Chapter 2
HANNAH
The hotel is three blocks from the bar, close enough that we choose to walk. My silly thought process is something along the lines of crazy. I don’t want to get in a car with him because that’s dangerous. I have no desire to end up as a floater in Lake Michigan.
But I’m going to a hotel room with him. Just me and him. All the privacy in the world to murder me.
I’m well and truly fucked in the head.
When we reach the entrance—all gleaming marble and understated luxury—he guides me inside with a possessive hand at my back. The lobby is opulent with only a handful of people around.
No witnesses.
"Wait here," he says, leaving me by a cluster of leather chairs while he approaches the front desk.
I watch him move, noting the way the desk clerk's entire demeanor changes when he speaks. Whatever he's saying, whoever he is, it carries weight. The clerk nods eagerly, produces a key card with flourish, and gestures toward the elevators like he's directing royalty.
He returns and takes my hand without a word, leading me toward the elevators.
I should ask questions. Should demand to know who he really is and why hotel staff treat him like visiting nobility.
Instead, I let him guide me into the elevator and watch as he slides the key card and presses the button for the top floor.
The penthouse.
"Seriously?" I turn to stare at him. "The penthouse?"
His mouth curves in that almost-smile. "Problem, Red?"
"I just—" I gesture helplessly at the elevator buttons, at him, at the absurdity of the situation. "Kevin the accountant doesn't spring for penthouse suites."
"Maybe Kevin the accountant has hidden depths."
The elevator climbs smoothly. I'm acutely aware of how small the space is. How close he's standing. How his cologne—something expensive and masculine—is making my head spin in ways that have nothing to do with the whiskey.
When the doors open, I step into a suite that's bigger than my entire apartment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the glittering Chicago skyline. The living area is all white with pops of black and red. Through an archway, I catch a glimpse of a bedroom that looks like it belongs in a luxury magazine.
"Fuck," I breathe, moving toward the windows. The city spreads out below us, a carpet of lights and possibilities.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I catch myself. I've been doing that constantly since the test came back positive—this unconscious protective gesture I can't seem to stop. I force my hand back to my side. He can't know. Not yet. Not until I figure out what kind of man he really is.
"You don't like it?" His voice is closer than I expected. When I turn, he's right behind me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"It's beautiful," I admit. "It's just—this isn't what I was expecting."
"What were you expecting?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. What was I expecting? A modest hotel room with questionable art and a bathroom the size of a closet? It feels a little wasteful to rent a penthouse for what I know will probably last maybe an hour.
Unless he plans on making this an all-night thing.
Am I up for that?
"Something smaller," I say finally. "Something more... normal."
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Nothing about tonight is normal."
The touch sends electricity through my veins. I should step back, should maintain some semblance of the control I pride myself on. Instead, I lean into his touch.
"No," I whisper. "It's not."
That's when he kisses me.
It's not tentative or questioning. It's claiming. Demanding. The kind of kiss that short-circuits rational thought. His mouth moves against mine with a dominance that makes my knees weak. I find myself gripping his jacket to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet.
When he finally pulls back, I'm breathless and dizzy and completely lost.
"Still thinking about normal?" he asks, his voice rough with want.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
His smile is slow and predatory. "Good."
His hands find the zipper of my dress. The sound of it sliding down seems impossibly loud in the quiet suite. The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me standing there in my ridiculous Spanx and heels.
"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes raking over me with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm on fire.
I should feel vulnerable. Exposed. Instead, I feel powerful. The way he's looking at me—like I'm something precious and dangerous at the same time—makes me feel like a goddess.
"Your turn," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
He shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor without care.
The shirt follows, revealing a chest that makes my mouth go dry.
He's built like someone who does more than just box for fun—all lean muscle and defined lines.
The tattoos I glimpsed on his knuckles extend up his arms in intricate patterns that I want to trace with my tongue.
When he reaches for me again, I go willingly. His mouth finds mine as his hands work to free me from the torture device of my undergarments. I gasp against his lips when the Spanx finally give way. He hungrily swallows the sound.
"Better?" he murmurs against my throat.
"God, yes."
"Last chance to change your mind, Red," he says, his voice rough with restraint.
I reach for his belt, my fingers fumbling with the buckle. "I'm not changing my mind."
That's all the permission he needs. He captures my hands, pinning them above my head with one of his while the other explores my body with reverent touches that leave me gasping. Every nerve ending is alive.
"Tell me what you want," he commands, his voice low and authoritative.
"You," I breathe. "I want you."
"More specific."
The demand sends heat spiraling through me. "I want you to take control. I want you to make me forget everything except this moment."
His smile is dark and satisfied. "That I can do."
"Zaika," he murmurs against my throat, the unfamiliar word sending shivers down my spine.
"What does that mean?" I gasp as his mouth finds that spot just below my ear.
"Later," he says, and then his lips are on mine again and I forget the question entirely.
I've never been with anyone like him. Men I've dated before have been eager but clumsy, focused on their own pleasure. This man—whoever he really is—treats my body like an instrument he was born to play. Every touch is deliberate, calculated to drive me higher.
When I try to return the favor, to explore the planes of his chest and the scars that tell stories I don't know, he catches my wrists.
"Not yet," he says, voice rough with restraint. "Tonight is about you."
The words should sound cheesy, like a line from a romance novel. Instead, they make me feel cherished. Worshipped.
When he’s down to nothing but the tight boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination and I’m in nothing but my black thong, there is a brief moment of hesitation.
And then he’s on me. His mouth is hot and wet. He spins me around and pushes me against the wall. His hard body pushes against mine.
I can feel his heart beating against my back.
One strong hand holds my wrists above my head while the other jerks the thong, tearing the thin fabric from my body.
I gasp and immediately feel heat pooling low in my belly.
His teeth graze across my shoulder while he uses his knee between my thighs to force my legs open. My breath catches as his free hand traces down my spine, leaving fire in its wake.
"You're trembling," he murmurs against my ear, his accent thicker now.
I am. Every nerve in my body is alive, electric. "I'm not scared," I manage to say.
"I know." His voice is dark with approval. "You're excited."
He's right. I've never felt anything like this—this complete surrender of control that somehow makes me feel more powerful than I ever have. When his hand slides between my thighs, I arch against him with a gasp that echoes off the windows.
"So responsive," he breathes. "So beautiful."
The praise makes me dizzy. I'm completely at his mercy—and I've never wanted anything more.
When he finally releases my wrists and turns me to face him, his eyes are dark with desire. "Bedroom," he says, and it's not a request.
I nod, not trusting my voice. He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me through the suite like I weigh nothing. When he lays me down on the massive bed, I feel like I'm floating.
"Look at me," he commands as he positions himself above me. "I want to see your eyes."
I meet his gaze as he moves against me.
I don't want gentle. Not tonight.
"Don't hold back," I whisper, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Please."
"Careful what you ask for, zaika."
There's that word again. I want to ask what it means, but then his fingers are sliding over my clit. My back arches and I feel like I’m going to explode. He teases until I can’t take it anymore.
"Please," I whisper when I can't take any more teasing, any more of his careful attention that brings me to the edge without letting me fall.
His mouth covers mine as he pushes two thick fingers inside me.
"I need—" I can't finish the sentence, can't voice what I need because I've never needed anything this desperately before.
"I know what you need," he says, positioning himself between my thighs. "I know exactly what you need."
And he does. God, he does.
When he finally takes me, it's with a possession that steals my breath. He moves like he owns me, like my body was made specifically for him. The connection is immediate and overwhelming—not just physical, but something deeper. Something that feels dangerous in its intensity.
"Eyes open," he commands when I let my eyes drift closed, overwhelmed by sensation. "I want to see you."
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze as he moves inside me. There's something fierce in his expression. Like he's as surprised by this connection as I am.
We move together with an urgency that builds and builds until I'm sure I'll shatter from the intensity. When release finally claims me, it's with a force that leaves me shaking in his arms.
When I step out of the bathroom, he’s waiting.
His naked body pushes me against the window.
He takes me against the glass while the city watches.
Thirty minutes after quenching my thirst, he grabs me again.
He sits down in a chair in the corner and without hesitation, I drop to my knees in front of him.
I explore the taste of his skin while he threads his fingers through my hair.
When exhaustion finally claims us, I'm curled against his chest in the massive bed. I couldn’t go another round if I wanted to.
I listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and let myself imagine that this could be more than one night.
That whatever this connection is, it doesn't have to end with morning.
I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing, more content than I can remember being.
When I wake up, the sun is streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. For a moment, I'm disoriented—this isn't my bed. It’s not my apartment.
Then memory crashes back, and I smile, reaching for the man who showed me what I'd been missing.
But the bed is empty.
I sit up, suddenly wide awake, the sheet clutched to my chest. "Hello?"
Silence.
I look around the bedroom, noting his clothes are gone. The bathroom door is open, revealing an empty space. No sound of running water or movement from the living area.
"Hello?" I call out louder this time.
Nothing.
I wrap the sheet around myself and pad out to the living room. It's empty, pristine, like no one was ever here.
He's gone.
I check the bathroom again, the closet, even look out on the balcony. Nothing. No note on the nightstand, no number scrawled on hotel stationery. No trace that he was ever here except for the lingering scent of his cologne and the delicious ache in my muscles.
The silence feels oppressive now, mocking. The beautiful suite that felt like a fairy tale last night now feels like a gilded cage. I sink onto the couch, trying to process what just happened.
I gave myself to a stranger—completely, utterly, in ways I've never given myself to anyone. And he left without a word.
The smart thing to do would be to get dressed, go home, and chalk this up to a learning experience. One night of incredible sex with a mysterious man who clearly isn't interested in anything more. It happens. I'm a grown woman. I can handle this.