Deep bass from the living room speakers vibrated through the marble floor under bare feet. Warm air carried sweat, spilled champagne, and her perfume—musk and vanilla clinging to damp skin.

The afterparty was three hours deep and still pumping. Jeff Wulkan moved through his penthouse like a shark through chum, a bottle of Casamigos in one hand, his other hand finding waists and shoulders as he passed. The bikini show had been a success—eighteen girls on the runway, three standing ovations from the investors, and a write-up already trending on Miami social media. Now the models were scattered across his furniture in various states of undress, laughing too loud, drinking his tequila, waiting for his attention.

He gave it freely. A brunette named Valeria pressed against him near the wet bar, her hand sliding down his chest. He let her. His pale blue eyes scanned the room over her shoulder, cataloging, calculating.

"You were amazing tonight," Valeria said, her accent thick, her fingers hooking into his belt loop.

"I know." He grinned, the easy loud grin that showed teeth. "You weren't bad yourself. That walk on the second pass—" He whistled. "Fire."

She beamed. Leaned closer. Her lips grazed his jaw.

And then he saw Bella.

She walked through the glass sliding doors from the terrace, a cluster of her friends around her—three girls he recognized from the show, all in tight dresses, all laughing at something one of them had said. Bella wore white. A simple slip dress that caught the low light and made her skin glow. Her hair was down, darker than he remembered, falling in waves past her shoulders.

She hadn't seen him yet.

Jeff's hand tightened on the bottle. Valeria said something—he didn't hear it. His whole attention locked onto the woman in white who had walked out of his penthouse three weeks ago, leaving stale croissants and a question he still hadn't answered.

"Jeff?" Valeria's hand touched his cheek. "You okay?"

He blinked. The grin came back, wider now, sharper. "Never better, baby." He pressed the bottle into her hands. "Hold this."

He moved before he thought about it. Not toward Bella—toward the cluster of models near the couch. Two of them, a redhead and a blonde, both in the bikinis they'd worn on the runway, both watching him with the hungry patience of women who knew the drill.

He dropped onto the couch between them. His arm went around the redhead's waist, pulling her into his side. "You two hiding from me tonight?"

The blonde laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear. "We thought you'd be busy." Her eyes flicked toward Valeria, still standing at the wet bar with the bottle.

Jeff waved a hand. "I'm never too busy for beautiful women." He leaned in, his mouth close to the redhead's ear. "What's your name again?"

"Sasha."

"Sasha." He tasted the name. "You killed it out there tonight. That last turn—the way you held the pose. Professional."

She preened. God, they always preened. A few words, a little attention, and they melted into his hands like butter on a hot Miami sidewalk.

He kissed her. Open-mouthed, deliberate, his hand sliding up her thigh. He felt her respond, her body softening against his, and he didn't look toward the terrace doors. He didn't check if Bella was watching.

But he knew she was.

The kiss went on. Sasha's fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer. The blonde next to them shifted, watching, her breath catching. Jeff deepened the kiss, letting it turn into a show—tongue, teeth, a low sound from Sasha's throat that the whole room could hear.

When he broke it, Sasha's lips were swollen, her eyes dazed. He kept his arm around her, turning to the blonde. "You jealous?"

The blonde bit her lip. "Maybe."

"Don't be." He kissed her too. Shorter, but no less deliberate. A claim. A display.

The room had gone quiet around them. Or maybe just quieter. He could feel eyes on his back. He didn't turn around. Not yet. Let her watch. Let her remember what she walked away from.

He pulled back from the blonde and gestured toward the wet bar. "Get me another bottle. Top shelf."

The blonde scrambled to obey. Jeff settled deeper into the couch, Sasha tucked under his arm like a prize, and finally let his gaze drift—casual, unhurried—toward the terrace doors.

Bella was gone.

His chest tightened. He scanned the room, found her near the far wall, talking to her friends, her back to him. She wasn't watching. She wasn't reacting.

The tightness spread. Irritation. Or something closer to hurt, though he'd never name it that way.

He stood, lifting Sasha with him. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Kitchen. I want a cigar."

He led her through the crowd, his hand on her lower back, steering her past clusters of models and investors and hangers-on. The kitchen was quieter, the bass muffled by the walk-in cooler. He found his humidor on the counter, pulled out a Montecristo, clipped it.

Sasha leaned against the island, watching him. "You do this at every party?"

"Do what?"

"Pick a girl, kiss her, move on."

He lit the cigar, drew, let the smoke curl from his lips. "I'm a generous man, Sasha. I share my attention."

"And your bed?"

He smiled around the cigar. "That too."

She laughed. Stepped closer. Her hand found his chest, her fingers tracing the lapel of his linen jacket. "I've heard about you, Jeff Wulkan."

"All good, I hope."

"All interesting."

He took another pull from the cigar. Through the smoke, he saw movement in the hallway beyond the kitchen. Bella. Walking past, a glass of wine in her hand, heading toward the bathroom.

Alone.

He excused himself from Sasha with a pat on her ass and a promise to find her later. He moved through the hallway, the cigar still burning in his hand. The bathroom door was closing. He reached it before it latched, his palm flat against the wood, pushing it open.

Bella stood at the sink, her back to him, her hands gripping the marble counter. She looked up at his reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were dark, unreadable.

"Wrong bathroom," she said.

"Right one." He stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. The lock turned under his thumb. "We need to talk."

"I don't think we do." She didn't turn around. Her voice was steady, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the counter. "I saw you out there. You're busy."

"I saw you out there too." He moved closer. His reflection joined hers in the mirror—him behind her, broad shoulders filling the frame. "You look good, Bella."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Tell you the truth?" He took another step. Close enough to smell her perfume. The same one she'd worn that night on the rooftop. "You came to my party."

"I came for the girls. The show."

"You came because you wanted to see me."

She turned. Faced him. Her chin lifted, defiant. "I came because I was invited. Don't flatter yourself."

"Then why are you in this bathroom with me?"

"You followed me in here."

"And you haven't left."

Her jaw tightened. She was close enough that he could see the pulse beating in her throat. Fast. Lying for her.

He reached out. His hand found her hip, fingers pressing into the white fabric of her dress. "You watched me kiss Sasha."

"I didn't watch anything."

"Your friends did. They told you."

She tried to step back, but the counter was behind her. "What do you want, Jeff?"

"I want you to stop pretending."

He kissed her. Hard. His mouth covered hers before she could turn away, his hand sliding from her hip to her jaw, holding her in place. She made a sound—surprise, anger, something else—and her hands came up to push against his chest.

He didn't let go. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers, and after a long beat, her hands stopped pushing. They curled into his shirt instead.

He broke the kiss. Her lips were red, her breath shallow. Her eyes were dark and dangerous and full of something she was trying very hard to hide.

"You texted me," she said, her voice rough. "You said you wanted to talk. And then I show up and you're eating Sasha's face in front of everyone."

"I was making a point."

"What point? That you're still the same man who can't keep his dick in his pants?"

"That I'm the same man I've always been." He stepped closer, crowding her against the counter. "I told you that on the rooftop. I told you I love women. I told you I don't know if I can stop." His hand slid down her side, over her hip, along her thigh. "You're the one who walked away. Not me."

"Because you wouldn't change."

"I can't change what I am." He dropped to his knees in front of her. Her eyes widened. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the white dress higher. "But I can show you what you're missing."

"Jeff—"

"Shh." He pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Felt her shiver. "Let me remind you."

His fingers found the edge of her underwear. Thin, black, already damp. He hooked them aside and slid one finger through her folds, slow, deliberate. She gasped. Her hand flew to his shoulder, nails digging in.

"Wet," he said, his voice low. "You're soaked, Bella."

"That doesn't mean—"

He brought his finger to his mouth. Tasted her. Salt and musk and the specific sweetness of her arousal. He held her gaze while he did it, letting her watch.

"Your pussy says different." He stood, his body pressing hers against the counter. "Your body knows what it wants. You're just too proud to admit it."

Her breath was ragged. Her eyes were wet at the corners, but she didn't look away. "You're an asshole."

"I know." He kissed her again, softer this time. "But I'm your asshole. And you came here tonight because you wanted me to fuck you."

"I didn't—"

"You did." His hand found her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, his thumb against her pulse. "You came to my party. You watched me with other girls. You followed me into this bathroom. And now you're standing here with my hand on your throat and your dress pushed up and you haven't slapped me once."

She swallowed under his palm. Her eyes searched his face, looking for something—the lie, the trick, the exit.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"No you don't." He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "You hate that you want me. There's a difference."

He stepped back. Let her breathe. Let her think. His hand dropped from her throat, smoothed down her dress, adjusted her hem. She looked wrecked—hair tangled, lips swollen, eyes dark.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said. "You're going to walk out of this bathroom. You're going to go back to your friends. And when you're ready—when you stop lying to yourself—you're going to come to my place. Alone."

"And if I don't?"

He smiled. The easy, loud smile that made people want to please him. "You will."

He unlocked the door and walked out, leaving her standing at the sink, her reflection staring back at her, the ghost of his hand still warm on her throat.

---

The penthouse was quiet two hours later. The party had wound down, the last guests escorted out, the cleaning crew scheduled for morning. Jeff had sent Sasha home with a kiss and a car service and a promise he wouldn't keep. He'd showered. Poured a drink. Stood at the window, watching the Miami skyline pulse with distant lights.

The doorbell rang at 2:47 AM.

He didn't check the peephole. He knew.

Bella stood in the hallway, still in the white dress, her hair wild from the wind. No purse. No phone visible. She looked like she'd run here.

"You were right," she said.

He stepped aside. She walked in.

The door closed behind her. She stood in the middle of his living room, her arms crossed, her eyes scanning the familiar space—the leather couch where she'd sat that first morning, the kitchen island where the croissants had cooled, the hallway leading to his bedroom.

"No one else is here," she said. It wasn't a question.

"No."

"I checked. I drove past. I didn't see any cars."

"Bella."

She turned to face him. Her eyes were wet again, but her jaw was set. "I told myself I wasn't coming. I told my friends I was going home. I sat in my car for twenty minutes, and then I—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know why I'm here."

"Yes you do."

He was shirtless. Just shorts, low on his hips, his gym-honed chest bare, the perpetual tan making his skin glow in the dim light. Sandy blond hair still damp from the shower. Pale blue eyes fixed on her with the focus of a man who had already won and was just waiting for her to admit it.

"You want to fuck me," she said. Blunt. Raw. No games.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "I do."

"And then what? You go back to Sasha tomorrow? To Valeria? To whoever else walks through your door?"

"Maybe." He shrugged. "I don't make promises I can't keep. But right now, Bella—right now, I want you. Only you. In my bed. Under me. Screaming my name."

Her breath hitched. She took a step forward. Then another. She was close enough to touch him, close enough that he could feel the heat off her skin.

"I hate that I want this," she said.

"I know."

She jumped. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, her mouth on his. He caught her easily, his hands gripping her ass, carrying her toward the bedroom. She kissed him like she was starving, like the bathroom had been a teaser and now she wanted the full meal.

He laid her on the bed. The white dress pooled around her, stark against the dark sheets. He stood over her, drinking her in—the flush on her chest, the rise and fall of her breathing, the way her thighs pressed together like she was already aching.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"Shut up and fuck me."

He laughed. The loud, genuine laugh that filled the room. "That's my girl."

He pulled off her underwear. Slid the dress straps down her shoulders. Pressed her into the mattress with his body, his mouth finding her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. She arched into him, her fingers raking down his back, her breath hot against his ear.

"Hard," she said. "I want it hard."

He didn't need to be told twice.

He pushed into her in one smooth motion, his cock stretching her, filling her. She cried out, her head thrown back, her body trembling. He set a brutal pace, his hips slapping against hers, his hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.

She met him move for move. Her nails left trails down his shoulders. Her moans filled the room, broken words mixed in—his name, curses, pleas that he answered with deeper thrusts.

He flipped her onto her stomach. Pulled her hips up. Entered her from behind, his hand in her hair, pulling her head back. The angle was deeper, and she gasped, her fingers twisting in the sheets.

"Whose pussy is this?" he growled.

"Yours." The word was barely a breath.

"Louder."

"Yours, Jeff. Fuck—it's yours."

He drove into her, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. Sweat slicked between them. Her moans turned into broken sobs, her whole body clenching around him.

"Cum," he ordered. "Cum on my cock, Bella."

She shattered. Her body convulsed, her cries muffled by the pillow, her release flooding around him. He followed a moment later, his own climax tearing through him, his hips grinding against hers as he emptied into her.

They collapsed together, breathing ragged, limbs tangled. The sheets were ruined. The room smelled of sex and sweat and something softer—a surrender that had been three weeks coming.

He rolled onto his side, pulling her with him. Her back pressed against his chest, his arm around her waist, his lips against her shoulder.

"You're mine," he said. "Bella. Only mine."

She didn't answer. But she didn't pull away. Her hand found his, their fingers lacing together, and in the quiet of his penthouse, with the Miami skyline glowing through the window, she let herself stay.