The guest suite was larger than Elena's old apartment. It was decorated in creams and soft golds, a stark contrast to the aggressive darkness of the rest of the penthouse.
But Elena didn't look at the decor. She moved like a ghost, shedding her dress in a pile on the floor. It was the armor of a socialite, and she didn't need it anymore. Tonight, she was something else. A wife. A payment.
She stepped into the shower, turning the handle until the water was nearly scalding.
As the spray hit her skin, she braced her hands against the cool tile wall, hanging her head. She expected to cry. She expected to feel dirty. But instead, her body felt... alive.
Every nerve ending was singing, buzzing with a strange, frantic energy. She could still feel the ghost of his hand on her jaw, the phantom pressure of his hard body against hers. The memory of his scent—sandalwood and rain—seemed to cling to her, defying the soap.
You're insane, she thought, watching the water swirl down the drain. He bought you, Elena. This isn't romance. It's a transaction.
But when she closed her eyes, she didn't see a contract. She saw his eyes—grey, stormy, and filled with a hunger that could swallow her whole.
She turned off the water. Her hands were trembling as she dried herself.
On the bed, a box had been left. There was no note. Inside lay a slip of black silk. It was impossibly light, pooling in her hands like liquid shadow.
She put it on.
It fit perfectly. Disturbingly so. The silk skimmed her curves, clinging to her damp skin, the hem stopping dangerously high on her thighs. The back dipped low, exposing the arch of her spine. It covered everything, yet hid nothing. It was a garment designed for one purpose: to be taken off.
Elena looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the heat of the shower, her lips slightly swollen, her eyes wide and dark. She looked like a sacrifice.
Don't make me wait.
His command echoed in her mind.
Elena took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked out of the guest suite.
The hallway was dark, lit only by low sconces that cast long shadows on the floor. The door at the end—the Master Bedroom—loomed like the entrance to a dragon's cave.
Every step was a battle. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a pulsating rhythm that deafened her.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She reached the door. It was slightly ajar.
She didn't knock. She pushed it open with a trembling hand and stepped inside.
The room was vast, swallowed in shadow. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, blocking out the city lights. The only illumination came from the fireplace on the far wall, where a low fire crackled, casting a warm, dancing glow across the room.
And there he was.
Julian stood by the fire, one arm resting on the mantle. He had shed the suit.
Elena's breath hitched, sticking in her throat.
He was wearing nothing but a white towel, slung dangerously low across his hips. The firelight licked at his skin, highlighting every ridge of his abdomen, the sharp V-line of muscle that disappeared beneath the terrycloth. His chest was broad, dusted with dark hair that trailed down his stomach in a sinful line.
He was magnificent. A sculpture of raw, masculine power brought to life.
He must have heard her enter, but he didn't turn immediately. He took a sip from a tumbler of whiskey, the muscles in his back shifting with the movement.
"You took your time," he murmured. His voice was lower now, stripped of the business edge, replaced by something rougher. Something intimate.
He turned slowly.
His gaze started at her bare feet, traveled up her legs, lingered on the curve of her hips beneath the black silk, and finally locked onto her eyes.
The air in the room seemed to evaporate.
"Come here," he commanded softly.
Elena's legs moved on their own accord. She walked across the plush carpet, stopping just inches from him. The heat radiating from the fire was intense, but the heat coming off his body was overwhelming.
Julian set the glass down on the mantle. He reached out, his large, warm hand wrapping around her waist. He pulled her flush against him.
The contact was electric. Her silk-clad breasts pressed against his bare, hard chest. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath the muscle—it was beating just as fast as hers.
"You are shaking," he whispered, his other hand coming up to cup her face. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"I..." Elena's voice failed her. "I don't know what to do."
Julian's eyes darkened. A corner of his mouth ticked up in a sinful, knowing smirk.
"You don't have to do anything, Elena."
He leaned down, his lips hovering mere millimeters from hers, his breath hot and laced with whiskey.
"Tonight," he rasped, "you just have to take it."