Chapter 1: Mouthy Girl vs Rich Jerk
I knew I was f*cked the second I stepped into the penthouse.
Not in the fun way. Not the kind of fcked where a girl wakes up tangled in silk sheets, lipstick smeared, thighs sore from a night of reckless sin. No, I meant the kind of fcked where life bends you over and laughs in your face.
Because who the hell sends a broke-ass girl like me to deliver champagne to the richest, rudest, most sinfully hot billionaire in New York?
Damon Blackwood.
Yeah, that Damon. The one the tabloids called "the Ice King." The one with a smirk sharp enough to cut diamonds. The one who made grown men cry in boardrooms and women spread their legs without a second thought.
And now here I was, holding a ridiculous gold-plated bottle of champagne like some peasant servant girl in one of his suits-and-secrets parties.
"Don't break it," my manager had hissed at me downstairs. "That bottle costs more than your rent for the year."
Bitch, everything in this building costs more than my rent for the year.
The elevator doors opened, and I stepped onto the marble floor of his penthouse suite. The air smelled like money. And leather. And something else—something dark, metallic, a little sweet.
Blood.
I shook my head. Must've been the champagne.
"Leave it on the counter," a deep voice drawled from across the room.
I froze.
He was leaning against the glass wall that overlooked the city, his tall frame cut in shadows and moonlight. Black shirt, black pants, black aura. His hair was slicked back just enough to look expensive but messy in a way that screamed I just fcked and didn't bother fixing it.*
And those eyes. Holy sh*t. They weren't just dark. They were hungry.
"Uh…" I cleared my throat. "Bottle delivery. Do you want me to—"
"Set it down," he cut me off, his voice low and commanding, like he owned not just this penthouse but me too.
I gritted my teeth. "You could try a 'please,' you know. Not everyone lives to serve you, rich boy."
That got his attention. His head tilted slightly, and for a second, I swore I saw a smile tug at his mouth. Dangerous. Predatory.
"You've got a mouth on you."
"Yeah, and it's not for your convenience." I plunked the bottle on his pristine marble counter, harder than necessary. "Here's your overpriced booze. Don't drink it all at once, or you might drown in your own ego."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Then—slow, deliberate footsteps. He moved toward me like a panther stalking prey, every step echoing across the glass-and-marble palace.
Sht. Sht. Sh*t.
I should've shut my mouth.
But my mouth has never learned the art of shutting the f*ck up.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked, stopping just a foot away.
"An asshole with a black Amex card?" I shot back.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might actually laugh. Instead, he leaned closer, his presence wrapping around me like smoke. His cologne was heady, spiced, masculine as hell. My pulse tripped over itself.
"You've got fire," he murmured. "Most people bow their heads. You bite."
"Maybe I'll bite you if you keep crowding me."
His gaze flicked down to my mouth. F*ck. My stomach twisted with something I didn't want to name.
"Careful what you offer," he said, voice dropping an octave. "I might take it."
Something in me—some stupid, reckless part—wanted him to.
But instead, I lifted my chin, refusing to show weakness. "Relax. I'm not that easy, Mr. Billionaire."
His smile curved slow, wicked. "Good. Easy bores me."
My thighs pressed together on instinct. Goddamn it. This man was toxic.
I tried to step back, but he moved forward, pinning me between his body and the counter. His hand brushed the marble next to mine—close enough that heat radiated off his skin, but not quite touching.
"Tell me your name," he ordered.
"I don't take orders," I snapped.
"Then consider it a request."
"Still not happening."
His laugh was low, dark, and infuriatingly sexy. "Mouthy little thing."
"Last warning, rich boy," I muttered. "Back off before I throw this bottle at your perfect f*cking head."
"You think I'm perfect?"
"Ugh. You're insufferable."
And then, for one insane second, I thought he might kiss me. His lips hovered a breath away, his gaze locked on mine like he was debating whether to ruin me right there on his million-dollar countertop.
My heart pounded so loud I swore he could hear it.
Then he inhaled sharply. Like he was savoring something.
"Your pulse," he murmured.
I blinked. "The f*ck?"
He smiled, slow and dangerous. "It's racing."
"I'm not scared of you."
"Good." His voice was silk over steel. "Fear tastes bitter. Desire tastes sweet."
Goosebumps rippled over my skin.
I shoved at his chest, but he didn't budge. The man was a wall of muscle and control.
"Move," I hissed.
"Say 'please.'"
"F*ck you."
He grinned like I'd just given him exactly what he wanted.
I hated him. God, I hated him.
And maybe, deep down, I already wanted him.
He finally stepped back, giving me room to breathe. I grabbed my bag, flipping him off as I moved toward the elevator.
"Next time you want champagne, call room service. I'm not your maid."
"Elena," he called after me.
I froze.
How the hell did he know my name?
I turned slowly. His eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing.
"See you soon," he said softly. "And next time… I won't stop."
The elevator doors slid shut between us, but the damage was already done.
Because my heart wasn't just racing.
It was begging.