Chapter 3 #2
"What about you?" I ask. "You don't look thrilled to be here either."
"I'm not."
"Then why are you?" I can't imagine a world in which this man is forced to do anything he doesn't want.
"Obligation." He says it like it tastes bitter. "Family business."
"Let me guess. You're supposed to be networking, making connections, being seen." I gesture at his clearly expensive clothing. "Maintaining appearances."
"Something like that."
I raise my glass. "Well then. Here's to obligations we'd rather avoid."
He touches his glass to mine, and something electric passes between us at the soft clink of crystal. His eyes hold mine for a beat too long.
"I'm Sera," I say, then wonder why I'm introducing myself to a stranger at a bar after the worst forty minutes of my professional life.
"Short for?"
"Seraphina. But no one calls me that except my boss when he's being formal."
"Seraphina." He says my full name slowly, like he's tasting it. The sound of my name in his rough voice makes me shiver. Jesus, I have never been affected by a man like this. "It suits you better."
I raise my brow, coyly. "You don't know me well enough to know what suits me."
"Not yet."
The words hang between us, loaded with implication.
"And you are?" I try to sound casual, but my heart is suddenly beating faster. I want to know him, to put a name to this man who affects me more than I care to admit.
"Adrian."
"Nice to meet you, Adrian."
He takes my hand. I expect a handshake, but instead he turns it over and presses his lips to the inside of my wrist, right where my pulse is hammering.
Electricity shoots up my arm. No man has ever done something like that. No man would have had the balls—at least not in the circles I run in.
Even though it's a little odd, it makes my heart slam into my rib cage, and I feel myself clench low in my belly.
I should leave. I should thank him for the drink, make an excuse, and go home to my tiny apartment where I can obsess over Gabe's debt and the fact that I just humiliated myself in front of everyone who matters in my field.
Instead, I stay.
"So," Adrian says, his voice low. "Rare books. That's what you do?"
"Restoration, mostly. Manuscripts, first editions, anything that needs to be preserved." I take another sip of vodka, feeling it warm my insides. "It's meticulous work. Requires patience and precision. Most people find it boring."
"Do you find it boring?"
"No. I love it." The admission comes easily. "When I'm working, nothing else matters. It's just me and the book and the work. Everything else disappears."
"Sounds like an escape."
"It is." I meet his eyes. "What about you? What do you do when you're not being dragged to charity galas?"
"I solve problems."
"What kind of problems?"
"The kind people would rather not have." His smile is sharp, almost dangerous. "But we're not here to talk about work."
"No?"
"No." He shifts closer, and I'm suddenly very aware of how tall he is, how he seems to take up all the space around me. "We're here to forget about work. Forget about obligations. Forget about everything that made tonight terrible."
My heart is beating faster. I'm not naive—I know exactly what this is, what he's suggesting. "And how do you suggest we do that?"
"I have some ideas."
The air between us shifts. It's not subtle. One moment we're two strangers having a drink, and the next there's heat, tension, something that makes my skin feel too tight.
"I don't do this," I hear myself say.
"Do what?"
"This. Whatever this is." I gesture vaguely between us. "I don't go home with strangers."
"Neither do I." He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, woody with hints of sage. It reminds me of old libraries and leather-bound books. "But tonight, I think we're both looking for the same thing."
"And what's that?"
"An escape."
He's right. God help me, he's right. I'm exhausted. I'm scared about Gabe and the loan sharks and the ticking clock on his life. I'm humiliated about tonight, about being dismissed and patronized and made to feel small. I'm drowning in a life that feels like it's actively trying to destroy me.
And this man—this beautiful, dangerous stranger—is offering me a way out. Just for tonight.
"Okay," I whisper.
His eyes darken. "Okay?"
"Okay."
He sets down his glass and extends his hand. I take it.
His hand is warm, strong. It engulfs mine completely.
We leave the ballroom without a word. The hotel lobby is quieter, all marble and soft lighting and the muted sounds of late-night Manhattan. Adrian leads me to an elevator at the far end, away from the main banks. This one has a keycard reader.
He swipes a card and the doors open.
"You have a room here?" I ask as we step inside.
"Something like that."
The elevator rises smoothly. I watch the numbers climb—past the guest floors, past what should be the top floor, higher than seems possible.
"Where are we going?"
"The penthouse."
Of course. The penthouse makes sense because this man isn't just wealthy—he's obscenely rich. For once in my life, I don't question anything. I just dive headfirst into bad decisions.
The elevator opens directly into an apartment, and my breath catches.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city. Modern furniture in blacks and grays, all clean lines and expensive materials. Everything sleek and impersonal, like a magazine spread or a very expensive hotel suite.
"This is yours?" I ask.
"Something like that."
I walk toward the windows, drawn by the view. Manhattan spreads out below us, a sea of lights and shadows and endless possibility. From up here, the city looks beautiful. Manageable. Not like the crushing weight it feels like when you're down in it, drowning.
"It's incredible," I murmur.
"Is it?" He's behind me now, close enough that I can feel his heat. "I barely notice it anymore."
I turn to face him. He's watching me with an intensity that should frighten me but doesn't. There's something predatory in his gaze, yes, but also something hungry. Like he's been starving and I'm the first real thing he's seen in years.
"Last chance," he says quietly. "If you want to leave, I'll call you a car. No questions asked."
"I don't want to leave."
"Then tell me what you do want."
The question should be simple. But it's not.
Because what I want is complicated and messy and probably unhealthy.
I want to forget. I want to feel something other than fear and exhaustion and the constant weight of responsibility.
I want someone to make me feel like I'm not drowning, even if it's just for one night.
"I want to not think," I finally say. "Just for tonight. I want to stop thinking about everything."
Something flashes in his eyes—understanding, maybe, or recognition. "I can do that."
And then he kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's consuming. His mouth is hot and demanding, one hand tangling in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. He kisses me like he owns me, like he has every right to take what he wants.
And I let him.
I kiss him back with everything I have. All my fear, all my frustration, all my desperation. I pour it into this kiss with a stranger whose last name I don't even know.
He breaks away just long enough to say, "The dress. Take it off or I'll rip it off you."
"It's borrowed."
His eyebrow arches. "Then you'd better take it off."
My hands are shaking as I reach for the zipper. He watches me, those silver eyes tracking every movement. I manage to get the zipper down and let the dress pool at my feet, leaving me in just my bra and underwear—nude cotton and satin, a mismatched set I grabbed this morning without thinking.
Not sexy. Not special. Just functional.
"Fucking beautiful," he says, and somehow makes me believe it.
Then he's on me again, walking me backward until my back hits the cold glass of the window. I gasp at the temperature, at the sensation of the entire city spread out behind me, millions of people just below.
"Everyone can see you," he murmurs against my neck. "Every person down there could look up right now and see you pressed against this window."
"Adrian—"
"Does that scare you?"
"Yes."
"Good." His hand slides up my thigh, fingers trailing over sensitive skin. "You should be scared. You should be terrified. You just went home with a complete stranger."
"I know."
"And yet here you are." His fingers find the edge of my underwear. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this."
His fingers slip beneath the fabric, and I gasp at the contact.
"Please," I breathe. "I need—"
"I know what you need." He enters me with two fingers, and I cry out. "Let me take care of you."
And he does. His fingers work me expertly, finding the exact rhythm and pressure that makes my knees weak. I'm making sounds I've never made before, whimpering and gasping against his shoulder as he drives me higher.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you. Let everyone hear you."
I'm so close already. It's been so long, and I'm wound so tight, and he's so good at this.
"Look at me," he commands.
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze.
"I want to watch you come," he says. "I want to see your face when you fall apart."
His thumb finds my clit, and I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me, stealing my breath and my thoughts and everything else. I cry out, clutching at his shoulders, my whole body shaking with the force of it.
"Beautiful," he says roughly, biting my shoulder. "Fucking beautiful."
Before I can catch my breath, he's lifting me, wrapping my legs around his waist. I hear the sound of his belt, the rasp of a zipper.
"Wait," I manage. "Wait—"
He pauses, and I see something flicker in his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Protection. We should—"
"I'm clean." His voice is rough. "Tested regularly. Are you?"
"Yes, but—"
"But what?"
I should insist. I should be responsible. But my brain is foggy from the orgasm and the vodka and the sheer overwhelming presence of him.