Sky Valen
I light the last cigarette in my clutch like it's a fuse and I want the whole goddamn rooftop to blow.
Fucking Maddoxes. Fucking charity gala. Fucking black heels stabbing my feet and this goddamn dress that barely covers my hate.
I don't do galas. I don't do champagne. I do tequila shots and tequila boys and tequila regrets. But Daddy asked, and I play nice for Daddy. Because in his eyes, I'm the perfect fucking daughter. Sharp, sweet, civil.
He doesn't know about the club.
He doesn't know I made out with a stranger in the shadows like it was the only thing keeping me alive.
And he sure as fuck doesn't know the stranger was Ray fucking Maddox.
"Thought I smelled trouble," a voice says behind me, smooth as sin.
I turn slowly.
And there he is.
Ray Maddox. In the flesh. Black suit, open shirt, smug mouth.
God, that mouth.
"You've got some fucking nerve," I mutter, taking a drag.
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he owns the skyline. "You're smoking on Maddox property, princess. That's trespassing."
"Fuck your property," I say, exhaling in his face. "And don't call me princess, unless you want your dick slapped off."
He laughs—low, rich, annoyingly hot. "Still feisty. I was hoping you weren't just a fever dream."
I flick ash off the edge of the rooftop. "You knew who I was back then?"
"No," he says. "But I should've known no one kisses like that without being dangerous."
My stomach flips. Stupid. Fucking. Stupid stomach.
"Yeah, well," I mutter. "You kiss like a guy who lies for a living."
He's in front of me now. Close. Too close.
"You ran," he says.
"You let me."
His hand brushes my waist—barely. Electricity zaps up my spine. I swear internally and probably out loud.
"Careful, Maddox," I whisper, voice shaking but not scared. "I bite without warning."
He leans in. Not touching. Just heat. Just danger.
"Good," he murmurs, lips ghosting near my ear. "I like pain with a point."
My breath catches. Shit.
I hate how good he smells. I hate that I remember the exact weight of his hands on my hips. I hate that I want him again—right here, right now, on the fucking rooftop of a building with his last name on it.
"I should fucking kill you," I whisper, lips barely moving.
"I'd let you," he replies, eyes locked on mine. "But only if you kiss me first."
Goddamnit.
I toss my cigarette off the edge and grab his tieless collar. His mouth crashes into mine like a promise and a war all at once. Hands in my hair, tongue in my mouth, and all I can think is:
Shit. Shit. Shit. This is gonna ruin everything.
And I don't stop.