We rode through the city like ghosts. Lights blurred past, neon and amber and blue. I felt her press closer with every turn, her cheek against my back, her breath syncing with mine. She didn't ask where we were going. She didn't care.
And when she laughed into my back during the turn, something in my chest pulled tight.
Not lust — anticipation.
Curiosity sharpening into need.
Most people cling to me out of fear.
She clung because she surrendered to the moment.
And I… liked that. More than I should.
When I put my hand over hers, it wasn't to steady her.
It was to steady me.
"Hold on to me," I told her.
And when she nodded into my back without hesitation, something low in me growled.
****
At the overlook, when she opened her eyes, I watched her — really watched her.
The city reflecting in her pupils.
Her lips parted, breath caught.
That mix of awe and exhaustion and loneliness she didn't try to hide.
She didn't pretend.
She didn't posture.
She didn't try to impress me.
She was real in a way I couldn't fathom.
That's why I brought her here.
Not because it was romantic.
Not because I cared.
But because I wanted to see her reaction —
whether she'd ruin the moment with fear, demand, or attitude.
She didn't.
She softened.
She breathed.
She let herself feel.
****
When I kissed her —
when she kissed me back with that mixture of hunger and defiance —
I felt every wall she'd built fighting not to crumble.
And I wanted to break them.
To see what was underneath.
When she challenged me,
when she pushed back instead of folding —
Christ.
I nearly dragged her inside that motel without a word.
But then she did something I didn't expect.
Something that made my chest heat instead of my blood:
She took control.
"Shower first."
Most women obey me.
Most men too.
She didn't.
She stepped right into my space like she had every right,
looked up at me like she could see straight through my reputation,
and set her terms.
That… was new.
That… was addictive.
I wasn't thinking about sex then.
Not really.
I was thinking:
Who the hell are you?
Why do you talk to me like I'm not the most dangerous man you've ever stood this close to?
Why aren't you afraid?
And under that:
Why do I like it so damn much?
***
When she walked into that bathroom and the steam swallowed her silhouette, I realized something that hit harder than any punch I'd taken in street fights:
She is a stranger.
And yet she already had a grip on me.
I'd never let anyone this close. Not physically.
Not emotional.
Not romantic.
Not anything as foolish as love.
Just a pull.
A wrongness that felt right.
A woman who should've been too smart to choose me —
and chose me anyway.
And that's why I followed her into the shower.
Not for the sex.
Not for the control.
But because for the first time in years…
…I actually wanted to know someone.
And maybe… ruin her.
****
The first thing I feel when consciousness drags me back is soreness.
Good soreness.
The kind that sat low in my spine and shoulders, reminding me exactly how she clung to me last night—
I stretch into the ache, a low exhale slipping out before I can stop it.
Christ.Last night…
Her mouth.
Her hands.
Her goddamn attitude.
A slow, satisfied sound rumbles out of me.
Damn.
I hadn't had sex like that in…God.Ever.
I don't even remember falling asleep—just her breath on my neck, her nails on my chest, her weight collapsing on me like her body finally trusted something again.
Then a thought drifts in, lazy at first—
I didn't ask her name.
My eyes snap open.
I reach toward the other side of the bed for her.
Cold.
Empty.
I sit up immediately, all the fog gone from my brain. "What the—?"
The sheets are messed up around me, but she's nowhere.
No footsteps.
No shower running.
No quiet breathing in the corner.
I swing my legs over the side of the mattress, the cheap, patterned carpet scraping against my bare skin. My shirt is crumpled by the nightstand. I don't see hers.
I stalk the three steps to the bathroom door.
I shove the door open.
Nothing.
Dry tiles.
No steam.
No wet towels.
My chest tightens, a slow burn of irritation crawled up my spine.
No. No way.
"Hey," I call out, my voice rough, not quite demanding yet, but close. "Where are you?"
Silence.
I checked the floor.
The chair.
The little table by the window.
No shoes.
No bag.
No lipstick.
Not even a goddamn hairpin.
Not. Even. A. Strand. Of. Hair.
"Are you kidding me…?"
I laugh under my breath, disbelieving.
It actually sounds like someone else. Someone stupid.
Did I seriously get played?
Me?
Have I dulled myself that badly?
Got too comfortable?
I let a stranger climb into my bed — take something I never gave anyone — and walk out without a sound?
I drag a hand through my hair, furious at the shake in my own fingers.
She could've slit my throat.
Poisoned me.
Robbed me blind.
And I wouldn't have felt a thing until morning.
WTF, Ronan. You aren't this stupid.
I grabbed my jeans off the floor, yanked them on, and checked my stuff.
Wallet—there.
Phone—there.
Keys—fine.
Gun—exactly where I left it.
Everything untouched.
Which somehow pisses me off more.
She didn't take anything.
She literally just took herself.
And she took something else, too.
Something no one else ever had.
Not just my control.
Not just my breath.
My first time.
Yeah. I said it. Last night was my first time.
Not because I couldn't get laid.
Because I didn't want anyone's hands on me.
Because no one ever made me want to lose that kind of control.
Until her.
I pick up the motel phone and call reception.
The moment the clerk answers, I describe her—the classy woman with the sharp eyes and dangerous self-control—and ask if they saw her leave.
"Yes, sir," the woman says. "She paid for the room in cash this morning."
Cash? She's so… creative. I got to give her that.
"She paid?" I repeated, the word tasting like ash. It wasn't a question, more a statement of disbelief.
"Yes, sir," the clerk chirped, oblivious to the storm brewing in my gut.
I open my mouth to ask for her name, but something stops me.
Something sitting on the table.
I walk toward it slowly.
Three bundles of cash.
Neat.
Stacked.
Left for me.
I stare at it.
A hot, slow curse slips out of me.
"What the actual fuck?"
I ran a hand down my face, trying to make sense of it. I wasn't some goddamn escort. I didn't do this. I didn't take money for intimacy.
Hell, I hadn't even had sex before.
And yet here I was — standing in a motel room that smelled like her, still naked, still aching from everything we did, and staring at a stack of cash like it had personally insulted me.
Because it had.
She paid for the room.
She paid me.
And she left.
I should've been pissed. I should've felt played.
But instead…
Damn. That just made my dick rise.
What kind of psycho does that?
What kind of woman walks up to a man like me — a man she shouldn't even be near — and lays out a thousand in cash like it's a business transaction?
What kind of woman disappears before sunrise, leaves no name, no trace, not even a fucking hair on the pillow — but still honors her word?
Without thinking, I snatch up the cash and shove it into my jeans pocket. Her money. Her payment for a night that will haunt me for years to come. With a growl, I grab my phone and dial a number, my fingers tapping out a rhythm on the counter as I wait for an answer.
"Vinnie? Ronan. I need you to look into something. A woman, classy. Spent the night with me at the Oasis Inn on 5th. Paid cash, left without a word. I want everything on her—credit, aliases, comms, personal details, anything that can help me track her down. Make it happen, and make it fast."
I end the call, my mind racing with possibilities. Who is this woman, anyway? A corporate executive seeking a secret escape from her high-stress life? A socially prominent individual indulging a naughty fantasy? Or something more sinister, someone who could be a threat to my organization?
The questions swirl and mingle, but one truth stands out: I. Need. Her. Again. The desire is a physical ache, a gnawing hunger that refuses to be sated by mere memory or speculation. She's under my skin, a living, breathing fragment of chaos in a life once ruled by cold calculation.
Whoever she is, she made one mistake:
She touched me.
Now she's mine to hunt.
And the next time I get my hands on her?
I'll make damn sure she never leaves again. Not willingly, at least.