Chapter 3
AURORA
The next evening.
I stare at the black dress hanging on my hotel room door and want to set it on fire.
One of Dad's associates, some art dealer who launders money through overpriced paintings, is hosting a gallery opening tonight, and I'm expected to show up.
Smile. Play the dutiful daughter. Pretend I give a shit about modern art when all I can think about is silver hair and dark eyes and the way my body betrayed me last night.
"You're being ridiculous," I tell my reflection. "All you got from him was just a look. Get over it."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I haven't stopped thinking about him. The silver-haired man who made me wet without touching me, without speaking, without doing anything except exist in the same room. I woke up this morning aching, frustrated, my hand between my legs, trying to recreate whatever the hell that feeling was.
It didn't work.
Nothing worked.
I grab my phone, pull up the group chat with Chloe and Tiana.
Me: Kill me now. Dad's making me go to some boring art thing tonight.
Chloe: The one with all the rich old men who smell like cigars?
Me: That's the one.
Tiana: At least the champagne will be good?
Chloe: Maybe silver fox, I mean silver crush will be there ??
Me: He won't be there. And stop calling him that.
Chloe: Why? You're gonna see him again and need a better nickname? "Daddy" perhaps?
Me: Fuck you.
Chloe: Nah, I'll pass. Now go put on something slutty and expensive and go spend daddy’s money.
I don't put on something slutty, it’s more like sexy.
I put on the black dress because it's the only formal thing I packed, and it happens to hug every curve like it's got opinions about my body.
Off the shoulder, slit up the thigh, the kind of dress that says I'm here against my will, but I'll look good doing it.
The gallery is in the arts district, all exposed brick and pretentious lighting. I arrive fashionably late because I'm petty like that, and immediately grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
The place is packed with exactly who I expected—men in expensive suits discussing profit margins disguised as artistic vision, women in designer dresses pretending they understand postmodernism.
I recognize half of them from Dad's world.
The other half are probably legitimate art lovers who have no idea they're drinking champagne paid for with blood money.
I'm three steps into the room when —
What the hell?!
He really is here. Oh my God, is Chloe psychic now?
Silver hair. Black suit. Standing in front of a massive abstract painting like he's actually considering buying it.
My heart stops.
No.
No, this is—
He turns, and our eyes meet.
And that same electric current from last night slams into me so hard I almost drop my champagne.
He doesn't look surprised. Doesn't look anything except... guarded. His expression remains the same, even more closed off, like seeing me here is a complication he didn't plan for.
Oh.
Most men would smile. Would take this as an invitation, a sign from the universe. But not him. He just watches me with those dark eyes, and there's something in them that looks almost like suspicion.
What the hell?
I should walk away. Should leave him alone, go mingle with the other guests, pretend last night never happened. But my body has other ideas.
Breathe, Aurora. Just breathe.
But I can't. Because he's walking toward me, and every step he takes makes my pulse race faster, makes the space between my legs throb with want, makes me forget every reason this is a terrible idea.
"We meet again." His voice. damn, his voice. It's exactly what I imagined last night when my hand was between my legs—gravel and whiskey and sin.
"Small world," I manage. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Or fate." He stops close enough that I can smell him—expensive cologne, something dark and woodsy with a hint of smoke. "Though I don't believe in fate."
"Neither do I."
"Liar."
The word hangs between us, a challenge. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I watch his jaw tighten like he's physically restraining himself from doing something.
Do it. Whatever you're thinking, just do it.
"But…" I take a sip of champagne, meet his eyes over the rim of the glass. "But I believe in second chances."
Something moves in his eyes. Not quite a smile, but close. "Do you."
“I most definitely do.”
He stares at me like I’m a puzzle he is intent on solving and I almost think he will say something.
"I'm Axel," he says instead.
"Aurora."
"Aurora." He repeats my name like he's tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue. "It suits you."
"Does it?"
"Beautiful. Untouchable. A little dangerous." His lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "Though I suspect the danger is more than a little."
Heat floods my face, my neck, lower. He's reading me like I'm an open book, and I should hate it. Should tell him to back off, stop looking at me like I'm something he wants to devour.
Instead, I walk towards a quieter part of the gallery and pretend to admire the works there.
"You don't know anything about me," I say, noticing he’d followed me.
"No." His eyes lock on mine. "But I'd like to."
"Why?"
"Because you looked at me last night like you wanted to climb me, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since."
The blunt honesty steals my breath. Most men would dance around it, play games, pretend the attraction isn't screaming between us. But not him. He just puts it out there, raw and real, and waits to see what I'll do with it.
One week. You have one week left before you go home and become someone's wife.
"The feeling was mutual," I hear myself say.
His eyes darken. "Was?"
"Is."
He chuckles darkly, the sound finding its way through my spine down to my core, and I almost shiver. This man is dangerous.
Too dangerous.
His eyes narrow. "Why are you still here?"
"At the gallery? My father's associate is hosting. Obligation."
"That's not what I'm asking."
"Then ask what you mean."
He's quiet for a moment, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "This is either very brave or very stupid, us talking."
"Maybe both." I reach out, run my finger down his tie. His whole body goes rigid. "Or maybe you and I just know what we want."
"And what do you want?"
You. Your hands. Your mouth. Your everything.
"Everything about you."
"Aurora." He says my name like he's tasting it, and heat floods through me. "You shouldn’t play with fire, Aurora."
"Why not?"
"Because you’ll get burnt. Because I'm not a good man. Because—" He stops himself, shakes his head. "Because you're too young for this."
"I'm twenty-six."
"I'm forty-three."
"So?"
"So you should be talking to someone your own age. Someone who hasn't spent the last seven years in a cage. Someone who—"
I kiss him.
Just lean up and press my mouth to his, cut off whatever warning he's about to give me. He freezes for a second—one heartbeat, two—and I think he's going to push me away.
Then he's kissing me back.
Oh my god! This is insane. I am insane.
Wait, maybe I really am insane!
I just initiated a kiss with a man at a freaking art gallery with possible eyes on us, and he is kissing me right back.
His hand comes up to my neck, holds me there, and his mouth opens against mine. The kiss is devastating. Not soft, not tentative, but raw and hungry like he's been starving and I'm the first meal he's seen in years.
I moan into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine.
"Fuck," he mutters.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"That's a terrible idea."
"I specialize in terrible ideas." I pull back enough to see his face. His pupils are blown wide, and there's color high on his cheeks.
“And I, bad decisions.”
His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, and I swear I feel it everywhere. My breasts, my stomach, between my legs where I'm already getting wet again. How does he do this? How does barely touching me make me feel like I'm coming apart?
"What kind of bad decisions?" I ask.
"The kind you'll still remember when you're away from me."
"I don't even know you."
"You know enough." He leans in, his mouth so close to my ear I can feel his breath. "You know you want me. You know I want you. Isn’t that enough?"
Oh God, it is.
"That's..." I search for the word. "That's very direct."
"I spent seven years in prison, Aurora. I don't have time for games."
Prison.
The way he looks pointedly at me, tells me he said it to scare him off. He expects me to run in the opposite direction, screaming bloody murder.
I almost laugh.
At the situation and at myself.
If only he knew the world I was born into.
"What were you in for?" I ask.
"Does it matter?"
I stare at him, trying to find words to tell him, I don’t really care about anything right now, except wanting him.
Needing him.
And yes, I’d like to find out what this hunger that I feel for him is.
"The Grandview Hotel," I say quickly, before I lose my nerve. "Room 412."
I did not just say that. No no no no!
It must be the alcohol. I really need to stay away from alcohol.
This shit is ruining my life. I just invited a complete stranger to my hotel room because he makes me so hot and bothered. I am dripping wet for him right now.
He goes still. "Aurora—"
"You don’t have to come to me if you don’t want to." I meet his eyes, let him see how serious I am.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Yes, I do." My hand finds his chest, feels his heart hammering beneath the expensive fabric. "I know exactly what I'm asking. The question is whether you're brave enough to say yes."
The challenge hangs between us. I can see him thinking, weighing, calculating. His hand is still on my neck, thumb brushing my pulse point.
"I should say no," he says finally.
"But you won't."
His lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "You're trouble."