His hand around hers wasn't just a hold; it was a tether. He led her out of the casino lounge, through the glittering lobby of the Hotel de Paris, and into a private elevator she hadn't even noticed. He pressed a button marked with a simple, elegant 'P'.
The doors slid shut, sealing them inside a mirrored box. Their reflections multiplied, caught together in glass. Harper's chestnut hair was tousled, her wide eyes stark against the pallor of her face. Beside her, he loomed—tall, contained, his hand locked around hers. His thumb traced slow, absent circles over her knuckles, a possessive rhythm that made the silence feel heavier than steel.
She expected him to kiss her then. To push her against the wall as the elevator ascended. He didn't. He just watched her in the mirror, his blue eyes tracing the lines of her body in the emerald dress, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The anticipation was its own kind of touch, more intimate than a grope. Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive.
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
Harper's breath caught. The doors opened onto a space that defied walls. The far side was nothing but glass, a vast terrace suspended over the edge of the world. Beyond it, the Mediterranean unfurled like black satin, scattered with the diamonds of distant yachts and the crescent moon. Below, Monaco glittered in fragments, a constellation spilled across the earth.
The interior was sleek, minimalist, breathtakingly expensive, and utterly impersonal. It looked like a magazine spread, not a home. There were no photographs, no books, no signs of life. It was the perfect place for a man who was escaping, for a night with no past.
"Champagne, as promised," he said, finally releasing her hand. He crossed to the sub‑zero fridge set flush in pale wood, its hum the only sound in the hush. A bottle slid free with practiced ease, glass catching the light. His fingers worked the cork in smooth, efficient twists, and when it gave way, the pop cracked through the quiet like a gunshot muffled in velvet.
He poured two flutes, the bubbles rising in a frantic, joyful rush. He handed her one, his fingers brushing hers. A simple touch, and yet her whole arm tingled.
"The view is better from outside," he said, nodding toward the open glass doors.
She followed him onto the terrace. The night air was cool and salty, caressing her heated skin. She leaned against the stone balustrade, the glass flute cold in her hand. He stood beside her, close but not touching, looking out at the sea.
"It's like owning the sky," she whispered, awestruck despite herself.
"It's just a view," he said, but his voice was soft. He turned to look at her, not at the horizon. "It's better now."
The compliment, so direct, disarmed her. She took a sip of champagne to hide her flush. The bubbles were sharp and delicious on her tongue. "So," she said, needing to break the tension before it consumed her. "You won. I'm here. On your terrace."
"You are." He took a step closer. The space between them evaporated. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the sandalwood and cognac on his breath. "Do you regret it?"
"I don't know yet," she answered honestly, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Ask me in the morning."
"I intend to." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "Among other things."
He didn't move to kiss her. Instead, he reached out and, very slowly, tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingertips grazed the sensitive shell, then traced a burning path down the line of her jaw to her chin. He tilted her face up toward his.
"You have the most expressive eyes," he murmured. "They go green when you're nervous. Did you know that?"
She couldn't speak. She could only feel—the rough pad of his thumb on her lower lip, the devastating intensity of his focus. He was studying her again, but this was a different kind of observation. He wasn't cataloging her tells; he was worshiping her details.
Slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, he lowered his head.
The first brush of his lips was a question. Soft, tentative. A spark in dry tinder.
Harper's control, the rigid scaffolding that held her life together, splintered. A small, desperate sound escaped her throat, and she answered. She kissed him back.
It was an explosion.
The tentative pressure vanished, replaced by a hungry, consuming possession. His mouth slanted over hers, hot and demanding. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened for him on a gasp, the taste of him—champagne and man and midnight—flooding her senses. One hand tangled in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, while the other arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against the hard, unyielding lines of his body.
She melted into him. Her hands came up, clutching at the fine wool of his tuxedo jacket, then sliding over the powerful shoulders beneath. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a conquest and a surrender all at once. It was teeth and tongue and shared, ragged breaths under the indifferent stars. It felt less like a first kiss and more like a homecoming to a place she'd never known she belonged.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. "Inside," he said, his voice a raw scrape.
He didn't wait for an answer. He took her champagne flute, setting both theirs on a table with a careless clink, then swept her into his arms.
"I can walk," she protested weakly, her arms looping around his neck.
"I know," he said, striding back through the glass doors into the stark living room. He didn't head for a bedroom. He carried her to the enormous, low sofa that faced the wall of windows. He laid her down upon it as if she were made of glass, following her down, caging her body with his.
The world was reduced to the weight of him, the feel of his hands, the taste of his skin. His mouth found hers again, then trailed fire down her throat, to the frantic pulse at its base. He nipped, soothed with his tongue, and Harper arched off the cushions, a moan torn from her lips.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed against her skin, his hands sliding up her sides, coming to rest just beneath the curves of her breasts.
"Don't you dare," she gasped.
A low, rough sound of approval vibrated from his chest. His hands moved. He found the long zipper at the back of her emerald gown and drew it down in one slow, excruciating motion. The cool air hit her heated skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palms as he pushed the silk from her shoulders, baring her to the waist.
His breath caught. He went utterly still above her, his gaze burning over her.
"Christ, Harper," he whispered, the words full of awe. "You're perfect."
The reverence in his voice undid her more than any skillful touch could have. Before her insecurities could surface, his head descended. His mouth closed over one taut peak, and her world shattered into sensation. The wet heat, the gentle suction, the flick of his tongue. She cried out, her fingers plunging into his hair, holding him to her. He lavished equal attention on the other, his hand caressing the neglected breast, his thumb circling the peak until she was writhing beneath him, mindless with need.
She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He helped her, shrugging out of his jacket, tearing the shirt open with an impatience that sent buttons skittering across the polished floor. Her palms flattened against the hard plane of his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart, the smooth skin over sculpted muscle, a light dusting of hair. She explored him greedily, learning the contours of him as he learned hers.
His trousers and her discarded dress joined the pile on the floor. There was nothing between them now but the thin barrier of her lace panties and his boxer briefs. The evidence of his desire pressed insistently against her, thick and hard, and a fresh wave of liquid heat pooled between her thighs.
He kissed his way down her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel, his hands sliding her panties down her legs. She was completely bare to him, exposed under the moonlit sky and his searing gaze. He didn't move back up. Instead, he settled between her thighs.
"Rhys…" she breathed, the name a question, a plea. She hadn't known she'd learned it, but it felt right on her tongue.
He looked up, eyes blazing against the dark, the kind of fire that made the air between them feel charged. "Once more."
Her lips parted, breath trembling as though the single word carried more weight than language should. "Rhys."
The name hung there, fragile and electric, echoing in the mirrored silence like a secret too dangerous to speak twice.
He smiled, a wicked, beautiful thing. Then he lowered his head.
The first intimate stroke of his tongue wrenched a shattered cry from her lips. Her hips bucked off the couch, but his hands were there, holding her firmly, gently, in place. He didn't just taste her; he devoured her. He explored her with a focused, relentless precision that turned her bones to water. His tongue circled, flicked, plunged. He learned what made her gasp, what made her whimper, what made her thighs tremble and her back bow. He was merciless and magnificent, building a coiling tension in her core so intense she thought she might break apart.
"Please… I can't…" she sobbed, her fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing him away but holding him closer.
He relented, rising over her, shedding his last garment. He was magnificent, all lean power and intent. He reached for his discarded trousers, retrieving a small foil packet. She watched, breathless, as he sheathed himself.
He notched himself at her entrance, his eyes locked on hers. The detached observer was gone. In his place was a man stripped raw, his control hanging by a thread. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice guttural.
She did. She drowned in the blue of his eyes as he pushed forward, slowly, inexorably, filling her. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect, burning fullness. She gasped, wrapping her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper.
He began to move. A slow, deep rhythm that was pure torture and bliss. Each stroke dragged over a place inside her that made her see stars. He buried his face in her neck, his breath hot against her skin, his whispered words lost in a language of groans and praises.
"So tight… so perfect for me… Harper…"
His pace quickened, urgency threading through every movement. The air between them grew charged, each touch sparking against the next. She matched him without hesitation, her grip fierce, her voice breaking the silence in raw, unguarded bursts. The world seemed to fracture around her, scattering into pieces, and yet his presence anchored her — the one constant holding her together.
"Let go," he growled against her mouth. "I've got you. Let go for me."
His hand slipped between their joined bodies, his thumb finding the swollen, aching bundle of nerves. The added stimulation was the final key. The coil snapped.
Pleasure detonated through her, a white-hot shockwave that ripped a scream from her throat. Her body convulsed around him, milking him, pulling him over the edge with her. He shouted her name, a raw, broken sound, as his own release tore through him. He drove into her one last, deep time, shuddering as he spilled himself inside her.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling. He collapsed atop her, his weight a welcome anchor. She felt boneless, sated, utterly claimed.
He rolled them to their side, keeping her firmly against him, his arm a heavy band across her waist. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her sweat-damp shoulder.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The connection thrummed between them, deeper than the physical, a silent understanding that something profound had just been forged in the heat of their joining.
Exhaustion, emotional and physical, pulled at her. Lulled by the steady beat of his heart against her back, Harper drifted into sleep in the arms of a stranger who no longer felt like one.
---
Dawn came as a slow bleed of rose and gold over the dark water.
Harper awoke to the soft light and the solid warmth of Rhys's body curled around hers on the wide sofa. His arm was still around her waist, his breath even and deep against her hair.
She lay perfectly still, watching the sunrise paint the sky. In the cool, clear light of morning, the night's magic felt fragile. The profound connection, the whispered intimacies—they belonged to the dark. In the day, they were just two people who had broken all the rules.
She knew she should feel satisfied. Complete. She'd had her adventure. She'd been seen, desired, utterly worshipped. She should be able to slip away now, back to her life, with this as a perfect, secret memory.
Instead, a cold, sharp terror seized her heart.
Because looking at his sleeping face, softened in repose, the scar on his brow just a pale line, she knew with a devastating certainty that leaving him wouldn't be an escape. It would feel like an amputation. This felt too real. The danger wasn't in staying; it was in how much she already never wanted to leave.
The thought paralyzed her. This wasn't the plan. This was a catastrophic deviation.
Moving with infinite care, she lifted his heavy arm from her waist. He murmured in his sleep, his fingers flexing as if to recapture her, but he didn't wake. She slid from the couch, her body aching in the most delicious ways. She found her emerald dress in a silken heap on the floor. As she slipped it on, her eyes fell on a small, glittering object on the coffee table. A single, brilliant diamond earring. He'd playfully taken it from her lobe during the night, calling it "collateral."
She stared at it. A part of her screamed to take it, a token of the night. A louder, more pragmatic part knew it was a chain.
She left it there.
She found a notepad and a pen on a sleek desk. Her hand trembled as she wrote.
Thank you for a perfect night. -H
It was cowardly. It was safe. It was what she had promised herself she would do.
She took one last, long look at him sleeping amidst the rumpled sheets of the sofa, his profile sharp against the dawn. She memorized the curve of his shoulder, the fall of his hair over his forehead.
Then, barefoot, clutching her shoes and her clutch, she slipped out of the penthouse, closing the door on the most real dream she'd ever had, and ran.