SAMANTHA
After dropping Macey, I locked the door behind her and leaned against it for a second. The silence wrapped around me like an old friend. Or maybe a shadow. I wasn’t sure there was a difference anymore.
I peeled off the dress, careful not to wrinkle it. It still smelled faintly like the perfume I wore this morning. Sweet. Soft. Pretending to be innocent.
I hung it up with care, smoothing the fabric with my hand before slipping into my silk robe. Pale rose gold. Barely there. It slid over my skin like water.
I sat on the edge of my bed, one leg tucked beneath the other. The city outside was humming quietly, but my apartment was still. The kind of still that made everything feel louder. My thoughts. My memories.
Then my phone buzzed.
Just once.
A new message.
Unknown Number.
But I knew who it was.
That dress you wore today. Dangerous.
Meet me at the regular place. My driver is outside your apartment.No emoji. No extra words. Just cold, clear demand.
My fingers tightened around the phone. My thumb hovered for a second… then tapped off the screen.
I stood slowly.
Of course, he didn’t sign his name. He never needed to.
I crossed the room to my closet, opened the sliding doors, and reached for the black dress tucked away in the back. I hadn’t worn it in months, but it still fit like sin. High neckline. Open back. Hugs in all the places that matter.
I picked black underwear too—a matching set, cotton, barely there. He hated cotton. Said it looked like “nonsense.” He always preferred plain lace, something sexy and pretty.
But tonight… I didn’t want to be obedient. That was why I wore black and not red.
I wanted him to look at me and get angry. Wanted his jaw to clench. His hands to twitch. Maybe I wanted him to lose control a little.
I brushed out my curls again, letting them fall loose around my shoulders. I skipped the lip gloss. He liked gloss. Too much. So I left it off.
When I stepped outside, the black car was already there.
The driver didn’t say anything. He just nodded once and opened the back door.
Same driver. Same car. Same cold quiet.
I slid into the back seat and pulled my coat tighter around myself, though it wasn’t the cold I was guarding against.
The car moved smoothly through the streets, weaving through traffic like it already knew the path. I didn’t ask where we were going. I already knew.
The regular place.
That’s what he called it. Like it wasn’t a five-star hotel with tinted windows and rooms you had to whisper about.
The last time I was there, he had pressed me against the wall before I could even take off my heels.
I pressed my knees together.
What we had—whatever it was—wasn’t sweet or soft or safe.
But it made me feel something.
Something that made the world around me quiet. Something that shut everything else out. The expectations. The pretending. The endless ache of being wanted for the wrong reasons.
With him, it was never about being good.
It was about being his.
The hotel room had a manly smell.
Cool, clean air mixed with leather and something expensive I couldn’t name. I stepped inside slowly, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The lights were low. Only the skyline glowed through the tall windows—like the city was watching us.
He stood near the window, hands in his pockets, back straight, body tight with silence.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But I knew that stillness. Knew the way his shoulders locked when he was trying to control it. When he was angry.
And tonight, he was furious.
His voice finally came, deep and sharp like a blade. “Black?”
I didn’t answer right away. I just stood there in the doorway, my black dress hugging every inch of me, my cotton bra peeking from the neckline. I tilted my chin slightly.
“Yes.”
He turned.
His eyes landed on me, sweeping over my dress like it offended him.
“You wore black?”
“I wanted to,” I said, soft but steady.
His jaw flexed. He stepped forward, slow but sure, stopping a breath away from me. His presence was overwhelming, pulling the air out of my lungs.
“I told you red, always.”
“I didn’t feel like red.”
His brow lifted, just barely. But his eyes—his eyes turned darker than the room.
“You wore black,” he repeated, voice low, dangerous. “Knowing exactly what it meant.”
“I wore it because I could,” I said. “Because I wanted to.”
His hand moved so fast I didn’t see it coming. Not a slap. Just a firm grip on my jaw, tilting my face to his.
“You’re begging to be taught a lesson.”
My stomach flipped.
“Maybe,” I whispered.
That was all it took.
He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the bed—his touch rough, not cruel, but enough to remind me how easy it was for him to take what he wanted. What already belonged to him?
When we reached the bed, he spun me around.
“Hands,” he snapped.
I obeyed, placing them flat on the bed. My breathing was shallow. My heart slammed against my chest, but I didn't feel fear. I felt anticipation.
The zipper came down in one hard pull.
He peeled the dress off my back like he was angry at it, like it had touched me in ways he didn’t approve of. It slid to the floor, puddling at my feet.
His voice was close to my ear now. “Black underwear, too.”
I smiled faintly. “I thought you’d notice.”
His hand came down hard on my backside.
I gasped, more from the shock than pain.
“Count,” he said.
I didn’t argue.
“One,” I said quietly.
Another strike. Firmer.
“Two.”
Again.
“Three.”
He didn’t rush. Each time his hand connected with my skin, it stung. But it also burned in a way I craved. A dark thrill curled in my stomach. I pressed my lips together to keep from moaning.
By the sixth, my knees trembled.
“Still want to wear black for me?” he asked, voice rough and low.
“Yes,” I breathed.
He struck harder.
“Seven.”
“You like disobeying me?”
“Sometimes.”
Another slap. He leaned in, his mouth grazing my shoulder.
“You’re mine for now. Don’t forget that.”
“I haven’t.”
His hand slid under the band of my panties and tugged them down, slow and commanding. Then he pushed me forward, bent at the waist, both hands on the mattress now.
“You asked for this,” he growled behind me. “You needed this.”
And I did.
Because the world outside was all pretending. Smiling. Playing nice. But here—here, I could unravel. I could be bare and brutal and wanted.
He pushed into me hard. No warning.
I cried out.
Not from pain.
From being split open and filled at the same time—mind, body, and everything in between.
He gripped my hips, pulling me back against him with every thrust.
“You wear black again,” he grunted, “and I’ll leave marks.”
“Do it,” I gasped.
The rhythm was unforgiving. Fast. Deep. He was punishing me, claiming me, breaking me open piece by piece.
And I let him.
Because this was how we worked.
Darkness craving darkness.
Pain meeting pleasure.
His hand snaked around to my throat, not tight, just enough to make me still.
“You like making me this angry?” he whispered against my skin.
“I like when you lose control, and I know you love it.”
He groaned deep in his chest and moved faster.
I was close.
Too close.
And he knew it.
He dragged it out, holding me there on the edge, like he wanted me to suffer for what I did. For wearing black. For defying him.
But finally—he let go.
And so did I.
The high hit hard. A blinding release. My legs shook. My vision blurred. I collapsed forward onto the bed, breathing hard.
He followed me down, wrapping his arms around me from behind. His chest rose and fell fast against my back. For a moment, we just breathed.
The room felt quieter after.
Not peaceful. Just quiet.
The kind of silence that settles when the storm has passed but left things scattered.
I didn’t move right away. My body was heavy, boneless, sunk into the bed like I was part of it.
He stood before I did.
Always did.
Cool, composed, like he didn’t just wreck me.
He didn’t say much as he adjusted his cuffs and reached for his jacket. A man like him was never fully undressed. Even naked, he still wore power like a second skin.
He checked his watch. “Get dressed.”
There it was.
I sat up slowly, the sheets slipping from my chest. My body ached in all the right places. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, stood, and reached for my dress.
I didn’t bother looking at him when I slid it back on.
We didn’t do softness after.
No cuddling.
He crossed the room to the small table near the window. When I turned, the envelope was already there.
The usual.
My throat tightened, but I forced my fingers to stay steady as I walked over and picked it up. I didn’t count it. Never did. I knew it would be exact—he was always exact.
I slipped it into my purse.
“You don’t have to do the envelope every time,” I said quietly, keeping my back to him.
“Yes,” he replied, voice firm. “I do.”
His eyes moved over me once more—slow, possessive, like he was imprinting this moment. Then he walked past me, toward the door.
“Wear red next time,” he said, hand on the knob, waiting for me to leave. “No more games.”
I bent to pick up my purse from the chair, the strap cool against my fingers. My legs ached, my thighs still trembling from what he’d done, from how hard he’d taken me—like he needed to remind me who I belonged to.
“Okay.” I said quietly.
I didn’t meet his eyes.
I didn’t need to.
My voice was steady enough to please him.
He opened the door, just a little, enough for me to slip out without brushing against him. I walked past him, head high, perfume clinging to my skin like memory. The hallway light was dim, but I knew the way.
Behind me, the door closed with a soft click.
And in my hand, the envelope he left on the dresser. Same as always.
From the very beginning, I knew I wanted Sam and Mason’s story to be more than just a love story. I wanted fire and tenderness. I wanted you to feel the ache of longing and the softness of forever, all in one breath.This book was my first attempt at blending intense passion with deep emotional connection. A love that burned yet healed. A story where the smut wasn’t just for spice, but for depth, for the kind of intimacy that tells you two people aren’t just in love… they belong to each other.💍 Thank you for riding with them to the very end.This book is now COMPLETED. But their love? That will always live on.With all my heart, Thank you.O.J🖤
SAMANTHATWO AND HALF YEARS LATERAzalea was crying again.Not loud, just that soft, broken little whimper that tugged something primal in my chest.The kind of sound that made me blink twice, sit up too fast, and whisper, “Shh, mama’s here, sweetheart,” even though I’d barely had three hours of sleep.Technically, I was already awake.I hadn’t really slept. Just laid there listening to her little tosses and sleepy sighs, wrapped in my favorite robe, the one Mason bought me when I was six months pregnant and miserable and swollen and convinced I was going to explode.He’d held it up in the store like it was some sacred relic. “It’s like hugging a cloud,” he said. “And you’re not allowed to exist without comfort, baby.”He was right. It was cloud-soft. Still smelled faintly like lavender detergent and something else, something warmer, deeper. Like home.I padded across the nursery barefoot, lifting Azalea from her crib and holding her to my chest.She settled almost instantly, just like
Before I upload the last chapter, I just want to say this... From the deepest, rawest, most emotional part of me… Thank you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for staying. Thank you for choosing this story. When I started writing this book, I honestly didn’t expect much. It wasn’t your typical fairytale. There were no perfect meet-cutes. No flowers-in-the-rain, cliché movie moments. Just two broken people, meeting in the middle of chaos. And still… You read. You stayed. You felt the pain, the love, the obsession, the healing, and you didn’t look away. I cried to my friend just yesterday. Because I didn’t think anyone would care this deeply. But you all proved me wrong. You showed up. You supported. You reviewed, commented, shared. You made me feel seen as a writer. As a person. You gave this messy, emotional, imperfect love story a place in your hearts. I wish I didn’t have to stop here. I wish the story could go on forever. But every book has its ending. And thi
SAMANTHAI couldn’t move.I was frozen, utterly, completely frozen, staring at Mason down on one knee like I was dreaming or hallucinating or maybe just not breathing.The entire room glowed with soft golden light. Candles flickered gently on every table. Roses curled across the floor like someone had sprinkled a fairytale.And there he was, my Mason. My impossibly beautiful Mason. In a black suit, hair slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. Eyes locked on mine. Holding a velvet ring box like he was offering me the whole damn universe.My whole world blurred at the edges, like the air around me had shifted, slowed, become something too fragile to touch.Was this real?Were we really here?After everything we’d been through? All the highs, the wreckage, the heartbreak, the impossible love that refused to go away?“My God…” I whispered, my hand flying to my mouth. “What? Mason?”My knees wobbled beneath me. My throat closed up. I reached blindly for Macey’s
MASONI slammed the door to my hotel room shut with more force than necessary and immediately yanked off my tie like it had been choking me for the past twelve hours. It probably had.The suit jacket hit the arm of the couch. I didn’t care where it landed.I collapsed onto the cushions, body aching, brain fried, but somehow still wired like I’d downed five shots of espresso and taken a lap around Manhattan.Two days in New York. Nonstop meetings. Fake smiles. Endless nodding. And then… this.I looked down at the thick envelope in my hand. Inside it was the deed to the house I just bought.A modern beauty in Rye, tucked between trees and silence. Close enough to the city, far enough from the noise. The kind of place where the grass stays green and the neighbors’ wave and babies learn to walk on hardwood floors and sunlight spills through every window.A home.Our home.My assistant had offered to handle the furnishing… said she had a guy who could do the whole thing in a week. Clean, qu
SAMANTHAI slid my phone out of my coat pocket and refreshed our chat for the third time in five minutes.Still nothing.No new texts. No “miss you” voice note. No snarky reel about something stupid that reminded him of me.Just silence.I hated that I was like this, wired into him like an addict. It wasn’t healthy. I knew that. But knowing something doesn’t stop it from being real. I missed him with this sharp, stupid urgency that curled inside my ribs and refused to let go.Mason and I talked all the time. Every day. Practically every hour. It had become our rhythm. Good morning texts. Midday check-ins. “What are you eating?” “Do you miss me yet?” “Send me a photo.” We never ran out of reasons to stay connected.But today… it had been quiet.Too quiet.And I wasn’t handling it well.I tucked the phone back into my pocket with a sigh, trying to focus on where I was—walking across campus, boots clicking on the pavement, my bag slung heavy on my shoulder after a long meeting with my lec