Chapter Nine
Renata
Fear and anticipation wrap around me like a vice, my body vibrating with something I can't name. My chest rises and falls with shallow, uneven breaths. I take a step back—one, two, three, four, five—until my shoulder blades press against the cool, unyielding wall. My palms are damp, my fingers twitching like I'm holding on to a live wire.
And then he moves.
Green Eyes rises slowly from the bed, his silhouette shifting from casual elegance to something far more dangerous. Every step he takes toward me is deliberate. Measured. A predator closing in on his prey. His gaze doesn't waver, a piercing, unrelenting green that pins me where I stand.
I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. I can taste my own fear. But beneath it—God help me—there's something else. Something hotter. Deeper. Need curling low in my belly like smoke.
I press back harder against the wall, wishing it would swallow me whole. There's nowhere to go. No escape. And maybe—just maybe—I don't even want one.
His mouth curves into a slow, devastating smirk that makes my legs feel boneless. He's enjoying this, savoring my reactions, my helplessness. He closes the last bit of space between us, until I can feel the heat of his body radiating over mine. He smells like expensive cologne and something darker, rawer, underneath. It's intoxicating.
His thumb brushes the column of my throat, featherlight but scorching. My breath catches. Goosebumps erupt across my skin like wildfire. My chin tips up instinctively, exposing myself to him without even meaning to. He doesn't rush, doesn't push—just traces the line of my throat like he's memorizing me.
A sound escapes me, tiny and unbidden. He catches it, and his smirk deepens.
"Don't give me the good girl act," he murmurs, his breath a mixture of mint and coffee, hot and cool all at once. His voice is a low hiss, sliding under my skin. "I don't give a fuck."
Before I can even process the words, his hand drops. He cups me through my panties with a rough possessiveness that steals my breath. A whimper slips out. My hips betray me, shifting against his palm like they have a mind of their own.
There's a tearing sound, sharp in the silence. A rush of cool air hits my fevered skin—and then his thumb is there. On me. Against me.
Slow circles. Lazy. Cruel.
I can't breathe.
My forehead presses to the wall, my mouth falling open on a soundless gasp. Every nerve ending in my body is suddenly alive, screaming for more. My knees threaten to buckle.
In a blur, he spins me around. My cheek meets the cold wall with a dull thud. The shock of icy concrete against overheated skin sends a shiver down my spine. My nipples tighten painfully under the thin fabric of my bra, scraping against the wall. I let out a strangled gasp.
"You've been a bad, bad girl," he rasps, his voice husky with promise and threat, "making me want you like this."
"Yes," I breathe, delirious. I don't even know what I'm agreeing to. I just know I can't stop.
He leans in closer, his mouth brushing my ear. "You know what I do to bad girls?"
I barely manage a shake of my head before his fingers slide into me—two, slow, deliberate. My eyes flutter shut. I'm half-gone already, hanging onto sanity by a thread. My thighs tremble.
"No?" His lips ghost over the shell of my ear. "Then let me show you."
His teeth graze my shoulder, dragging down to where my skin meets the strap of my dress. I feel his other hand curl lightly around my throat, not squeezing—just holding. Owning. His voice is a low snarl that vibrates through my bones. "I'm going to fuck you against this wall until you can't remember your own name."
The words hit me like a physical touch. My moan is loud, needy, unrestrained.
He growls in response, deep and primal. Then—belt unbuckling, the soft metallic jingle like the strike of a match. My heart is in my throat. I hear the zip of his trousers, feel the brief, teasing slide of his hard length against my folds.
And then he's inside me.
No warning. No hesitation.
I cry out, my body jerking from the sudden fullness. Pleasure and pain twist together, sharp and overwhelming. I'm pinned between the cold wall and the relentless heat of him behind me. My fingers claw at the wall, desperate for purchase.
He doesn't give me time to adjust. He pulls out almost completely—pauses for a single, torturous heartbeat—and slams back into me. I see stars. Literally. My vision whites out, the world spinning.
His hand finds my clit, stroking in fast, merciless circles. My knees give out. He holds me up easily with his other arm, his chest a solid wall of strength against my back. He moves with brutal precision, each thrust designed to undo me piece by piece.
And just when I think I can't take more—when I'm teetering on the edge of something too big to hold—he moves me. Airborne. Weightless.
I'm draped across a chair now, bent over so I'm facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. My reflection stares back at me in the glass. My bun is unraveling, curls falling loose around my flushed, dazed face. My bra is gone—I don't even know when he stripped it off—and my breasts hang heavy and full, nipples taut and aching.
Behind me, Green Eyes stands like some kind of avenging god. Sculpted. Powerful. His face is carved with raw lust. He palms my ass, squeezes, spreads.
Then—
A sharp thrust that makes the chair scrape an inch across the floor.
A strangled squeal escapes me.
Somewhere, from the fog of lust clouding my brain, I hear a phone ringing. A distant sound, irrelevant compared to the storm raging inside me. Green Eyes curses low, the word rolling off his tongue like silk. He slides out of me and grabs his phone.
I whimper at the sudden emptiness.
His breath catches when he looks back at me—sprawled, ass in the air, everything on display. Satisfaction curls hot in my stomach.
He taps my bum once, firm. A silent order. "This is an important call. Don't make a sound."
The phone clicks as he answers with a smooth, "Hello."
And at the same moment—he slams back into me. Hard. Deep.
I bite down on my lip, hard enough to taste copper. I should be angry, ashamed, something—but all I feel is a wild, dirty thrill that makes my vision blur. He keeps talking calmly into the phone while pounding into me like he owns me. The contrast is obscene.
His thrusts pick up a punishing rhythm, forcing my clit to rub against the edge of the chair. I'm dangling on the edge of madness, my hips arching back to meet him despite the helplessness of it all.
He doesn't miss a beat on the call. His voice stays smooth, controlled, but in the pauses—when he's listening—I can hear his harsh breathing. He's close. I'm close.
A bolt of pleasure spears me when he hits that spot. I yelp. He fists my hair, yanking me upright just enough, and his other hand closes around my throat. A silent warning. Don't. Make. A. Sound.
I try. I swear I do. But the orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave. My body convulses, trembling violently. Tears spill down my cheeks. My reflection in the window is wrecked—eyes glazed, mouth slack, tears streaking down my face. I'm unrecognizable.
Another wave hits. Then another. Endless. Blinding.
His hand moves from my throat to cover my mouth, muffling my frantic noises. One hand on my mouth. One hand still in my hair. I'm pinned in every possible way, drowning in him.
The call ends.
"Didn't I tell you not to make a sound?" His voice is low. Dangerous.
I mumble something incoherent against his hand. Apologetic? Maybe. I can't even think straight.
"No words?" He slides his hand down from my hair to my breasts, pinching my nipples hard. Another moan tumbles out, helpless and wanton.
"Did I fuck your brains out, my gorgeous little slut?"
I can't answer. I don't know the answer. My name is gone. My mind is gone. I'm just sensation now, raw and aching and undone.
He lifts me easily, tossing me onto the bed like I weigh nothing. I barely have time to suck in a breath before he's on me again, pulling me to all fours. My bones are jelly, only his hands around my waist keep me upright.
Then he's inside me again—hard, all at once, forcing a cry from my throat. His hands lace with mine, pinning them to the mattress, caging me completely. The bed creaks. Our rhythm is frantic, desperate.
"Fuck. Isabella," he hisses into my ear.
"Yes—" It's the last word I manage before we both dissolve into pure heat and movement.
And it doesn't stop.
Next it's the floor, both of us savage and unrestrained.
Then the bed again, doggy style, while his gaze flicks briefly to the TV showing CNN like it's just background noise.
Then the wall. Then the chair. Then the floor again.
By the time we finally collapse into the bed for real, the room smells like sex, like sin, like something forbidden we can never undo.
He hands me a bottle of water without a word, sweat slicking his temple. "I'm leaving at six," he says quietly. "Check-out is at ten. They don't like tardiness at The Louis Hotel."
I want to tell him to go to hell. Or maybe beg him to stay. But I can't move. Can't speak. I just… exist, boneless and wrecked.
And I don't regret it. Not one second.
How could I, after a night like this?
But when I finally drag myself up, dress myself, tame Renata's wild curls, I glance back at him.
He's asleep. Peaceful. Too beautiful.
I should leave. I have to leave.
Because if I stay, I'll do something stupid. Like wake him up and ask for one more round.
So I slip out quietly.
And only when I'm in the elevator, watching the doors slide shut, do I remember it.
The moment that burned itself into my mind between the moans and the madness.
He called me by my real name.
Shock slices through me like ice.
He knows exactly who I am.