The penthouse is put simply; stunning. The entire far wall is glass, framing a sprawling, decadent view of the Vegas Strip, a river of cold fire in the desert night. I don't have time to admire it. Luca releases my hand the moment the elevator doors seals us in. The quiet is absolute, a vacuum after the bar's chaos. He walks to a sideboard, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass, and drinks it in one smooth tilt of his head. His eyes never leave me. In this short time, he had transformed. A predator in his lair. The civility of the bar, the car, is gone. Right now, he is wild.
"Drink?" he asks, the word a formality.
I shake my head, my mouth dry. The bravado that got me here is quickly evaporating, replaced by a trembling, electric awareness. Of him. Of the mile-high bed visible through an open archway. Of the monumental mistake I'm about to make.
He sets the glass down with a soft click. My heart skips. Just then, he crosses the space between us in three strides. There is no gentle kiss, no soft exploration. His hands frame my face, his thumbs tilt my chin up, and his mouth crashes down on mine. This is what it feels like to be claimed. This kiss tastes like expensive whiskey and ruthless intent.
I gasp against his lips, and he uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping in to duel with mine. My hands fly up, gripping his biceps through the fine wool of his suit. He is solid, unyielding. He walks me backward until my knees hit the edge of an enormous, low sofa. I fall onto the plush silk, and he comes down over me, one knee between my thighs. His hands are everywhere—skimming my ribs, cupping my breast through my dress, sliding the thin straps from my shoulders. Each touch is deliberate, skilled, and utterly devoid of sentiment. Like mapping a territory, he intends to conquer.
"Luca—" I breathe, a half-protest, half-plea.
"Yes, Belle," the low rasp of his voice is needy and dark. My name has never sounded so…sexy. Heat pooled low and urgent between my thighs.
"We should…I think…slow down…"
He nods, shrugging off his suit and unbuttoning his shirt after. "Yeah, sure. Are you okay? Did I do—"
"No," I answer immediately, willing my lustful eyes to look straight into his eyes and not at his unfairly chiselled abs.
For the first time, he smiles. Well, technically, it's a smirk. But it's good enough for me to catch a glimpse of his dimple. "You're scared."
"I've never done this before."
He's kneeling before me now and I hate how dirty my thoughts are getting. "Understood. I'd ask my driver to take your home now if you want to leave."
"I don't want to leave. I'm just…is this safe?"
"Oh," he says with a knowing look. "I get tested every 3-6 months. I am not promiscuous; you have nothing to worry about. I want to trust that I have nothing to worry about too?"
I nod. That bastard of a Mark has been sharing his dick with other women, so I got tested immediately after I caught him to be sure.
"You're allowed to change your mind, Belle."
"Stop saying my name," I whine. "And kiss me again. Please."
The words do not fall out of my lips completely. He silences me with another searing kiss, his fingers finding the zipper at my side. The sound is obscenely loud. Cool air hit my skin as the dress is peeled away, followed by the lace of my bra and panties. I am exposed, laid bare under the city's neon glow and his scorching gaze.
He stands then, looking down at me. His expression is hungry. Wild.
"Belle…fucking beautiful."
He undresses with swift, economical movements, discarding the pants that cost more than my rent as if it were tissue paper. His body is a landscape of lean muscle and old, faint scars—a history written in silver lines on tan skin.
Then he's on me again, skin to skin, and the world fractures. He whispers filthy, perfect things in my ear, commands and praises that coils heat low in my belly. I claw at his back, arch into his touch, meet every thrust with a desperation of my own. I am drowning in him—in the scent of sandalwood and sweat, in the feel of his hands gripping my hips, in the raw, shattered sounds being torn from my throat.
This is the oblivion he promised. This is way better than forgetting Mark. It's erasing him, replacing every memory of his timid, selfish touch with this inferno.
When it ends, it's with a shuddering, mutual collapse. A silence heavier than before descends, broken only by our ragged breaths. I am undone.
He rolls off me, onto his back. We lay side by side on the silk, staring up at the ceiling, strangers once more in the aftermath.
And then, the cold starts to seep in. The glorious, mindless fire is gone leaving behind sticky skin and a creeping, profound shame. I have just let a man I don't know use my body to exorcise his demons, and I have used his to burn down my own life.
Without a word, he gets up and walks, naked and unselfconscious, toward a door I assumed led to a bathroom. A moment later, I hear the shower turn on.
He did not look back. The message is clear; the transaction was complete. I feel so filthy. He might as well throw a wad of cash in my face and ask me to leave. The spell is broken, replaced by panic. Get out. Now.
I scramble up, finding my clothes in a heap on the floor. I dress with fumbling, frantic hands, my ears straining for the sound of the shower stopping. Tears rise in my throat and well up in my eyes. My clutch is on the floor by the elevator. My lipstick. My phone. My dignity.
As I fasten the last strap of my heel, my eyes catch a glint on the stark, modern desk. A ring.
It sits beside a closed laptop, a heavy band of platinum or white gold. The crest is a lion rampant, gripping a shattered sword. It looks less like jewellery and more like a sigil. A brand of ownership. The shower is still running so I don't think. I just move. I snatch up my clutch, flee to the elevator, and stab the button for the lobby. There are several calls and texts from Chloe. As the doors slides shut, sealing away the scent of sandalwood and sex, I take one last look at the silent, opulent prison. In the elevator, I catch my reflection. My lips are swollen. My hair is wild. And there, on my collarbone, a small bruise, the shape of his mouth. I touch it. It stings. I don't wipe it off
Goodbye, Luca.
In the glittering, anonymous lobby, I walk fast, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the marble. I burst out into the dry Vegas night, the noise and light of the Strip a welcome assault. I hail the first cab I see.
"Where to, lady?" the driver asks, bored. I give him the name of my cheap, cheerful hotel on the other side of town. As we pull away from the curb, I look back at the towering monolith of The Aethelstan, its pinnacle glowing against the black sky. It's over. A secret, wild, one-night story. I would go home, confront Mark, rebuild my fine life (with or without him).
I lean my head against the cool glass of the taxi window and let the tears come, silent and hot. I had gotten the oblivion I wanted. So why do I feel so utterly, completely ruined?