The room smelled like rain and sweat.
Charles leaned back on the leather couch in the penthouse suite, still shirtless, the marks from Olivia's nails raked across his chest like battle scars earned in a war of passion. The city lights outside flickered through the tall glass windows, casting shadows that danced across the tangled sheets and discarded clothes scattered like evidence of their reckless abandon. Twenty-three floors below, New York pulsed with its usual midnight rhythm—sirens, car horns, the distant thrum of life that never slept.
Across from him, Olivia sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, wearing nothing but one of his white shirts. The cotton fell just below her thighs, exposing the smooth curve of her calves. Her auburn hair was a mess, wild and tangled from their hours together, her cheeks flushed pink from exertion and desire. But her eyes—they weren't just lust-filled anymore. They were calculating. Distant. Like she was solving a puzzle he couldn't see.
