Chapter 8 Zara
I curse his damn jacket for covering the view of his ass as he strides across the lobby.
When he reaches the elevators, he presses the button, his shoulders straight and his head held high.
The doors open with a soft chime, and he steps inside, sparing me one last glance as he presses a button.
Just before the doors begin to close, he locks eyes with me, his lips curving into a knowing grin. Then he winks.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word slipping out without thought. My fingers uncurl, revealing the crumpled slip of paper still warm from his hand. I stare at it, a flutter of nerves racing through me.
When he stood beside me and delivered that line, the promise he’d remember this night, I was paralyzed.
The intensity in his voice had stolen the air from my lungs and every coherent thought from my head.
No man has ever spoken to me like that. Maybe it’s rehearsed, maybe it’s just his style.
But tonight, I can’t bring myself to care.
One more bite of cake, a quick sip of champagne to calm my nerves, and I’m on my feet. My phone doubles as a mirror, the soft light glowing against my flushed cheeks as I check my lipstick and smooth out my hair. Once I’m satisfied, I tuck it back into my clutch.
I walk toward the elevators, the sound of my heels echoing throughout the lobby. Once inside, I open my hand again to check the room number: 2401. Of course. The top floor.
I press the button for the twenty-fourth floor, and the doors glide closed, sealing me in. Each ding that marks a passing floor feels like a drumbeat in my chest. By the time the elevator stops, my breath is shallow, anticipation thrumming through me.
When the doors open, I find myself in a hall with only two suites. His door is directly across from me, dark and imposing. I take one step forward, then another, and pause just in front of it.
I hesitate. My knuckles hover just shy of the cold metal, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. What do I really know about him? He never said it aloud, but his presence screams power, wealth, and dangerously confidence. He’s got exquisite taste in both dessert and seduction. And he’s promised orgasms.
Do I need anything else?
Before I can answer that question, or knock, the door swings open.
He lets out a soft sigh. “I’m so glad you made the right choice.”
Before I can react, his hands are on me, gripping my waist and pulling me inside. The door slams shut behind me with a solid thud as his fingers tangle in my hair. The hunger in his movements steals every ounce of willpower I had left to resist him.
My clutch hits the floor as I rise onto my toes, meeting him halfway. Our lips collide, and it’s nothing like I expected. The kiss doesn’t just ignite sparks; it’s an explosion, an intensity that leaves nothing untouched. His mouth devours mine with an exquisite blend of control and desperation.
The air around us thickens, our breaths become sharper, his hands roam. Warm, strong, commanding hands. A primal urge to be closer floods me as my fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss is a thousand things: fierce and wild, tender and possessive, relief and desire.
When his tongue slides against mine, the noise that escapes me is involuntary, a soft, breathless moan that only seems to drive him harder. My legs tremble under his relentless intensity, but I couldn’t care less. For the first time in a long time, I feel alive. Completely, overwhelmingly alive.