Charlotte was gasping for air, her back pressed tightly against the car door, as if his kiss had scorched her all the way down to her soul.
He didn't stop. Instead, his mouth deepened the kiss with possessive hunger—unyielding, consuming—like he meant to take her apart and devour her piece by piece.
Thought was impossible. Her mind was a blur, and all she could do was cling to the front of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
Then he pulled back, just slightly, eyes as dark as midnight, filled with restraint stretched thin.
"You sure about this?" he asked hoarsely, his fingertip tracing along her jawline with agonizing slowness. "You still have time to walk away."
Charlotte let out a breathless laugh, her eyes hazy and wicked. "I never planned on leaving the moment I saw you."
His Adam's apple bobbed. Something in him snapped.
In the next second, he yanked the car door open and tossed her into the back seat.
He climbed in after her, caging her in the tight space, long legs braced on either side like a predator cornering his prey.
"I warned you," he murmured against her ear, voice threaded with danger and amusement. "Teasing me comes with a price."
"Then collect it," she whispered back, flicking her tongue across her lower lip in deliberate provocation. "I won't regret it."
His control shattered.
One hand gripped her waist, the other slid up her thigh, slow and scorching, his breath turning hot and shallow.
Their bodies tangled, pressed together so tightly that each breath threatened to set the air on fire.
—
Sunlight poured through the hotel suite's tall windows, casting golden streaks across the sheets. The air was still thick with the echo of last night's heat.
He opened his eyes slowly, frowning as he adjusted to the light. A moment passed. Then he sat up.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
She was gone.
He looked down at the wrinkled sheets—still warm where she had lain. Her scent lingered in the air, a blend of skin and expensive perfume, delicate and fleeting.
On the bedside table sat a neat stack of cash.
Pressed beneath it: a blank hotel note card.
No words.
No name.
Just the silence of a finished transaction.
He stared at the money for several long seconds.
Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
It wasn't warm.
With deliberate ease, he picked up the bills, rolling them between his fingers.
"For the first time," he murmured to himself, voice thick with amused disbelief, "a woman paid to fuck me."
He leaned back against the headboard, eyes half-lidded, tone lazy but sharp. "Interesting."
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the money aside. It fluttered to the floor like discarded wrappers after a party.
But the look in his eyes lingered—curious, calculating.
He never remembered names.
He never cared to.
But that woman...
He narrowed his eyes, and in his mind, her face came back in crystal clarity—those mocking, seductive eyes that had dared him.
She'd walked away clean. No note. No goodbye. As if cutting him off meant nothing.
But he wasn't ready to let this game end.
Not yet.
He got up, bare-chested, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. With one hand, he pulled the curtain aside slightly, gazing down at the street below.
The city was waking up, as if nothing had happened.
But something had begun.
He called for room service, then began dressing—crisp shirt, tailored suit.
In the mirror, he looked just as composed and self-controlled as ever. Not a trace of last night's recklessness showed on his face.
Until his fingers paused mid-movement, brushing over his sleeve.
A faint red mark trailed across his collarbone—shallow, but unmistakable.
A scratch from her.
He stared at it for a moment, and a low, rough laugh escaped his throat.
That woman... she wasn't forgettable.
He reached for the hotel notepad on the nightstand and wrote a single word on the back:
Charlotte.
He never remembered names. But this one, he'd make an exception for.
Before leaving the room, he called his assistant.
"Find someone for me," he said, his voice low and precise. "Brown hair. Around twenty-seven. Charlotte. She was at the Regent Bar last night, around 8 PM. Check the security footage, payment history, and—"
He paused, his tone chilling:
"Everything. I want her full profile."
He ended the call, put on his sunglasses, and left the room with deliberate calm.
His car was already waiting at the front.
As the driver opened the door, he asked casually, "What time's the meeting?"
"Ten AM, sir. At Lyle Tower. The Charlux brand's marketing team will be there. I believe their newly appointed comms lead is attending—last name's Brown… Charlotte Brown, if I'm not mistaken."
A slow smile curved at the corner of his mouth, his gaze sharpening with something darker.
He fastened the final button on his jacket, voice lazy but deliberate:
"Fate," he murmured, "has a wicked sense of humor."