Chapter 3 #3
"I'm on the shot," I hear myself say. "Birth control. But we should still—"
"Tell me what you want, Seraphina." He positions himself at my entrance but doesn't push forward. "Protection or no protection. Your choice."
It's the fact that he's giving me a choice that does it. That he's pausing, waiting, letting me decide even though I can feel how much he wants this.
"No protection," I whisper. "I want to feel you."
His eyes darken, and they almost black. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He pushes inside in one hard thrust, and I cry out at the intrusion. It's too much, too fast, too intense. But he doesn't slow down. His hands grip my hips as he holds me against the window, fucking me with a brutal rhythm that has me seeing stars.
"Oh God," I gasp. "Oh fuck—"
"Not God." He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in. "Just me."
I cry out again. I've never been fucked like this—hard and desperate and absolutely relentless.
"You feel that?" he growls against my neck. "You feel how deep I am?"
"Yes—"
"Good." His thrusts get harder, faster. "You walk into my world wearing that dress, looking at me with those eyes, and you think I'm just going to let you walk away?"
"Adrian—"
"I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. Until the only thing you know is how good this feels."
The filthy words should shock me. Instead, they push me higher, coiling heat low in my belly.
"I'm close," I gasp. "Adrian, I'm—"
"Then come." One hand wraps around my throat—not tight, just enough pressure to make me hyper-aware of him. "Come on my cock."
The orgasm hits me harder than the first one. I scream, actually scream, my body clenching around him as pleasure tears through me in waves.
He follows immediately after, his rhythm faltering as he drives deep one last time. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the warmth as he comes, and something about it feels impossibly intimate.
For a moment, we just breathe. My back against the window, legs wrapped around him, his forehead pressed to my shoulder.
"Fuck," he says finally.
"Yeah."
Slowly, carefully, he sets me down. My legs are shaking. I can feel him dripping out of me, warm and wet between my thighs.
He tucks himself back into his pants, watching me with an expression I can't read.
"Bedroom's through there," he says, gesturing to a doorway. "You should clean up."
It's the first awkward moment we've had. Like neither of us knows what to do now that the heat has faded.
I find my underwear and bra, pull them on with shaking hands. The dress is still on the floor by the window. I pick it up, holding it against myself like armor.
"I should go," I say.
"It's late. Stay."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Wasn't asking." Something flickers in his expression. "Besides, it's not safe for you to travel alone at this hour."
There's something in his tone—not quite a command, but close. And part of me wants to argue, wants to insist I can take care of myself.
But I'm exhausted. And the idea of getting dressed and finding a subway and making my way back to my tiny apartment feels overwhelming.
"One night," I say.
"One night," he agrees.
He leads me to the bedroom. It's as impersonal as the rest of the apartment—all black sheets and modern furniture, no photos or personal touches. I slip under the covers still in my underwear, suddenly self-conscious.
He strips down to his boxers and slides in beside me.
For a moment, we just lie there in the dark.
Then his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. The gesture is unexpectedly tender after the rough intensity of earlier.
"Sleep," he murmurs against my hair.
And despite everything—despite the fact that I don't know his last name, despite the fact that this was supposed to be just sex, despite the fact that I'm lying in a stranger's bed—I feel safe.
I fall asleep within minutes.
I wake to sunlight streaming inside.
It takes a second to remember where I am. Then it all comes crashing back. The gala. The humiliation. Adrian. The window. The things we did.
Oh God.
I turn my head. Adrian is still asleep beside me, one arm thrown over his head, his face relaxed in a way it wasn't last night. He looks younger like this. Less dangerous.
I need to leave.
Carefully, slowly, I slip out of bed. My dress is still in the living room. I tiptoe out, finding it exactly where I left it. I pull it on, struggling with the zipper, finally managing to get it up most of the way.
My shoes are by the elevator. My purse is by the door, right where I dropped it.
I should leave a note. That's what people do, right?
But what would I say? Thanks for the mind-blowing sex, stranger whose last name I don't know.
No. Better to just go.
I press the elevator button. The doors open immediately. Apparently, you don't need a keycard to leave, only to enter.
As the elevator descends, I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls. My hair is a mess. My makeup is smudged. I'm wearing a borrowed dress with the zipper halfway undone and shoes that gave me blisters.
I look exactly like someone who spent the night with a stranger.
The lobby is quiet at this hour. A few people in business attire heading to early meetings. A doorman who doesn't even glance my way. No one seems to care about the girl in the rumpled dress doing the walk of shame through a luxury hotel.
Outside, the morning air is crisp and clean. Manhattan is just waking up—delivery trucks rumbling past, early commuters clutching coffee, the smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery mixing with exhaust fumes and possibility.
I walk to the subway and disappear into the crowd.
Last night was an escape. A fantasy. One perfect night where I got to be someone else, someone who belonged in penthouses and said yes to dangerous strangers and forgot about everything that was waiting for her in the real world.
But now it's morning, and I have to go back to being Seraphina Romano. The girl who works in a bookshop. The girl whose brother owes fifty thousand dollars to dangerous people. The girl who has less than a week to figure out how to save his life.
Last night was beautiful.
But it's over now.