Elara's pov
I never thought expensive alcohol could taste this sweet.
Maybe it wasn't the whiskey. Maybe it was just me. I was five months too late, drowning in the numbers I had finally forced myself to open tonight. My father's books. His business. His secrets.
I finally understood how he died of a heart attack.
I tipped back another shot, the burn trickling down my throat like fire and honey all at once. The dress I wore was black and short. The kind of dress my best friend would call reckless. It clung to me like a second skin. The barstool beneath me wobbled slightly, or maybe it was just me wobbling.
I hated alcohol. Always had. But this wasn't the cheap bitter stuff from college parties. This was smooth. Dangerous. Addictive. And I couldn't stop.
"Be careful with that, sweetheart."
The bartender's voice slid over me, casual but warm. He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing against mine as he reached for the empty glass.
I blinked up at him. God. He had lips. Nice, soft-looking lips. Lips that looked like they were designed for kissing.
Whoa.
What the hell was that thought?
I coughed lightly, tucking hair behind my ear. "Another round."
He arched a brow but poured, the amber liquid gleaming under the golden lights. His smile tugged at me.
"If you saw what I saw tonight," I murmured, leaning my cheek into my palm, "you'd join me."
He chuckled, the sound teasing. "As much as I'd love to do that, I have other customers to serve."
I giggled, and it shocked me. I never giggled. It sounded foreign, girlish, but maybe that was the point. I was foreign to myself tonight.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle. A hush that crawled over the bar. A presence.
A man slid onto the stool beside me. His movement was precise and unhurried. The bartender's grin vanished. His shoulders straightened. "Sir." He didn't even ask what the man wanted before pouring him a glass.
Sir?
I glanced sideways.
And forgot how to breathe.
He was tall and broad. The lines of his suit were crisp and expensive. His dark hair was styled immaculately, not a strand out of place. His hands… God, his hands. They were wrapped around the glass. His fingers were long, thick, and strong. My eyes lingered too long, my imagination too quick.
I could almost feel them inside me.
Heat shot through my body, shameless and reckless.
"You're staring."
His voice was gravel dipped in silk. He didn't even turn his head. Didn't bother to look at me.
I smirked, swallowing courage with the whiskey still on my tongue. "I'm just thinking."
Slowly—deliberately—he turned. His gray eyes which were cold and unyielding, caught mine. I froze.
"Thinking?" His tone was smooth, but there was weight in it, like he already knew I wasn't capable of innocent thoughts.
I leaned closer, lips tugging into a smile. "I'm tipsy. You're going to be tipsy soon, seeing as you're downing all that alcohol. I'm horny. You're handsome. This is a hotel." I paused, letting my words settle. "Was wondering if you'd like to share a room with me and do things you might or might not regret by tomorrow."
It all came out in a rush. Bold. Shameless. Wild.
He stared at me, expression unreadable. Like he'd been carved out of stone.
I fidgeted, nerves buzzing under his scrutiny. "What? You married?"
Nothing. Just that stoic silence.
I hated silence.
He let his gaze drop, raking over me with slow precision, before coming back up to my eyes. "If you're sure about what you're insinuating…" His voice dropped lower, rougher. "I have a VIP suite here. Follow me."
He rose, smooth, commanding.
"Wait, wait!" I blurted, stumbling off my stool, clutching my clutch. "I have to pay for my drinks."
The bartender raised a brow. "Really? You're paying with your ID card?"
I blinked down at the slim card in my hand, then burst into laughter. "Oops."
"Put her drinks on my tab," the stranger said, already turning away.
His tab.
The bartender's quick nod told me everything. Not just a regular. A man who owned this place in some way, even if his name wasn't on the deed.
He walked with strides too long for me to match, and I had to almost trot to keep up in my heels. The lobby blurred past in glass and marble and hushed luxury.
The elevator doors sealed us inside. Silence cocooned the space. He didn't look at me once.
I licked my lips. "So… what's your name?"
His eyes cut to me. Sharp. "You don't know?"
I raised a brow. "Am I supposed to?"
His frown deepened, the lines of his face harsh. "So why are you following me, when you don't know me?"
My stomach dropped, a chill slicing through the warmth of the whiskey. I forced a nervous laugh. "Well, if you're an assassin, you should know I have a pen knife in my purse and I'm not afraid to use it."
For the briefest second, I saw it. The corner of his mouth twitched. A flicker of amusement. Then gone. Wiped clean.
The elevator dinged. He stepped out, and I followed, heart hammering.
His suite was opulent. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble floors. Gold accents. The kind of place you only saw in magazines.
He shut the door and turned, finally focusing on me.
"Are you sure about this?"
I rolled my eyes, stepping closer, pressing a finger to his chest. "Like I'd follow you all the way up here if I wasn't."
He opened his pretty lips to say something again but I tilted my chin, my lips inches from his. "Shhh…"
I leaned in for a kiss.
He dodged, spinning me before I could blink. The world tilted. My stomach hit the bed, my face sinking into plush sheets as his hands gripped my hips and shoved them up, arching me in a way that made my breath catch.
"Wha—"
The protest died in a gasp.
His touch was rough and demanding. He dragged my dress up, fabric whispering over my thighs until cool air licked bare skin.
My pulse thundered as he shifted my lace panties to the side. I dared a glance over my shoulder.
And froze.
He was already hard. Thick. Heavy. The sight alone made my breath falter.
"You're not going to use protection?" I whispered, my voice trembling against the silence.