casting moody shadows, and a single abstract painting that probably costs more than my Louboutins. He unlocks the

ets. The furniture is sleek and masculine: leather, steel, rich walnut. There's a fireplace, not electric, a re

ought I

sk, stupidly, becaus

tly how impressive it is, bu

kitchen, and when he comes back, he's holding a bottle that looks more

y, blinking.

with a casual flick of his wrist.

. The sheer audacity of him, rich, charming, sex

crisp, and it makes my mouth tingle.

his fingers down my arm like a

thout thinking. His lips trail down to my jaw, then to the s

nd expensive alcohol, I mumble, "Give

, stepping back. "Down the h

the door, pressing my back against it

rip, Ch

tly mussed, lips swollen from kissing, mascara still holding on for dear lif

hell are

llowed a stranger home. I either made out with them in the dark corner of some bar or kic

he's a m

s how Dateline

a deep

I open

et crackle of, wait, are those candles? Yep. He's lit a few. Not enough to look try-har

Chocolate cake

its bags and fl

half like it's no big deal, like he didn't just comm

ow. He looks up. Smiles. And somethi

low, eyes lingering on me like I'

les for all the broken

who make me l

like a man who knows exactly how this night is goin

s me again, i

tasting the moment, not just my mouth. My hands curl into his shirt as he guides me towa

ke I'm fragile, even tho

He trails kisses down my throat, my collarbone, his fingers brushing over every part of

ike he's trying to memorize me, not just undress me. And when we make it to the bedroom, there's no

rush. W

cing slow, reverent patterns along my thigh. My breath catches when his mouth finds my collarbone, then l

beautiful, dangerous intersection of pain and pleasure wher

t's good,

ve been waiting to find each other in this exact moment. It's fast, then slow. S

ly that it's late, and my heart feel

ught I have befo

could