Chapter 3
ELLE
I've never done anything this reckless in my life. Not even close. And considering I snuck out of a building my mother surveils like a military compound, that's saying something.
The hotel lobby is all opulence. Dim lighting, piano music drifting from somewhere far off, and my heels clicking against marble that is polished to the point of being a mirror. I feel underdressed, overdressed, and completely unhinged, all at once.
His hand hasn't left the small of my back since we left the club. The touch is light enough that I could bolt if I wanted to. I don't want to. My skin burns where his palm rests, like he's already branding me through the fabric.
Jesus forgive me, because I'm all for it.
"Room's upstairs," he says. Voice low, almost bored.
Oh good. He's calm. I, meanwhile, am one elevator ride away from a full cardiac event.
The mirrored doors close behind us, trapping us in a small silver box.
I stare at the reflection of us: me in a dress too short to be wise, him looking like a walking warning label.
Silver hair, dark suit, ink crawling up his fingers where they rest against my spine.
We look like a headline waiting to happen.
He presses the button. The elevator hums to life. Our eyes meet in the glass.
The air shifts into something heavy and charged.
I try to speak, but my throat forgets how to work. He doesn't move, just watches me in the reflection like I'm something he's still deciding whether to unwrap or walk away from. The only sound is the low thrum of the elevator and my heartbeat performing its own rebellion.
When the doors open, the temperature jumps ten degrees.
"Down here," he says.
"Uh-huh." Eloquent. Really selling the whole sophisticated-woman-of-the-world act.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. My pulse is anything but. He leads the way and I follow like I'm tethered.
He slides the key card into the door. It blinks green and the door is pushed open.
"Last chance to change your mind," Nik murmurs without turning around.
I meet his gaze when he does. "Do I look like I'm changing my mind?"
"You look like trouble in a pretty package."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
He laughs, low and dark, and pushes the door open.
The room is ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows, everything in crisp whites and deep blues, with a king-sized bed that dominates the space like it has its own gravitational pull.
Nik shuts the door behind me. I turn. He's watching me again with that unreadable expression that makes my stomach flip.
"Want a drink?" he asks, walking toward the minibar.
I shake my head. "No."
I'm buzzed enough from the club. More than that, I want to feel every second of this. My first real rebellion. Clear. Unfiltered. Mine.
"I want this clear," I say.
He freezes mid-reach. His hand hovers over the minibar like he's deciding whether to pour a whiskey or devour me instead.
"Clear, huh?" He repeats it quietly, almost to himself.
I nod.
He nods back. The faintest approval.
"Good." The corner of his mouth curves. "I like clear."
Then he's moving toward me, and oh God, this isn't my imagination. This is actually happening.
My hands start to shake. My knees threaten to buckle from all the ways this could go wrong, but my body is out here waving pom-poms. My pulse tap-dances under my skin, and there's a buzzing in my ears that's probably pure electricity.
He stops right in front of me. The distance between us disappears in a blink. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip, and the touch is so deliberate, so unhurried, that it makes me dizzy.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, head tilting to one side.
"That if you don't kiss me in the next five seconds, I might actually lose my mind."
So much for cool and mysterious. Might as well give him my Social Security number while we're playing honest.
His eyes darken. "Can't have that."
His chin dips. I close my eyes. And when his mouth finds mine, holy hell, it's not like the movies at all.
It's better. Hotter. Wetter.
He kisses like he's in command of things I didn't know could be commanded. He takes my breath and gives it back different. He's not gentle, not slow, but everything I didn't know I needed.
His hands slide up my back. One tangles in my carefully pinned hair, destroying every minute I spent on it, and I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. Hairpins scatter across the floor like little white flags of surrender and my hair tumbles down my back in loose waves.
"Christ," he mutters against my mouth, fingers threading through the strands. "Like fucking silk."
I part my lips and he slides right in. My knees just... stop being useful.
He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. The jolt knocks a gasp out of me and he catches it with his mouth, kissing me deeper, harder, until I'm clinging to his shoulders like they're the only thing keeping me vertical. Because they are.
His tongue sweeps against mine and I whimper. Actually whimper. He cages me against the wall, his body deliciously heavy over mine, and something about the weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer overwhelming realness of him, makes my eyes sting.
I've imagined my first kiss a thousand times.
Soft, careful, choreographed. This is none of those things.
This is heat and sound and breath, his stubble scraping my chin, his hand knotted in my hair.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and I can see it in his eyes.
He's waiting. Checking. Making sure I haven't changed my mind.
Like hell.
I grab his shirt and drag him back to me. He grins, feral and sinful, like I just gave him exactly the answer he wanted.
"I want more," I whisper against his mouth.
That's all he needs.
His mouth leaves mine and blazes a trail down my throat, teeth and tongue and the rough scrape of his beard against my skin, and I tilt my head back, offering more. Everything. Whatever he wants.
If this is the first and last time I ever do this, I want to remember every single second.
"You smell incredible," he murmurs against my collarbone. His hands slide down my sides, around to my hips, then lower to grip my thighs. "But I bet you taste even better."
His fingers find the hem of my dress. Inch it up. Slow. My breath comes in short, stupid bursts as his palms slide against bare skin, thumbs tracing circles higher and higher until they brush the edge of my panties.
I'm already embarrassingly wet. I know he feels it when his thumb presses against the damp lace and his jaw flexes like he's the one losing control.
He tugs at the waistband, jerking the fabric. And then it’s gone. A sharp swat to my ass.
"Oh my God," I breathe. The sting radiates outward in sweet, sharp waves.
He smirks against my neck. "Like that?"
"Yes." It's almost a sob.
“That’s for going to a hotel room with a stranger.”
My brain is far too lust-drunk. I can’t argue with his reasoning. Would it be bad if I asked for another?
He grins like he just found a switch he plans to wear out. His hand presses between my thighs. "If you were wet before, you're soaking now."
I should be mortified. Instead I'm fucking thrilled.
I reach for his belt because I need to feel more of him, need to touch him the way he's touching me. The leather slides through the loops with a hiss and I let it drop. I go for his shirt next, fingers clumsy with want. He helps, shrugging it off, and sweet mother of God.
The body underneath should come with a warning label.
All lean muscle and tanned skin, with scars that tell stories I'll probably never hear.
A tattoo curves around his left shoulder, something in a language I can't read, and the ink from his hands continues up his forearms in dark, deliberate patterns.
I trace one line with my fingertip. Commit it to memory.
"Your turn," he says, reaching for the zipper at my back.
The dress pools at my feet. Black fabric on white marble. I'm standing in front of a stranger with his gaze raking over me with the kind of hunger that makes me feel like the most powerful person in the room.
"Fuck," he says quietly. "Look at you."
His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden into tight peaks. I arch into his touch. Then his fingers trail up my spine, slow, tracing each vertebra, and the tenderness of it after all the heat nearly breaks me.
This is the moment it hits me. I'm in a hotel room with a stranger, half-naked, on my twenty-sixth birthday.
So long, meek, well-behaved Elle.
This version? She's done asking permission.
He kisses me again, walking me backward toward the bed, his mouth never leaving mine. The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I'm on my back, staring up at him as he towers over me.
He kneels between my legs. His fingers trail up my inner thighs. Then one slips toward my entrance, gentle, exploring, and I tense.
He meets resistance and pauses. Looks up at me with narrowed eyes.
"Elle." His voice holds a question.
I swallow hard. How do you even begin this conversation? Hey, just so you know, I've spent my entire life on parental lockdown and never been touched by a man. Never been allowed the courtesy of any toys.
"I haven't..." I groan. "This is my first."
His hand stills. "You're a virgin."
It's not a question. He starts to rise off me, and I grab his wrist.
"Don't." It comes out stronger than I expect. Not desperate. Certain. "Don't you dare. I didn't sneak out of a tower to be treated like glass."
He exhales hard, a quiet curse under his breath, and his face is pure war. I can see it. The decent part of him that says stop, fighting the part that has me pinned to a hotel bed in my underwear.
I sit up. Close the distance. Press my mouth to the corner of his jaw, right where the beard ends and bare skin begins.
"I chose this," I whisper against his skin. "I chose you. Don't take that from me."
Something shifts in his eyes. He's quiet for a long moment.