale, raising money for the arts. I read about you in Forbes."

‎"Don't believe everything you read." he said with a short laugh.

‎"They said you were ruthless." She said sharply.

‎"They're half right." He replied with a grin.

‎He was standing too close. She could see the texture of his skin, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the small scar above his left eyebrow that she had never seen in any photograph. She wanted to ask about it. She wanted to step back but she did neither.

‎"And the other half?" she asked.

‎"The other half depends on who's asking." His gaze dropped to her mouth, just for a second, but she felt it like a touch. "Are you asking, Aurora Miller?"

‎She should say no. She should excuse herself, find her coat, disappear into the night and forget that Lucian Vale was capable of looking at anyone the way he was looking at her now. Like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Like she was something he wanted.

‎"I'm asking," she heard herself say.

‎He studied her for a long moment, long enough that she thought she had made a mistake, that he would smile politely and drift back to the woman in red or someone else more suitable. Then he set his empty glass on the windowsill and held out his hand again.

‎"There's a balcony upstairs it has a better view and less crowd."

‎She knew what he was offering. She knew what it would mean to take his hand, to follow him, to let this night go anywhere except the exit she had been planning. Her father's watch was heavy in her mind, ticking even though it had stopped three years ago.

‎She took his hand and hated the fact she no remorse.

‎

‎***

‎The balcony was not a balcony. It was a private terrace attached to a penthouse that Lucian apparently kept for "nights when the crowd becomes unbearable," which suggested he did this often enough to need a system. Aurora stood in the center of the space, which was all glass and dark wood and furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable, and she tried to remember how to breathe, and when she still couldn't, she prayed.

‎

‎The city spread out below them, a grid of lights and movement that had never felt more indifferent to her small life. She was twenty-five years old and she had never been alone with a man like this. Not because she was innocent, she had dated, had slept with men she liked well enough, but because she had never been alone with someone who felt dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical threat.

‎Lucian poured whiskey from a crystal decanter and handed her a glass. She took it even though she didn't want it, she just needed something to do with her hands.

‎"You're nervous," he said. It wasn't a question.

‎"I'm not used to being kidnapped by strangers."

‎"Is that what this is?" he asked with a laugh.

‎"You brought me to your private apartment ten minutes after meeting me. What would you call it?"

‎He leaned against the bar, watching her over the rim of his own glass. "I'd call it being intrigued. You looked at me like you knew me. Like you hated me, actually. But you took my hand anyway."

‎Her heart stuttered. "I don't know you."

‎"No?" He set his glass down and moved toward her, slowly enough that she could have stepped back, should have stepped back. She didn't. "Then why are your hands shaking, Aurora Miller?"

‎She looked down. Her hands were shaking. The whiskey trembled in the glass, catching the light from the city below. She set it down on the nearest surface with a sound that was too loud in the quiet room.

‎"I should go," she said, but she didn't move.

‎"Should you?"

‎He was in front of her now, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his body, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. He was beautiful. She hated that he was beautiful. She hated that her body was responding to him like he was any other man, like he hadn't destroyed her father's life and indirectly caused his death, like she was capable of separating the man from the monster.

‎"I know who you are," she whispered. It was the truth and a lie at the same time.

‎"Everyone knows who I am." He raised his hand and brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "But I don't know you. And I want to."

‎"Why?"

‎"Because you look at me like I'm the devil and you still haven't run."

‎She should, she knew she should. Every instinct she had developed over three years of grief and rage was screaming at her to run, to remember why she was here, to hold onto her hatred like a shield. But his hand was warm against her face and his eyes were searching hers with something that looked almost like vulnerability, and she was so tired of being angry.

‎"I don't run," she said.

‎He kissed her.

‎It was not gentle. She had expected gentle from a man like him, expected performance and calculation, but his mouth on hers was hungry and demanding, and she met it with equal force. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping the expensive fabric of his tuxedo jacket, pulling him closer. He tasted like whiskey and something darker, something that made her forget everything except the pressure of his mouth, the heat of his body against hers.

‎His hands moved down her back, pressing her closer, and she felt the hard evidence of his arousal against her stomach and moaned into his mouth. It was a sound of surrender and she hated herself for making it but she couldn't stop, couldn't pull away, couldn't do anything except kiss him back with three years of pent-up wanting that she had never acknowledged until this moment.

‎He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin where her pulse hammered. "You taste like secrets," he murmured against her collarbone.

‎"You don't know what you're talking about."

‎"I know you want this." His hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, and she arched into his touch like a cat. "I know you've been thinking about it since you saw me across the room. I know you're wet right now."

‎The bluntness of it should have offended her. Instead she felt another rush of heat between her legs, a throbbing ache that made her press her thighs together. "Arrogant bastard." she cursed in a moan.

‎"Am I wrong?"

‎She couldn't answer. He didn't wait for her to. His hand slipped beneath the hem of her dress, sliding up her thigh with devastating patience. His fingers found the edge of her underwear and paused, waiting for permission or denial, and she realized she was holding her breath.

‎"Say yes," he whispered against her ear. "Just this once. Let me touch you. Let me feel how much you want me."

‎It was the worst idea she had ever had yet it was the best idea she had ever had. She nodded, a small jerk of her head, and his fingers slipped beneath the lace.

‎He made a sound when he found her wetness, a low groan that vibrated against her throat. "Fuck. You are. You're soaked."

‎"Don't -" She didn't know what she was asking him not to do. Don't stop. Don't make me feel this. Don't make me forget.

‎

‎He didn't stop. His fingers moved with devastating skill, circling her clit with just enough pressure to make her gasp, then sliding lower to press inside her. She was tight and he was gentle, working one finger into her slowly, watching her face like he was memorizing every expression to know what she liked and what she loved.

‎"You're tight," he said, his voice rough. "When was the last time someone touched you like this?"

‎"I... don't... Ehm.... I... I don't-" She couldn't form sentences. His thumb was pressing against her clit while his finger moved inside her, a slow rhythm that was already building something hot and overwhelming in her core. "Oh god."

‎"Not god." He bit her earlobe, hard enough to make her cry out. "Just me. Just Lucian. Say it."

‎"Lucian." His name in her mouth felt like a betrayal and a prayer. "Lucian, I-"

‎"Let go," he commanded. "I want to feel you come apart. I want to know what you sound like when you stop pretending."

‎She was trying to hold on, trying to maintain some fragment of control, but his fingers were curling inside her, finding a spot that made her vision blur, and his mouth was on her neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks she would have to explain tomorrow. The pleasure was building too fast, too intense, a wave she couldn't outrun.

‎"Please," she gasped, not knowing what she was begging for.

‎He gave it to her anyway. His thumb pressed harder, his fingers moved faster, and she felt herself tipping over the edge with a cry that sounded like his name. The orgasm crashed through her with violent force, making her buck against his hand, her nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to tear the fabric. He didn't stop, working her through it, drawing out every spasm until she was limp and gasping in his arms.

‎When it was over, when she could breathe again, she realized she was clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world. His hand was still between her legs, his fingers still inside her, and she felt another pulse of arousal at the intimacy of it, at the way he was looking at her like she was something precious and terrifying.

‎"Beautiful," he said, and withdrew his hand slowly, watching her face as she shuddered. He brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, and she felt her knees weaken at the sight. "Even better than I imagined."

‎She should say something clever. She should pull away, fix her dress, demand to know what he imagined and why he had imagined it. But her mind was blank, wiped clean by pleasure and guilt and the dawning horror of what she had just done.

‎She had let Lucian Vale touch her. She had begged him for it. She had come apart in his arms while her father's ghost watched from somewhere in the dark.

‎"I have to go," she said, and her voice was steady even though everything inside her was shaking.

‎He didn't try to stop her. He stepped back, giving her space, but his eyes followed her with an intensity that made her skin burn. "Running after all?"

‎"Survival instinct." She found her clutch on the floor where she had dropped it, her fingers clumsy as she checked for her keys. "This was a mistake."

‎"Was it?"

‎She looked at him one last time, at the man who had destroyed her father and just given her the most intense orgasm of her life. He was leaning against the bar again, watching her with an expression she couldn't read, his tuxedo rumpled where she had grabbed him, his mouth still wet from kissing her.

‎"Goodbye, Lucian."

‎"Aurora." He said her name like a promise or a threat. "This isn't over."

‎She didn't answer. She walked out of the penthouse, down the elevator, through the lobby where the charity was still in full swing, and into the night air that felt like salvation and punishment at the same time. She didn't call a car. She walked six blocks in heels that were killing her, trying to outpace the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he had looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

‎It didn't work. By the time she reached her apartment in Brooklyn, she was shaking again. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor in the dark.

‎Her phone buzzed. She ignored it. She ignored everything except the heat still pulsing between her legs, the phantom sensation of his fingers inside her, the taste of him that lingered on her lips.

‎She should shower, she decided, she would shower then she should sleep and hopefully she would forget this night ever happened and focus on her plan, her revenge, her reason for existing.

‎Instead she stood up and walked to her bedroom. She didn't turn on the lights. She stripped off the dress, the underwear that was still damp from his touch, the heels that had carried her to her own destruction. She stood naked in front of the mirror and looked at her body, at the marks he had left on her throat, at the flush that still colored her chest.

‎She hated him. She hated herself more.

‎She walked to the bed and lay down on top of the covers, her skin still sensitive, her body still humming with need that he had started and not finished. Her hand moved between her legs without conscious decision, finding her clit still swollen, still aching.

‎She thought of his hand on her breast, the way he had squeezed with just enough pressure to hurt in the best way. She thought of his fingers sliding into her, the curl of them finding places she didn't know she had. She thought of his mouth on her neck, his breath hot against her ear, his voice commanding her to let go.

‎Her fingers moved faster, circling, pressing, mimicking the rhythm he had used. She was wet again, embarrassingly wet, her body ready and willing even as her mind screamed protests. She thought of his eyes, gray-green and knowing, watching her come apart. She thought of the way he had licked his fingers afterward, like she was something delicious he wanted more of. She wanted more.

‎"Lucian," she whispered into the dark, and the name felt like a curse and a caress.

‎She gently stroke herself with her fingers and hating herself it was his longer fingers that knew her more, she bit her lips and used her free hands to fondle her breast until she came again, quieter this time but no less intense, her hips lifting off the bed, her other hand gripping the sheets hard enough to tear. The pleasure washed through her.