Marissa POV
The air in the VVIP lounge was heavy, charged with a static that made the hair on my arms stand up. His hands were everywhere possessive, firm, and grounding. As we made out, my fingers tangled in his jet-black hair before sliding down to the hard, sculpted planes of his abs through his silk shirt.
God.
When was the last time I felt this desired? It had been an eternity. Ethan looked at me like a piece of furniture he'd grown used to. This man looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth consuming.
Suddenly, he paused.
He didn't pull away entirely, but he broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. His breathing was heavy, ragged. I was confused, my heart hammering a protest against my ribs.
Was he stopping? Now?
"I don't want you to make a decision you will regret, Marissa," he said, his voice a low, vibrating warning.
"I don't regret anything tonight," I breathed, trying to pull him back down to me.
He didn't budge. Instead, he reached for my hand. His long, calloused fingers fiddled with mine for a heartbeat before he grabbed my left ring finger. The skin there felt cold and naked, but to him, it was a map.
"You are married, aren't you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous level.
I stiffened. "Damn, are you a psychic? This is the second time this has come up tonight. Is there a sign on my forehead that I didn't see?"
"No," he rumbled, his thumb tracing the faint, pale indentation where my gold band had sat for three years. "But this finger... it feels like it has been wearing a ring for a very long time. The mark is there, even if the metal isn't."
I yanked my hand back, a flare of defensive anger masking the hurt. "Fine. I was! My husband and I are separated. Is that a problem for you? Because if it is, I can just head back to the dance floor and find a man who doesn't ask so many questions."
I turned to leave, but I didn't even get two steps. He moved with the speed of a predator, his hand snaking around my waist and pulling me back against his hard chest in a lethal, possessive grip.
"No, you are not," he hissed into my ear.
"Does that mean you're okay with this?" I challenged, twisting in his arms to face him. "With me?"
"I never said I wasn't, Marissa. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't wake up tomorrow hating yourself." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte black card with nothing but a gold embossed crest on it. "Now, this is what we're going to do. You are going to take your time. Think this through. If you decide you want this—all of this....you come back to this room with this card. Is that fine with you?"
I stared at the card, then up at the silver mask and those hot pink lips. He thought he was giving me a choice. He thought I was some fragile flower who needed to weigh the "morality" of my actions.
He had no idea.
"If that's what you want," I said, my voice dripping with a feigned hesitation.
But internally? I wasn't thinking about "consequences." I wasn't thinking about Ethan. I was thinking about the fact that I am decisive as hell. I had already burned my old life in the trash with those red roses. I wasn't going to "think". I was going to crack this man open and see what was behind that mask.
I took the card, the sharp edge digging into my palm. He wanted me to take my time? Fine. I'd give him five minutes of "thinking" before I showed him exactly how little I regretted this.
I stood outside that heavy mahogany door for exactly five minutes. My heart was a frantic bird trapped in my ribs, but my hand was steady. I looked down at the matte-black card, the gold crest glinting in the dim hallway light like a key to a different life.
I pushed the door open.
The suite was a cathedral of shadow and silk. Dark charcoal walls, a king-sized bed that looked like it belonged to royalty, and the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood and old money. He was standing by the floor to ceiling window, a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand. When the lock clicked, he turned slowly, his silver mask catching the moonlight.
"You didn't take your time, Marissa," he rumbled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that made my thighs ache.
"I am a decisive woman," I said, my voice surprisingly steady as I closed the distance between us. "And I don't like being told to wait."
He set his glass down on a marble table, his gaze raking over me with a predatory hunger.
"Then I suppose I shouldn't keep you waiting any longer."
He met me halfway, his hands cupping my face with a bruising intensity. His thumbs traced my cheekbones before his lips crashed onto mine. This wasn't the tentative kiss from earlier; this was a reclamation. My hands flew to his shirt, fumbling with the silk buttons until I pushed the fabric off his shoulders.
God.
His chest was a masterpiece of hard, functional muscle. His abs were deep set and rock hard, rippling under my palms as I traced the dark line of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his tailored trousers. He let out a low, guttural growl, his hands sliding down to the zipper of my red gown.
The silk pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but lace and the black net mask he'd given me. He didn't move to the bed yet. Instead, he backed me against the cool glass of the window, his hands wandering over my skin as if he were memorizing a map.
"Zaika," he whispered against the sensitive skin of my neck, his hot pink lips ghosting over my pulse point.
Zaika. I didn't know what it meant, but the way his voice dropped when he said it made my knees buckle. He trailed kisses down my collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of my skin, sending jolts of electricity straight to my core. His hands were everywhere—kneading my hips, pulling me flush against the hard ridge of his desire, making me realize just how much I had been starving for this.
He lifted me easily, my legs wrapping around his thick waist as he carried me to the bed.
The charcoal silk was cool against my back, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body. When he finally stripped away the last of his clothes, I couldn't help but gasp. He was built like a god....all lean muscle and intimidating power. My eyes drifted down to his dick, thick and rock-hard, pulsing with a life of its own as it stood at full attention against his stomach.
He didn't rush. He knelt between my legs, his fingers dipping into the soaking heat of my pussy, testing my readiness. "You are so small," he groaned, his voice thick with a dark, possessive heat as he watched my eyes blow wide. "And so incredibly tight. It's like you were made specifically to drive me insane."
"Then go ahead," I challenged, arching my back, my fingers digging into the silk sheets. "Drive us both insane."
He sank into me with a single, devastating thrust. I cried out, my breath hitching at the sheer, stretching fullness of his dick inside me. It wasn't like anything I'd felt before....not the polite, routine intimacy I'd grown used to with Ethan. This was visceral. This was real.
"Zaika..." he chanted, his pace increasing, his muscles corded and straining under my touch as he pinned my wrists above my head. Every time he said that name, I felt a new wave of electricity shoot through me. He was relentless, pushing deep into my pussy, hitting spots I didn't even know existed. The world narrowed down to the scent of his skin and the sound of our mingled gasps.
The climax hit like a tidal wave, shattering every lie I'd told myself for three years. I screamed into the dark, my body shaking with the force of it, while he groaned out that name—Zaika one last time, his own release coming in thick, heavy pulses that left us both spent.
He didn't pull away immediately. He collapsed against me, his heavy chest heaving, his face buried in the crook of my neck. We stayed like that for a long time, our bodies tightly wrapped around each other, his weight a grounding force on top of me.
Finally, he lifted his head, making sure his silver mask stayed perfectly in place. He leaned down, his hot pink lips brushing against my ear one last time, his voice sounding less like a romantic vow and more like a terrifying realization.
"You are finally mine," he whispered.
I didn't answer. I just held him tighter, my fingers tracing the hard lines of his back, wondering why the man who had just broken me felt more like home than the husband I had left behind.