The evening began with silver forks clinking against porcelain, champagne bubbling quietly in tall glasses, and the hum of elite conversation filling the private rooftop terrace. New York's skyline glittered below, but the storm was brewing above it—between Ava Monroe and Kai Blackthorne.
Ava's dress tonight was dangerous: black velvet with a backless plunge and a thigh slit that seemed to defy gravity. Every move she made was deliberate, designed to ensnare. Every glance was a weapon. But tonight, her power felt brittle—because she wasn't the only one playing the game.
Kai stood at the other end of the terrace, speaking with two international diplomats. He hadn't touched her since the helicopter ride two days ago, hadn't looked at her the same way since she tested him by flirting with the French investor.
And yet, Ava knew he was watching her—always.
The tension between them wasn't just sexual. It was combustible. It was everything they refused to say, everything they did in the dark and denied in the daylight. It was the way he memorized her body with his hands and punished her with silence. It was the way she kissed him like he was a secret she wanted to forget but never could.
Tonight, something would break.
Ava excused herself from the conversation with Senator Whitmore and headed inside, heels clicking against the marble floor. She didn't have to wait long. She felt him behind her before he even touched her.
Kai.
He didn't say a word as he followed her into the private elevator. The doors closed.
Then—
His hand was at her throat, not squeezing, but claiming. Her back hit the elevator wall, and his mouth was on hers like a punishment. It wasn't a kiss. It was war. Tongues colliding, breaths stolen, her body arching into his. His hands dragged her dress up as his thigh slid between hers.
"You think you can play me?" he growled into her mouth.
She smirked. "You started the game."
He spun her around, pressing her chest against the wall. "And I'll end it."
Her moan was guttural. His hand moved between her legs, finding that she was already soaking. Her panties were discarded in seconds.
And then he was inside her—no warning, no apology.
She cried out, nails scraping against the marble as he thrust into her hard and deep. It was not romantic. It was angry. Possessive. Brutal.
But beneath the violence was desperation.
She needed this. So did he. Because they didn't know how else to talk. This was their language—flesh, sweat, gasps. They would devour each other before they ever admitted how much