Mara's heart slammed against her ribs as Rowan stepped inside and shut the door with a soft, deliberate click that sounded louder than a gunshot.
Moonlight carved silver across his face: eyes bloodshot from the red-eye flight, jaw shadowed, tuxedo shirt open at the throat, bow tie dangling loose like a noose he'd ripped free. He looked like ruin wrapped in expensive fabric.
"I changed my mind about separate bedrooms," he said again, voice gravel and smoke.
Mara sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. "Rowan, it's three in the morning. Go to sleep."
He didn't. He crossed the room in three strides and stopped at the foot of the bed, staring down at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright.
"I've spent the last eight hours on a plane thinking about how you taste," he said. "Tell me to leave, Mara. Say it right now and I will."
The silence stretched, electric and suffocating.
She should have said it.
Instead her voice came out small and furious. "You don't get to crawl into my bed just because Tokyo pissed you off."
Rowan's mouth curved, dangerous. "I'm not asking to crawl. I'm telling you I'm staying."
He moved before she could answer: knelt on the mattress, hands planting on either side of her hips, caging her without touching. Close enough that she felt the heat rolling off him.
"Tell me no," he whispered against her lips.
Mara's breath hitched. She hated him. She wanted him. The two feelings tangled so tight she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Her hands came up, fisted in the front of his shirt, and yanked him down.
The kiss was violent: teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance, a war they'd been waging since the night he almost ran her over. Rowan groaned into her mouth, one hand sliding into her hair, angling her head exactly how he wanted. The other dragged the thin strap of her camisole down her shoulder.
Mara arched into him, hating herself for it.
He tasted like whiskey and jet lag and something darker she couldn't name.
His mouth left hers, trailed fire down her throat, teeth scraping the pulse hammering beneath her skin. She felt the duvet disappear from her fingers, felt cool air hit her bare legs as he pushed her sleep shorts higher, higher.
"Rowan—" It came out a gasp, half protest, half plea.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.
"Still waiting for the word no, baby."
She should have said it.
Instead her traitorous hands slid under his open shirt, nails raking down the hard planes of his back.
Rowan made a low, guttural sound and kissed her again, slower this time, filthy and deliberate. His hips settled between her thighs, the thick length of him pressing exactly where she ached most.
Mara's head fell back against the pillow. A whimper escaped before she could stop it.
He rocked against her once, twice, the friction maddening through the thin layers still between them.
And then Mara's brain finally caught up.
This was Rowan Vale. The man who'd made her life hell for a week. The man who'd bought her like a limited-edition accessory. The man who still had another woman's perfume on his skin from God-knows-when.
She shoved at his chest, hard.
Rowan stilled instantly.
"Get off me," she said, voice shaking with fury and something far more humiliating.
He searched her face for a second, then rolled away without a word, lying on his back beside her, one arm flung over his eyes.
Silence crashed in, thick and mortifying.
Mara's whole body trembled with unspent want. She could still feel him between her legs like a brand.
Rowan's breathing was ragged. "You're killing me, Whitlock."
"Good," she snapped, sitting up and yanking the duvet back over herself. "You don't get to touch me just because you had a bad flight."
He let out a humourless laugh. "Noted."
Another long beat.
Then his phone started vibrating on the nightstand: shrill, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Rowan swore viciously in what sounded like three languages. He snatched it up, looked at the screen, and his entire body went rigid.
"Vale," he barked into it.
Mara couldn't hear the person on the other end, but she watched the colour drain from Rowan's face.
"When?" A pause. "I'm on my way."
He ended the call and was already moving: swinging his legs off the bed, grabbing his discarded shirt.
Mara sat up. "What is it?"
"My father," he said, voice stripped of everything human. "They don't think he's going to make it through the night."
The air left the room.
Rowan didn't look at her as he buttoned his shirt with shaking fingers.
"I'll be at Mount Sinai. Don't wait up."
He was at the door before she found her voice.
"Rowan..."
He paused, hand on the knob, but didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He gave one tight nod and disappeared.
The door shut behind him with the same soft click that had started everything.
Mara sat alone in the dark, lips swollen, body aching, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with desire anymore.
She pulled her knees to her chest and stared at the empty side of the bed where Rowan Vale had almost ruined her.
Almost.