"Unless you'd like to leave, Trouble," he murmurs, his voice low and deliberate, a rough vibration against my back. "Now's your chance."
A part of me—maybe the rational part—knows I should. I should turn on my heel, leave this dangerously beautiful suite behind, and retreat to the world I've spent years crafting. The one where I'm in control. Where I decide who gets close and how close they're allowed.
That world is structured. Safe. Predictable.
This?
This is something else entirely.
He's something else.
Men like him—untouchable, unreadable, saturated in power—always carry weight. Always bring chaos. I've built a life out of distance, keeping emotions tidy, locked away behind walls I don't let anyone scale.
But then there's him…
And he's not looking at me like I'm a thing to possess. He's looking at me like he's daring me to take the leap. Daring me to choose him.
Just for tonight.
And God help me—I do.
I want to forget the rules. Forget the person I have to be when the sun rises. I want to be reckless. Indulgent. Just this once.
I tilt my head, a silent answer.
He accepts it.
His mouth grazes my neck—deeper this time. His teeth drag, then his tongue soothes the sting with a slow, sensual sweep that makes me tremble.
It's not rushed. Not frantic.
It's patient. Precise.
Calculated like every move on a chessboard we've been playing in silence all night.
He's savoring me.
I turn in his arms, pressing my palms flat against his chest—solid and unyielding beneath the crisp lines of his shirt. I feel the steady pound of his pulse.
This shouldn't feel sacred.
But it does.
Like I'm being touched with reverence.
Like I'm something rare he's allowing himself to want.
That thought burrows deep inside me, making my breath catch.
He slides an arm around my waist, the other cradling my jaw, tilting my face up until our mouths are a breath apart. When he finally kisses me, it's not hunger. It's something deeper.
Exploration. Devotion. A quiet storm that simmers low but steady.
I melt into him.
His fingers find the straps of my dress and slip them down—agonizingly slow. The fabric pools at my feet in a whisper. His hands trace the length of my spine, memorizing as he goes.
"You're beautiful," he whispers against my lips.
It shouldn't land.
But it does.
Because it doesn't feel like flattery. It feels like truth. Like he needs me to know it.
His mouth finds mine again, unrushed and sure, like he's drinking in the taste of me one moment at a time. I run my hands over his shoulders, dragging over the sharp lines of muscle beneath his suit. There's too much fabric between us.
I tug at his jacket. He lets me, stepping back just enough to shrug it off, letting it fall wherever it may.
His lips trail lower—past my chin, across my collarbone, to the spot just beneath my ear. His breath is hot, every movement deliberate and consuming.
A quiet moan slips from me when his tongue flicks the sensitive dip of my clavicle.
I fist my hands in his hair, giving a gentle tug—testing.
He inhales sharply, jaw tightening in the subtlest show of restraint.
A wave of heat washes through me as his mouth moves lower—across my shoulder, then along the curve of my breast, the only barrier between us a scrap of lace that does nothing to hide how badly I want this.
Want him.
His hands glide up my ribcage, thumbs teasing just beneath the swell of my breasts. A low growl vibrates through him.
The lace goes next.
He drags it down, exposing me to the cool air and his hungry gaze.
Then his mouth replaces it.
A hot, reverent kiss pressed to the valley between my breasts. Then a slow lick across my nipple that makes me gasp and arch into him.
He inhales me—like he's imprinting every detail of my scent, my taste, my skin into memory.
I tighten my grip in his hair, another moan catching in my throat.
He's not just devouring me—he's enjoying this.
Every tremble. Every hitch in my breath. Every whimper that slips past my lips fuels the fire in his eyes.
I don't even realize he's guiding me until the backs of my knees hit the bed, and I sink into the plush mattress beneath me.
His mouth chases mine, and I meet him halfway—one hand braced behind me, the other dragging him closer by the lapel of his shirt.
I fumble with the buttons, one after the other until I reach bare skin.
He breaks away long enough to yank the shirt over his head.
And Jesus…
He's carved from shadows and firelight. Moonlight clings to the hard ridges of his chest, the dips of his abs, the trail leading lower. It makes my throat go dry.
I lean in, parting my thighs to pull him between them.
My hands move down his body—slow, savoring—until I reach the straining bulge beneath his pants. My breath stutters.
He's hard.
Thick. Long.
And mine.
I circle my arms around his waist, drawing him closer as my mouth finds the heat of him through the fabric. I trail my lips along his cock, letting him feel the want before I take it further.
His belt is stubborn, but I get it undone. The clink of the buckle is almost obscene in the quiet.
I look up at him as I pop the button.
His thumb brushes my bottom lip—slow and suggestive.
The tip of my tongue flicks out, teasing.
His jaw clenches.
"Nothing but fucking trouble," he growls as I drag the zipper down.
And then—God.
He springs free, thick and heavy in my hand.
I wrap my fingers around the base and lick a long, slow stripe across the head. His taste bursts over my tongue, and I moan as I take him deeper.
My free hand cups my breast, pinching my nipple, while I grind my hips into the mattress beneath me—seeking friction. Needing more.
I hollow my cheeks, swirling my tongue around his length. My rhythm is slow. Controlled.
His breath hitches.
"Christ, baby," he groans, one hand gripping the side of my head, guiding me. "Oh, fuck… just like that, Trouble."
His hips roll. My hand follows.
I love the way he sounds. The way I make him sound.
The power of it crackles in my veins like lightning.
And I'm nowhere near done.