Chapter 3

Emma

The night air hit us cold. A black car was waiting at the curb—the kind of car that cost more than most people made in a year. He opened the door and I slid into leather seats. He followed, the door closing with a solid, final sound.

"Where to, Mr. Pierce?" the driver asked.

Pierce. The name registered somewhere in the back of my mind, familiar in a way I couldn't quite place.

"The Peninsula," he said. His hand rested on my thigh, warm through my jeans, not moving but present.

The drive was short. Manhattan at three AM slid past in streaks of light and shadow. His thumb moved in slow circles against my leg.

The Peninsula. I'd walked past it a hundred times, never imagining I'd walk through those doors. The doorman opened the car door. "Good evening, Mr. Pierce."

We crossed the lobby—all marble and gold and hushed luxury—and he guided me toward the elevators. The doors closed and suddenly we were alone in a mirrored box. He reached past me to press the button for the top floor. Penthouse.

The elevator began to rise and his hand slid to my hip, pulling me closer. I turned to face him and found him already looking at me, and the air between us felt charged with something dangerous and inevitable.

"Last chance," he said quietly. "We can go back down. I can put you in a car. Send you anywhere you want to go."

I looked at him—this stranger whose name I barely knew, who was offering me an escape I didn't want.

"I don't want to go anywhere else," I said.

Something flickered in his expression. His hand tightened on my hip. The elevator chimed and the doors slid open onto a private foyer. He pulled me forward into the penthouse suite beyond.

His mouth was on mine before the door fully closed. I responded with equal desperation, my hands fisting in his shirt as he backed me against the wall. His tongue pushed past my lips and I opened for him, tasting whiskey and something darker, more dangerous.

His hands slid under my coat, shoving it off my shoulders. The fabric hit the floor with a whisper. He grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head in one fluid motion, then his mouth was on my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below my ear.

"Bedroom," I managed, my voice already breathless.

He lifted me without warning and I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling him hard against me through our clothes. The friction made me gasp. He carried me through the suite, his hands gripping my ass, and kicked open a door. Moonlight spilled across a massive bed. He set me down on the edge and I reached for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons.

"Fuck it," he muttered, and yanked it open. Buttons scattered across the hardwood floor. His chest was lean, defined, a body that clearly spent time in the gym but wasn't overdone. I ran my hands over warm skin, feeling muscle shift beneath my palms.

I reached for his belt but he caught my wrists, pinning them gently but firmly. "Not yet."

He pushed me back onto the bed and hooked his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, pulling them down my legs along with my underwear in one smooth motion. The cool air hit my skin and I shivered—not from cold, but from the way he was looking at me. Like he wanted to devour me.

He knelt between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs, spreading them wider. Then he lowered his head and put his mouth on me.

I cried out, my back arching off the bed. His tongue moved against my clit with deliberate pressure, then lower, tracing patterns that made my legs tremble. One hand held my hip down, keeping me in place, while the other joined his mouth. Two fingers slid into me, curling upward to find that spot that made white spots dance behind my eyelids.

He worked me with a precision that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing, alternating between slow, teasing strokes and faster, more insistent pressure. When I tried to close my legs around his head, he pushed them open again, holding me spread for him. The vulnerability of it, the complete exposure, should have made me self-conscious. Instead it made me wetter.

A thought flashed through my mind, unbidden and shameful: I liked this. I actually liked being held down, being controlled like this. Adrian had never made me feel this way—had never bothered to learn what I needed, always finishing before I could even get close. But this stranger was taking his time, like my pleasure mattered, like making me come was the entire point.

"Don't stop," I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair. "Please don't—"

He didn't. He kept going, his tongue circling my clit while his fingers pumped into me, until I came hard, his name torn from my throat in a broken cry that didn't sound like my own voice.

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and pushed down his pants and boxer briefs. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, the head already glistening. I stared at it, my mouth going dry, wondering if it would even fit.

"Turn over," he said, his voice rough.

I did, still trembling from the orgasm. I heard the tear of a condom wrapper, then his hands were on my hips, positioning me on my hands and knees. He ran one hand down my spine, making me shiver, then gripped my hip hard enough to leave marks.

"Tell me if it's too much," he said, and pushed inside.

I gasped at the stretch, the fullness of him. He was big—bigger than I'd expected—and for a moment it bordered on pain. He held still, giving me time to adjust, his fingers digging into my hips. Then he started moving. Slow at first, letting me feel every inch as he pulled out and pushed back in, then gradually harder, faster, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

One hand slid into my hair, gripping at the roots and pulling my head back, arching my spine. The angle changed and suddenly he was hitting something deep inside me that made me see stars. I moaned, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts.

God, I was actually enjoying this—the roughness, the way he gripped my hair, the bruising hold on my hips.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice tight with control. "You feel so good."

His other hand came around to my clit, fingers circling with the same deliberate pressure as before. The dual sensation—him pounding into me from behind while his fingers worked my clit—was overwhelming. I felt myself climbing again, faster this time, the tension coiling tight in my belly.

"Come for me," he said, his voice a command.

And I did. The orgasm hit me like a wave, my entire body clenching around him as I cried out. He thrust twice more, then followed with a groan that sounded almost pained, his grip on my hips bruising as he emptied himself into the condom.

We collapsed together onto the bed, both breathing hard. He pulled out carefully and dealt with the condom, then rolled me so my back was against his chest, his arm coming around my waist to hold me close. His heart was pounding against my back, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

That's when the tears started. Everything from tonight—Dad, the hospital, Adrian—came crashing down now that the temporary oblivion of sex had worn off.

"I'm sorry," I choked out, trying to pull away, mortified.

"It's okay," he said quietly, his arm tightening around me, keeping me in place. His other hand moved to my hair, stroking gently. "Just let it out."

So I did. I let myself cry while he just held me, his hand moving through my hair in slow, soothing strokes. He didn't ask questions. Didn't try to fix anything. Just offered his presence, his warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my back.

Eventually the tears stopped. His hand was still moving through my hair, and I felt myself drifting toward sleep, exhausted in every possible way.

"I don't even know your name," I heard him say, his voice soft in the darkness.

"Emma," I murmured, already half-asleep. "Emma Hartley."

A pause. Then: "I'm Sebastian."

Just a first name. But I was too exhausted to ask for more. Sleep pulled me under before I could respond.