Their footsteps were hurried as they entered the motel, the weight of their passion pressing against them like an unrelenting storm.
The moment the motel door clicked shut, the air between them grew thick with unspoken desires. The tension that had been simmering all night, from the moment Vincent first took her hand in public to the heated glances they shared over dinner, now threatened to consume them whole.
Anastasia barely had time to register the change before Vincent had her pressed against the wall, his strong hands gripping her waist with a desperation that sent a thrill down her spine. His emerald-green eyes, darkened by hunger, locked onto hers, filled with raw need, possession, and something deeper—something terrifyingly consuming.
"You're mine," he whispered, his voice hoarse, rough with desire, with love, with obsession.
Vincent crashed his lips against hers, his kiss urgent, searing, a silent plea and a demand all at once. She gasped against him, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers in a battle that neither of them wanted to win. His hands roamed over her body, claiming, branding, making it clear that no one else would ever touch her like this—because no one else could.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her towards the bed. The mattress dipped under their combined weight as he settled her beneath him, his body hovering over hers, his breath uneven as he gazed down at her.
His fingers traced her jawline, down the column of her throat, lingering just above her pulse. It was racing, just like his.
"You don't know what you do to me," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, with reverence.
Anastasia's lips parted slightly, her blue eyes holding his captive. "Then show me."
A guttural sound left Vincent's throat as he obliged.
Their clothes were stripped away in a fevered haze, each article discarded carelessly onto the floor, as if they were the last barriers between them and true belonging. The heat of skin against skin sent shivers down Anastasia's spine, her body arching instinctively toward him.
Vincent took his time worshipping her, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin before sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. His mark. Anastasia gasped, threading her fingers into his soft brown hair, pulling him closer, silently begging for more.
He obliged without hesitation.
His hands explored her, memorizing every curve, every reaction, every shiver. He was thorough, meticulous, just like he was in everything he did. But here, there was no calculated precision—only raw, unfiltered passion. It was as if he needed to convince himself that she was real, that this moment was real.
Anastasia responded in kind, tracing his scars, his muscles, the sharp ridges of his back. She had seen Vincent in all his forms—ruthless businessman, cold actor, untouchable genius—but here, he was stripped bare in every sense. Here, he was only hers.
"You drive me insane," Vincent whispered, his forehead pressing against hers as their breaths mingled. "I would burn the world if you asked me to."
And that was enough.
That night, there were no games, no masks, no empires to run or wars to fight. There was only them—two people who had never belonged to anyone but each other.
And in that room, in the darkness, they lost themselves completely.