Chapter Two: A Love at First Sight

Justin Drake leaned against the shadowed edge of the Greenwich Country Club’s grand ballroom, his broad shoulders tense under the weight of unseen stares. The chandeliers above dripped molten gold across the room, gilding tuxedos and gowns that clung to bodies like promises of sex and power. The Greenwich Charity Auction was a pulsing, decadent beast—champagne glasses clinking like foreplay, the auctioneer’s voice a rhythmic thrust driving bids higher. Justin loathed these nights, the way his name—Justin fucking Drake—hung in the air like a whispered kink, a billionaire phantom no one could quite pin down. But tonight, he wasn’t here for the art or the ego-stroking. He was here for her.

Two weeks had burned by since he’d slammed into that waitress at The Gilded Spoon, her brown eyes blazing with fury and something hotter as she’d shoved his apology away. Kayla. Her name was a low hum in his blood, a melody he couldn’t shake. Five-foot-six, jet-black hair cascading like silk he wanted to fist, curves that made his cock twitch just thinking about her. He’d been reckless, tailing her to that parking lot, but those eyes had fucked him up—cracked the walls he’d built around his heart with his tech empire by thirty. Love at first sight? Bullshit. But Kayla was a spark he couldn’t ignore, a fire he wanted to burn in.

He scanned the ballroom, hazel eyes slicing through the crowd of Greenwich’s elite—hedge fund pricks, socialites dripping in diamonds, a senator with a mistress on his arm. The room throbbed with excess, bids flying for a Monet sketch, a private island fuck-fest, shit no one needed. Justin stood out despite his efforts to blend in. His black tux hugged his muscled frame like a lover, but his dark, tousled curls and stubbled jaw screamed he wasn’t one of these polished drones. He swirled his bourbon, the burn on his tongue keeping him sharp as he hunted for her. She’d be here. She had to be.

“Mr. Drake, enjoying the show?” A socialite in a sequined gown slinked up, her lips parted like she was already imagining his cock in her mouth. She was a regular at these meat markets, always sniffing for a piece of his billions.

“It’s fine,” he said, voice cold as he sidestepped her, moving toward the stage where the auctioneer hyped a sapphire necklace that gleamed like wet skin under the lights. His mind was on Kayla—her stubborn jaw, the way her soaked blouse had clung to her tits, outlining every curve he wanted to taste. He’d dug into her after that night, discreetly. Kayla Morgan, twenty-one, waitress at The Gilded Spoon, no trust fund, no connections. Just a woman who hustled hard and didn’t take shit. That rawness got him hard. He wanted to bury himself in it, in her.

A ripple ran through the crowd, and his gaze snapped to the entrance. There she was.

I stood frozen at the ballroom’s threshold, my heart pounding so hard I swore it’d bruise my ribs. The Greenwich Country Club was a fever dream—marble floors slick as a lover’s sweat, ceilings soaring like they could swallow me whole, chandeliers throwing starlight that made my skin glow. I felt like a fraud in my borrowed emerald gown, a consignment steal from Greenwich Avenue that hugged my full hips and tits like it was made to tease. The silk kissed my skin, dipping low to bare the swell of my breasts, making me feel like I could fuck the room’s judgment into submission. My jet-black hair was swept up, loose strands brushing my neck, and my makeup—smoky eyes, red lips—was a war paint I’d applied with shaking hands.

I wasn’t here for the auction, not really. I’d come to prove I could invade this world, even for one night. But fuck, I was lying to myself. I was here for him—the man from The Gilded Spoon whose hazel eyes had been haunting my dreams, making my fingers slip between my thighs at night as I imagined his mouth on me. Love at first sight? I didn’t buy that fairy-tale crap. But the way he’d looked at me, like he wanted to strip me bare and fuck me against my car, had me wet for two weeks straight.

The room was a sea of money—men in tuxes that cost more than my car, women in dresses that screamed “touch me, but only if you’re rich.” The auctioneer’s voice boomed, hyping a yacht trip for some Caribbean orgy. I gripped my purse, palms slick, and scanned the crowd. Jake had pulled strings to get me in, winking as he’d said, “Go get fucked, birthday girl.” I owed him a bottle of something strong.

Then I saw him.

He was by the stage, bourbon in hand, his broad frame owning the space even in a tux. His dark curls were just messy enough to beg for my fingers, and those hazel eyes locked onto mine, burning through the crowd. My breath hitched, my pussy clenching at the memory of his voice in that parking lot, promising to make me scream. I didn’t want to want him—I wasn’t some starry-eyed slut chasing a rich prick—but my body didn’t care, thighs trembling as he strode toward me.

He moved like a predator, weaving through the crowd with a purpose that made my nipples harden under the silk. I forced myself to stand tall, chin high, as he stopped inches away, his scent—musk and bourbon—hitting me like a drug.

“You came,” he growled, voice low, vibrating through me like a touch. Up close, he was pure sex—six-foot-two, stubble shadowing a jaw I wanted to bite, eyes that promised to wreck me.

“Told you I might,” I said, aiming for cool but hearing the husky edge in my voice. “You don’t look half bad, mystery man.”

His lips curved, a smirk that made my clit pulse. “You’re fucking stunning, Kayla.” My name on his tongue was a caress, sliding down my spine, and I hated how it made me wet. How the hell did he know my name? I hadn’t given it that night.

“Who are you, really?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. Jake’s rumors about Justin Drake swirled in my head, but I shoved them down. No way this guy was a billionaire legend.

“Justin,” he said, his gaze never wavering, like he was daring me to challenge him. “Just Justin.”

I cocked an eyebrow, stepping closer so my breasts nearly brushed his chest. “Just Justin? You make a habit of knocking girls on their asses and then stalking them to fancy-ass auctions?”

He laughed, a deep, warm sound that loosened the knot in my chest. “Only the ones who make my blood run hot.” He offered his arm, his eyes darkening. “Come with me. The bidding’s about to get dirty.”

I hesitated. This world wasn’t mine—too much money, too many eyes waiting for me to trip. But those eyes, that voice, pulled me in. I slid my arm through his, my skin tingling where we touched. The crowd parted like we were royalty, whispers trailing us: “Is that Drake?” “Who’s the curvy bitch?” My stomach tightened, but Justin’s solid presence anchored me.

We stopped by a display of a sapphire necklace, its gems glinting like they were begging to be kissed. The auctioneer called for bids, and Justin raised his paddle, cool as fuck. “Fifty thousand,” he said, voice carrying like a command.

The room went quiet, then erupted in murmurs. I stared at him, my mouth dry, panties damp. Fifty grand? For a fucking necklace? I pulled my arm free, stepping back. “What the hell are you doing?”

He glanced at me, his smirk pure sin. “Showing off for you.”

The bids climbed—sixty, seventy, eighty thousand. Justin matched every one, his paddle steady, his eyes flicking to me like he was fucking me with every raise. I watched, caught between shock and a throbbing need to climb him right there. This was money I couldn’t wrap my head around, and he was the goddamn center of it. Was he really Justin Drake? The billionaire ghost?

The gavel slammed at one hundred thousand, Justin’s final bid. The crowd clapped, and he turned to me, eyes blazing. “It’s yours,” he said, low and rough, nodding at the necklace now being boxed up.

My heart stopped. “What? No fucking way, I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, closing the distance until his heat enveloped me. “You’re worth every goddamn penny, Kayla.”

I backed up, my head spinning, my pussy aching. This was too much—too fast, too insane. “I don’t even know you,” I said, voice shaky, desire and doubt warring inside me. “Why are you pulling this shit?”

“Because you fucking got me,” he growled, his voice raw, eyes stripping me bare. “That night at The Gilded Spoon, you weren’t just some waitress. You were fire, Kayla. Real. I want to taste that.”

His words hit like a shot, making my thighs clench. I turned, shoving through the crowd toward the balcony doors, needing air before I did something stupid like beg him to fuck me against the wall. The night breeze hit my flushed skin, the lights of Greenwich sparkling below like a tease. I gripped the railing, my emerald gown catching the moonlight, my nipples tight against the silk.

Footsteps followed. I didn’t turn, but I felt him—Justin—behind me, his presence like a hand on my skin. “Kayla,” he murmured, voice soft but heavy with want. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I spun, my heart racing, body screaming for him. “You don’t get it. I’m not part of this world. I’m a fucking waitress, Justin. I don’t belong in your shiny-ass ballroom.”

“You belong anywhere you damn well please,” he said, stepping so close I could feel his breath on my lips. His hazel eyes burned into mine, seeing past the gown, the bravado, straight to the woman who wanted him despite herself.

“Why me?” I whispered, my voice cracking, my body humming with need.

He paused, then took my hand, his fingers rough and warm, sending a jolt to my core. “Because when I saw you, I felt alive for the first time in years. You’re not just a spark, Kayla—you’re a fucking inferno.”

I swallowed, torn between running and pulling him closer. Love at first sight? I didn’t believe in that shit. But as his fingers tightened on mine, the Greenwich night wrapping us in its heat, I wondered if I could let myself burn.