Florence froze, the night air slicing into her lungs.
"Lost?"
The man's voice carried like smoke, heavy enough to anchor her where she stood. She should have walked away, hailed a taxi but her body wouldn't obey.
The car door clicked. He stepped out: tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of presence that didn't belong on ordinary streets. Black suit, collar open, no tie. Dangerous.
"I,I'm fine," she whispered, arms tightening around herself.
One corner of his mouth lifted, not a smile. "You don't look fine." His eyes swept over her tear-streaked cheeks, stained coat. "You look like someone who ran without knowing where she was going."
Her chin lifted. "It's none of your business."
"Maybe not. But the streets don't forgive easy." He gestured to the car. "Get in. I'll take you home."
Home. The word nearly broke her.
"I don't know you."
"Then it's simple." He held out a hand. "Get in, and you'll find out."
Something inside her cracked. She let him lead her into the car.
The door shut behind her with a sound that felt final.
As the car slid into motion, Florence pressed her hands into her lap, knuckles white. The stranger leaned back, watching her with eyes that gave nothing away. She had the sinking sense she hadn't just escaped one kind of danger, she'd walked straight into another.
You look like you've drowned into something heavier than wine," he said, voice low and velvet, threaded with danger.
Florence laughed, sharp and broken. "Oh, you could say that." She said with a low voice. " My Boyfriend and my Best friend, In my bed. You know…." she gestured sloppily, nearly toppling her glass, "that cliché you see in those trash TV shows? Apparently, it's my life now."
His brows arched slightly, but he didn't interrupt. He just leaned back, one hand on his glass, the other resting casually on the bar as though he had all the time in the world to unravel her confessions.
Florence snorted bitterly, the sound bubbling up from somewhere raw. "I gave him my savings today. My savings. Months of grinding, counting pennies, doing everything right. And what does he give me? Lipstick stains and betrayal." She pressed her fingers to her temples. "And Gwen… God, Gwen. She was supposed to be my sister. My family."
Through it all, the stranger stayed silent. Listening. His presence didn't feel soft, didn't feel sympathetic,it felt dangerous, like standing too close to a fire. And yet, she leaned closer, drawn in by the steady gravity of him.
When her voice finally faltered into silence, he leaned forward just enough for her to smell the faint trace of his cologne,spice and smoke, intoxicating. "And now?" he murmured. "What do you want?"
Her breath caught. He'd said her name without asking, without being told. She blinked, startled, but the fog in her head was too heavy to latch onto the strangeness.
"I want… not to feel this," she whispered, fingers tightening around the glass. "I want to burn them out of me. I want to forget Henry's voice, Gwen's face. Just forget."
" Do you want to go somewhere better? ."
Her head tilted. "Better?, yes."
The city blurred past the tinted windows of the sleek black car. Florence slumped into the leather seat, her head spinning, her body heavy.
They drove for what felt like hours but was probably minutes, the hum of the engine soothing against her rattled nerves. When the car finally slowed, Florence pressed her face to the glass and blinked at the sight before her.
The mansion rose like something from another world. Set high above the city, its sleek lines and towering windows glowed faintly against the night, a blend of old-world architecture and modern brutality. Her jaw slackened.
The stranger finally spoke, voice low near her ear. "Welcome to my den."
The words slithered into her like a promise and a warning.
Inside, the mansion devoured her with opulence. Chandeliers dripped crystal tears across ceilings carved with gold filigree. Velvet drapes swept floor to ceiling, framing windows that revealed the glittering city below. The marble floors gleamed, reflecting the glow of candlelight scattered along ornate tables.
Florence staggered through it, her heels clicking like hesitant heartbeats. "This place… it's worth billions," she whispered, awe cutting through her drunken haze.
"More," he murmured.
She turned to him, blinking. "What do you do?"
He smirked faintly, shadow flickering across his face. "What I must."
The answer sent a shiver down her spine, but she didn't press. The air was thick, heavy, laced with something both intoxicating and dangerous.
He led her deeper into the mansion, past grand halls and silent statues, until they reached a room draped in dark velvet. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room.
Florence collapsed onto a velvet chaise, laughing softly. "If Gwen could see me now… she'd choke on her lipstick." She tilted her head, eyes glassy. "I should go. I should… but I don't want to."
The stranger poured a glass of deep red wine and handed it to her. "Stay."
Her fingers brushed his as she took it, heat sparking where their skin touched. She drank deeply, the wine staining her lips, and when she looked at him again, her vision sharpened just enough to register how perfect he was. The strong jaw, the eyes like dark oceans, the aura of control radiating from him.
"Why are you being so… nice to me?" she asked, her voice wavering between suspicion and longing.
He leaned closer, his shadow swallowing her. "I'm not nice, Florence. I'm inevitable."
Her pulse skipped. His words should have scared her. Instead, they thrilled her.
The fire crackled louder, or maybe her blood was rushing too fast in her ears. She set the wine down, but her hands shook, spilling drops across the velvet. He caught her wrists gently, holding them steady, his eyes burning into hers.
"Do you want to stop thinking of them?" he asked.
She nodded, lips parting.
"Do you want to forget?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Please."
The air between them thickened, molten, her plea hanging like smoke. His lips crashed against hers, not soft but consuming, tasting of wine and fire. Florence gasped, the sound swallowed into his mouth as his tongue swept past her lips, claiming, demanding. She clutched at his suit jacket, desperate, nails scraping over the fine fabric, tugging him closer.
In one fluid movement, he lifted her, carrying her effortlessly through the shadows of the room. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, mouth still locked to his. The world spun until he laid her down onto silk sheets that seemed to drink the firelight, swallowing her whole.
His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down her throat, over the rapid thrum of her pulse. "Mine, tonight," he murmured, voice dark, rough velvet.
Her answer was a shaky nod, her hands already sliding beneath his shirt, desperate for the heat of his skin.
He kissed her again, slower this time, more deliberate, His hand splayed across her stomach, sliding higher until his palm cupped her breast through her blouse. Her breath hitched as his thumb flicked over the peak, hardening instantly beneath the thin fabric.
"Please," she whispered, every nerve ending alight.
He didn't hesitate. Buttons popped under his fingers, her blouse falling open to reveal her round breasts. He groaned low in his throat, burying his face against her chest, his mouth hot and insistent. Florence's moans filled the room, her hands tangled in his hair as he teased her mercilessly, tongue circling, sucking, biting just enough to make her cry out.
Her skirt rode up around her hips as he pressed harder between her legs, his weight grinding into her, friction sparking sharp pleasure that drew gasps from her lips.
"Say you want this," he growled against her skin.
"I want it….I want you, fuck me daddy" The words tumbled out, raw, desperate.
His fingers sliding against her heat. Florence cried out, her body jolting as he teased, circling, dipping ever giving her all at once. She writhed beneath him, gasping his name though she didn't even know it, she just called him"Daddy", her voice breaking on pleas.
When he finally pushed inside her, his two fingers curling deep, she shattered on the spot. The orgasm ripped through her like wildfire, leaving her trembling, her nails clawing at his back, her voice hoarse from crying out.
She dragged him down to her, legs spreading wide, begging without words.
He pushed her leg aside and put his dick inside her. She groaned and arched, forcing him to speed up to a faster pace. His fingers clenched over her thigh and he moved harder, deeper, shafting her in long, fast strokes. .
She slid her hands down over his back, slick with sweat, and grasped his pumping buttocks. He pressed his mouth against her neck and kissed her, his tongue working over her sensitive skin.
He suddenly slipped out and moved by the orgasm, Florence grabbed his cock. Then she kissed his cock, rubbed it against her face and cheek, so soft. She put his whole cock in her mouth and aimed it toward the back of her throat, gagging, making some more saliva. He moaned and softly tousled her hair with his hands.
"God…" she moaned, head tipping back, lost to sensation.
.Florence shot up as an electric sensation runs through her spine and she lets out a loud moan. His tongue stroking her clit, Florence grabs the sheets as her body pleads for more.
Each thrust drove her higher, each kiss left her hungrier. He whispered things in her ear,dark, dirty promises, words that sent shivers racing down her spine. She answered with broken moans, with pleas for more, for harder, for deeper.
After a long hour of passion , Florence collapsed against the sheets, body limp, chest still heaving. The stranger hovered above her for a heartbeat longer, his dark eyes burning into hers with an intensity that sent another shiver through her. Then, without a word, he collapsed beside her, dragging her against his chest.
Her last thought before sleep was not of Henry or Gwen.
It was of him
The next morning, she sat up slowly, wincing as the sheet slipped down her bare body. The memories hit in shards,wine, firelight, his mouth on hers, the way he'd claimed her like he already owned her. Her pulse spiked, shame and something darker twisting inside her.
The bed was empty.
Florence glanced around the vast bedroom: velvet drapes drawn shut, gilded furniture, shadows swallowing the corners. On the nightstand sat the glass of wine she hadn't finished and a single cufflink, heavy, engraved with a crest she didn't recognize.
"Hello?" Her voice broke the silence, trembling. No answer.
Pulling the sheet around herself, she slid off the bed. Her legs wobbled as she padded barefoot across marble floors and through arched doorways.
The house seemed deserted, too still for something so vast. And yet, the weight of presence lingered, like eyes on her back.
In the main hall, she stopped dead.
A painting loomed above the marble staircase. Broad strokes of oil capturing a man in a tailored suit, his eyes dark, burning. Recognition hit like a punch to the chest. The same jawline, the same gaze that had devour
ed her in the firelight.
Her lips parted on a whisper. "Adrian Cross…"
The name echoed in her head like a curse. She knew it from headlines, the magazines,he was the ruthless billionaire tech mogul.
"Did I just sleep with Adrian cross?."