“One more drink won’t kill me, right?”
That was the last thing I said before the night spun out of control.
I don’t even remember how many glasses I’d had—champagne, then something stronger, then something blue I didn’t even ask the name of. The music at Empire throbbed like a heartbeat. My skin tingled. My mind buzzed. And Carter King… he was watching me like I was the only thing glowing in the dark.
“Dance with me,” I said, grabbing his hand.
I didn’t wait for a yes. I just pulled him onto the dance floor and let the beat take over.
His hands found my waist instantly. He moved with me like we’d done this a hundred times before. My back pressed against his chest, and I could feel every breath, every heat-filled inch of him.
And God, I hated how good it felt.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. “You really know how to make a man crazy.”
I turned to face him, eyes locking with his. “You’re already crazy.”
“For you?” he asked. “Maybe.”
I laughed. It wasn’t fake this time. It bubbled out of me, soft and loud all at once. I didn’t feel like Jane Ellis, the girl with daddy issues and a carefully planned scandal. I felt wanted. Desired.
And stupidly safe.
His hand slid down my spine, fingers grazing skin exposed by the low-cut dress. I arched into him. Not because I was drunk—though I was—but because his touch lit something inside me I didn’t want to admit existed.
I was supposed to flirt. I was supposed to lure him in just enough for the cameras. But now? There were no cameras. Just Carter. And me.
And the pull.
He wasn’t like the tabloids said—cold, careless, arrogant.
He was warm. Present. And he looked at me like he saw everything.
I didn’t want to feel it. I didn’t want to need it.
But I did.
Maybe it was because of my father—always cold, always absent, always tearing me down until I didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like. Maybe Carter filled that space for one night. Maybe I just wanted someone to look at me like I mattered.
I hated myself for it. But I couldn’t stop. When he leaned in to kiss me, I didn’t hesitate.
Our lips met like a storm. Hot. Messy. Perfect.
And before I knew it, we were in the back of a car. His hands tangled in my hair. Mine pulling him closer. Our mouths never parting. His scent—clean, sharp, expensive—wrapped around me like a drug.
I didn’t ask where we were going.
I didn’t need to.
The elevator ride was a blur—his body pinning mine to the wall, my dress already half off, his lips on my collarbone.
Then the doors opened.
Carter’s penthouse was all glass and low light, but I barely registered it. My back hit the door. His mouth was already on mine—hungry, rough, hot. His hands tangled in my hair, then slid down, gripping my ass, pulling me flush against him. I could feel how hard he was through his jeans.
We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to.
I pulled his shirt over his head, nails raking across his chest as I tossed it aside. His hands were under my top before it hit the floor. He stripped me bare with quick, practiced movements, then stepped back just enough to look.
His gaze was dark, locked in.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re unreal.”
Then he kissed me again—deeper this time, slower, his tongue teasing mine, setting a rhythm that had nothing to do with patience.
I fumbled with his belt. He let out a low growl when I finally freed him, his cock already hard and thick in my hand. I stroked him once, twice, just to feel the weight of him, before he caught my wrist and kissed me harder.
He picked me up without warning, carried me straight to the bed, and laid me down like he already knew exactly how I liked it. His hands slid down my thighs as he knelt between them, spreading me open with no hesitation.
I felt bare. Exposed. And I didn’t care.
His mouth was on me before I could even take a breath—tongue slow and steady, dragging over me in long strokes that had me clutching the sheets. He worked me open with his mouth and fingers until I was grinding into him, chasing it.
And when I came, it was sharp and fast, like a fuse had been lit. I moaned his name, legs shaking around his shoulders.
He didn’t stop. Not right away.
By the time he moved up my body, I was aching for more. He hovered over me, stroking himself slowly, eyes on my face like he was waiting for permission.
I didn’t give it. I pulled him to me and took what I needed.
He pushed into me with one deep thrust, and I gasped, back arching off the bed. The stretch burned in the best way, all-consuming.
He held still, deep inside me, both of us breathing hard.
Then he started to move.
Slow, at first—grinding into me, hips rolling, hitting deep. Every drag of his cock made my body tighten, my breath catch. Then he picked up the pace, harder, rougher, until I was meeting every thrust, nails clawing at his back, begging without words.
The sound of skin on skin filled the room—wet, heavy, desperate.
He kissed me through it, messy and open-mouthed, biting my bottom lip as I broke apart underneath him for the second time. This one hit deeper—raw and full, like something inside me cracked open.
“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, hips slamming into mine.
He followed a few thrusts later, groaning into my neck as he came, body pressed tight to mine.
For a long time, neither of us moved. Our skin was damp, the sheets twisted beneath us, his weight solid and grounding over me.
Eventually, he rolled to the side, pulling me with him, his arm slung low over my waist.
We lay there in silence. His breath warm against my shoulder. My heartbeat still wild.
And for a little while, I let myself believe this wasn’t just sex. That maybe, somehow, this meant something. That maybe I wasn’t just a girl with a broken past and a plan for revenge.
Maybe, with him, I could be more.