His hand stayed on her jaw for a long moment, his thumb still brushing her lower lip. She didn't pull away. She didn't close her eyes. She just stood there in the study, in a black dress and a heartbeat, waiting for whatever came next.

Then his hand dropped to her shoulder. He hooked one finger under the thin strap of her dress and pulled. The fabric gave with a soft tearing sound—not ripped, just undone. The strap slid down her arm, and she felt the dress loosen across her chest.

"Three months," he said, his voice low and rough. "Three months of imagining this moment. Of wondering if I'd ever get to touch you again."

She said nothing. Her throat was tight.

He hooked the other strap. Pulled. The dress sagged forward, and she caught it against her chest with her forearm, holding it in place. A last shred of modesty.

Pete's eyes flicked to her arm, then back to her face. "Don't," he said quietly. "Don't hide from me. Not tonight."

She wanted to say something sharp, something that would remind him this was a transaction, not a reunion. But Carlo's face flashed through her mind—his eyes in that courtroom, confused and scared—and the words died in her throat. She let her arm fall.

The dress slid to the floor, pooling around her ankles. She stood in black lace panties and nothing else, her skin goosebumped in the cool air, her arms at her sides.

Pete's gaze traveled down her body and back up, unhurried, deliberate. His lips parted, just slightly. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

He reached out and took her hand—not roughly, not gently, just took it—and turned toward the door. She followed because there was no other direction to go.

Through the hallway, past the portraits of men she didn't know, up the staircase where she'd first walked a year ago, innocent and hopeful and undone. The carpet was the same. The sconces were the same. Only she was different—harder, wearier, and tonight, a payment.

He pushed open the door to the master suite, and the smell hit her first: him, expensive cologne, and clean sweat, the faint smoke of a fire long burned out. Moonlight fell through the blinds in pale ribbons across the rumpled black sheets. The bed was unmade, the pillows dented. He'd been sleeping in it. Waiting in it.

He pulled her inside and closed the door. The lock clicked.

She turned to face him, and for a second, she thought he might kiss her. But he didn't. He put his hand on her shoulder and pushed—not hard, just enough to guide her backward until her knees hit the mattress. She sat. Then he pushed her shoulder again, and she lay back, the sheets cool against her bare skin.

He stood over her, still dressed in his black shirt and slacks, his gray eyes almost silver in the moonlight. He looked at her like she was something he'd been starving for.

"You're so beautiful," he said. "I forgot. I mean, I remembered, but I forgot the way it feels to see you."

She turned her face away, staring at the window. "Just do what you're going to do."

His hand caught her chin and turned her back. "No," he said. "Look at me. I want you to see who's taking you tonight."

She met his eyes. There was no softness in them now, only a dark, focused hunger that made her stomach clench.

He leaned down, his mouth close to hers, and then he kissed her. It wasn't the patient, exploratory kiss from a year ago. It was hard, demanding, his tongue pushing past her lips before she was ready, his hand gripping her jaw to hold her in place. She gasped, and he swallowed the sound, his other hand sliding down her body to her hip, then to the waistband of her panties.

He didn't take them off. He tore them. The fabric ripped with a sharp sound, and then his fingers were there, pressing into her, not gentle, not asking. She felt herself wet despite everything, her body betraying her as it always did with him.

"Already ready," he murmured against her mouth. "Did you miss me, Tisha?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her breath was coming too fast.

He pushed a finger inside her, and she arched off the bed, a sound escaping her throat that she didn't recognize. He added a second finger, stretching her, and she felt the familiar ache of being filled. His thumb circled her clit, rough and insistent, and the pressure built too quickly, too unfairly.

"You feel that?" he said, his voice a low growl against her ear. "That's me. That's mine. Say it."

"I—"

"Say it."

She shook her head, her eyes squeezed shut, her hips moving against his hand despite herself. He withdrew his fingers abruptly, and she gasped at the emptiness.

He grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her stomach, her face pressing into the sheets. Before she could react, his hand landed hard on her ass—a sharp, stinging slap that made her cry out.

"I said, say it."

She buried her face in the pillow, her body trembling. "It's yours," she whispered into the fabric.

"Louder."

"It's yours!"

Another slap, softer this time, almost a caress. Then his fingers were back, sliding between her legs from behind, finding her wet and open. He pushed two fingers inside her, and she felt the angle change, bigger than before, hitting something that made her whole body seize.

His other hand moved lower, pressed against her asshole, and she stiffened. "No," she breathed.

"Yes," he said. "I want all of you tonight. Every part."

His finger pushed into the tight ring of muscle, and she cried out, a mix of pain and shock and something she refused to name. He held still, letting her adjust, his other hand still moving inside her cunt, slow and deep.

"Breathe," he said. "You'll take it. You'll take everything I give you tonight."

She breathed. The pressure eased, and his finger slid deeper, and then he moved them together, his fingers fucking her from both sides, and the sensation was overwhelming, too much, too much, and she was already so close, her body clenching around him, and she came with a sob, her hips bucking against his hand, the orgasm tearing through her without permission, without her wanting it, but there it was, washing her clean of any pretense that this was just a transaction.

He pulled his fingers out slowly, and she heard him bring them to his mouth. "Still tastes the same," he said. "Sweet. Innocent. Mine."

She didn't move. Her body was boneless, her face still pressed into the pillow.

He grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her back again. He was naked now—she hadn't seen him undressed, but there he was, his chest broad and scarred, his cock hard and thick, the head slick and dark against his belly.

He crawled over her, positioned himself between her legs, and then he lowered himself and took her mouth again. This kiss was slower, deeper, and she tasted herself on his lips. His erection pressed against her thigh, hot and heavy, and she felt her body respond, opening, aching.

But he didn't push inside. Instead, he pulled back and looked at her. "On your knees," he said.

She hesitated, and his hand tangled in her hair, not painful but firm. "On your knees. Now."

She moved, turning onto her knees, her hands braced on the mattress. He moved behind her, and she felt the head of his cock slide between her legs, teasing her entrance, then past it, dragging along her wetness. She felt his hand in her hair again, pulling her head back, making her arch.

"You said one night," he said, his voice rough. "One night means you do what I want. Do you understand?"

She nodded, her breath hitching.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes," she said. "I understand."

He let go of her hair, and then his hand was on her jaw again, guiding her, turning her, and she understood what he wanted. She wasn't ready, but she turned anyway, her mouth level with his cock, the head just inches from her lips.

"Open," he said.

She opened her mouth. And he pushed inside.

Not slowly. Not gently. One hard thrust that buried himself half-deep in her throat, and she gagged, her hands flying to his thighs to push him away, but he held her head, his fingers twisted in her hair, and he pulled back just enough to let her breathe before pushing in again.

"Take it," he said, his voice strained. "Take all of it."

She tried. She focused on breathing through her nose, on relaxing her throat, but he was too big, too deep, and her eyes were watering, and she could feel the tears tracking down her cheeks. He thrust again, and again, each time a little deeper, a little longer, until he was holding himself all the way in, her nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base, and she couldn't breathe at all.

He held her there for a long, agonizing moment. Then he pulled out, and she gasped, coughing, saliva stringing from her lips.

"Again," he said.

She looked up at him, her eyes wet, her lips swollen. "Pete—"

"Again."

She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. This time, she took him deeper on her own, trying to control the angle, trying to please him so he would be done with this part. But he wasn't done. He grabbed her head and fucked her mouth, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, his breath coming fast, his hand never loosening in her hair.

She tasted salt, her own tears, the musk of him. She heard the wet sounds, the choked sounds she made, his grunts. She felt used, emptied, a vessel for his pleasure.

And then he pulled out, and she saw the tip of his cock glistening, and she knew he hadn't come. He pulled her up by her hair, her body sliding against his, and he kissed her again, hard and wet, sharing the taste of her, his hand gripping her ass.

He lay her back on the bed, spread her legs, and positioned himself at her entrance. "Look at me," he said.

She looked. His gray eyes were dark, almost black, his face set in a mask of concentrated hunger. He pushed inside her in one long, slow thrust, and she felt every inch, every ridge, every stretch. Her body opened for him, remembered him, and she groaned, her head falling back, her fingers gripping the sheets.

He pulled out and thrust again, harder, and she cried out. His hips began to move in a brutal rhythm, each stroke deep and punishing, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The headboard knocked against the wall. The bed springs creaked. His breath was harsh in her ear.

He changed angles, driving into her from a different direction, and she felt a sharp spike of pleasure that made her gasp. He found it again, and again, and he kept hitting that spot, over and over, until she was incoherent, her hands clawing at his back, her nails raking his skin.

"You're going to come for me," he said, his voice a growl. "And then you're going to come again. And then I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name."

She came with a scream, her body clenching around him, and he kept thrusting through it, dragging out every pulse, every shudder. When she went limp, he pulled out, turned her onto her stomach, and entered her from behind, deeper than before, and she felt him everywhere. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and fucked her hard and fast, the rhythm broken only by his own groans.

Time blurred. There was only the slap of skin, his weight on her, his voice in her ear, telling her what she was, what she was taking, what she was giving. She came again, and again, a third time, her body lost to him, a puppet on his strings.

Hours passed. Or minutes. The moonlight shifted across the floor. He took her in every position, every angle. On her back, her legs over his shoulders. Bent over the edge of the bed. Sitting in a chair, she straddled him, his hands on her hips, moving her like a toy. On the floor, her wrists pinned above her head, his weight pressing her into the carpet.

He didn't let her rest. When she sagged, he pulled her up. When she begged for a moment, he gave her less. His hunger was bottomless, and she was the river that kept flowing, giving, breaking.

Finally—she didn't know when—he lifted her and laid her on the bed, her body limp, her legs trembling. He knelt over her, and she saw the strain in his jaw, the sweat on his chest, the raw need in his eyes. He pushed into her one last time, slow and deep, and then he held himself there, buried to the hilt, and she felt his cock pulse inside her as he came with a low, guttural sound that was almost pain. His weight collapsed onto her, his face buried in her neck, his breath ragged.

They lay there, tangled and slick and breathing hard. Her whole body ached. Her thighs were sticky. Her throat was raw. But she was still here, still alive, still Tisha—barely.

After a long while, he shifted, pulling out of her with a wet sound that made her flinch. He rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, his arm wrapping around her waist, his chest against her back. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

"That was fun," he said, his voice hoarse and soft. "My love."

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She just lay there, trembling, in the arms of the man who owned her for one night, and she didn't know if she was crying or if she was already dry.

His hand came up, petting her hair with surprising gentleness, smoothing the strands away from her face. "You did well," he murmured. "You always did, Tisha."

She closed her eyes. The moonlight painted the ceiling in pale stripes. In the distance, a car passed on the road, its headlights sweeping across the window before fading.

She was still in his arms. He was still running his hand down her back, tracing her spine, her hip, her thigh. A possessive inventory. A reminder that she was here, under his skin, and he wasn't done with her yet.

And she knew, with a cold, certain knowledge, that one night had just become something else entirely. Because he had said "my love." And the word had landed in her chest like a stone, and she hadn't pushed it away.

She had let it settle.