Talia's breath came ragged as the hotel suite door shut behind her, sealing her off from the music and cruel laughter of the party outside. The plush carpet cushioned her knees when she stumbled forward, her palms catching her before she crumpled entirely. Her chest heaved as though she'd run a marathon, every nerve in her body vibrating, her skin flushed with a fever that had nothing to do with the alcohol she'd barely touched.
The air was thick, heavy with warmth and something else—something masculine and intoxicating that clung to the walls, threaded through the linen-draped furniture, and wrapped itself around her senses until she could barely breathe.
She pressed a hand to her cheek. Burning. Everything felt too hot.
And then the bathroom door opened.
Steam rolled out first, curling into the dimly lit suite, followed by a man.
He stepped through as though he owned not only the room but the world itself—broad shoulders, dark hair damp and unruly, a towel riding dangerously low on his hips. Droplets of water slid down the ridges of muscle across his chest, catching the muted light before vanishing into the line of the towel.
For a moment, Talia forgot how to breathe.
His gaze found her instantly, sharp, dark, and cutting. His frown deepened with every heartbeat of silence that stretched between them.
"Who the hell are you?" His voice was a low growl, rough, as though unused to being questioned.
Talia's lips parted, but words tangled uselessly on her tongue. "I… wrong… I—"
The stranger raked a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets scattering across the floor. "You're in the wrong room." His tone was final, commanding.
Maybe she was. Maybe she should've run. But her body betrayed her. The dizzying heat coursing through her veins, the crushing need clawing at her chest—it refused logic. She looked at him, every line of him, and something primal inside her clenched.
"I can't," she whispered, barely audible, swaying against the wall.
He stiffened. His jaw flexed, his chest rising and falling in sharp rhythm. He took a step closer, shadow engulfing her where she stood. "You don't know what you're saying. Leave. Now."
But she couldn't move.
When she staggered forward, reaching for him as though he were the only solid thing left in the world, her hand collided with his chest. Heat seared her palm, shocking a gasp from her lips. Her fingers spread over taut muscle, and once she touched him, she couldn't pull back.
His body went rigid. His hands caught her shoulders, firm and unyielding. For one suspended moment, he held her away from him, eyes narrowing, fighting some invisible war behind them.
Then her gaze lifted to his—pleading, desperate, trembling with everything she couldn't say.
And something inside him broke.
"Damn it."
His mouth crashed against hers.
The kiss wasn't tender. It wasn't careful. It was fire meeting gasoline, searing, devouring, a clash of teeth and tongues that stole her breath and left her clinging harder. She moaned into him, the sound raw and needy, and he growled in answer, crushing her against him.
The towel at his hips loosened as he swept her off the ground, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. She gasped, arms flying around his neck, legs clamping instinctively around his waist. His skin burned beneath her touch, slick with water and heat, every inch of him solid and overwhelming.
He carried her to the bed in a few long strides, dropping her onto the cool sheets. She bounced, breathless, hair spilling across the pillows, and he followed, looming over her, shadows carving his sharp features into something dangerously beautiful.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped, though his hands were already sliding along her thighs, pushing her dress up, tugging impatiently at fabric. His voice cracked with the strain of restraint that no longer existed.
But the words wouldn't come. Talia only arched up to him, clutching at his shoulders, pulling him down until his mouth found hers again. Her silence was answer enough.
His control snapped.
The dress tore beneath his grip, seams giving way with a sharp rip. Cool air rushed against her skin, quickly replaced by his hands, his mouth, his heat. She cried out, fingers digging into his back as his lips trailed down her throat, teeth grazing before his tongue soothed, leaving a trail of fire across her body.
Every touch was rough, unrestrained. Every sound from her lips spurred him harder, faster, until the world outside no longer existed. There was only the bed beneath them, the sheets twisting, the fevered clash of two bodies desperate to consume each other.
Her nails raked down his spine, pulling a groan from his throat that made her shudder. He pressed her deeper into the mattress, his weight anchoring her, his movements growing urgent, unrelenting. She met him with equal fervor, reckless in her need, wild in her surrender.
The room filled with the sound of them—the crash of their bodies, the rasp of breath, the broken cries and guttural groans that neither of them could hold back.
Time dissolved. There was no beginning or end, no sense of restraint, only the rising tide that built and built until it crashed over them both in a blinding wave of release.
Talia clung to him as though he were the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely. Her voice broke on his name—the only thing she had managed to give him—as the storm swallowed her whole.
He buried his face against her neck, body trembling, breath harsh against her skin as he gave in with her, lost, undone, consumed.
When the rush ebbed, they collapsed together, tangled in sheets and limbs, chests heaving, skin damp. The air around them was thick with the aftermath, heavy and hot. Neither moved, neither spoke, as though words would shatter what had just happened.
His hand still gripped her hip, holding her to him even in exhaustion. Her fingers remained curled in his hair, unwilling to let go.
The night stretched on, quiet except for their uneven breathing, the sound of hearts pounding in rhythm.
For now, that was enough.