His hand found hers. Not the possessive grip from before—something quieter, his fingers lacing through hers like they'd done this a hundred times. She let him pull her from the railing, let him guide her past the potted fern and the empty champagne flute someone had left on the terrace wall. The door to the hotel room stood half-open, and he pushed it wider with his shoulder, drawing her inside without ever letting go of her hand.

Dark. Thick curtains drawn, the city's glow a faint orange seam around their edges. She smelled him before she saw him—that cologne, cedar and something sharp, mixed with the ozone of the night air still clinging to his jacket. The door clicked shut behind them, and the terrace noise died to a distant hum.

Her eyes adjusted slowly. A king bed, its duvet a pale rectangle in the dark. A desk with a single lamp. His jacket draped over the chair, the same one he'd worn at the party. She was in his room. Pete Bianchi's room. The man who'd had her investigated, who knew her address, who'd kissed her like he was claiming something.

She should have been terrified. Part of her was. But the part that let him lead her off the terrace was louder, and it was humming under her skin like a second heartbeat.

His hands found her shoulders. Not rough—firm, the way you'd steady someone before delivering news. He turned her gently, and she felt the heat of his chest at her back before it touched her, his breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.

"You're shaking," he said, his voice low against her ear.

"I'm not."

His thumb pressed into the curve of her shoulder, a small pressure that said liar without words. He was right. She was trembling—not from cold, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of being here, in this room, with a man who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world he actually wanted.

His fingers found the zipper tab at the back of her dress. She felt the brush of his knuckles against her spine, and her breath caught. The metal tab was cool, a small hard point between her shoulder blades, and he held it there—not pulling, just holding, as if giving her time to say no.

"You can still walk out," he said. The words were steady, flat, but his hand was not. His thumb traced a slow arc along her spine, a question in the pressure. "This door isn't locked. The hallway's right there. You can go back to the party, call a car, be home in thirty minutes."

She stared at the dark shape of the door. It was a foot away. She could reach it. She could leave this room, this man, this whole night that had veered so far from the careful script she'd written for herself. She could go back to her Brooklyn walk-up, to her roommate's empty bed, to the life she'd been building before his gray eyes found her on the runway.

"I should," she whispered.

"I know." His breath was warm on her neck, and she felt his lips brush the shell of her ear—not quite a kiss, a ghost of one. "I'm telling you because I want you to know you're choosing this. I don't take things that aren't given."

A lie, probably. Everything about him suggested a man who took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. But the fact that he said it, that he gave her the words and the out—that mattered. She didn't know why it mattered, but it did.

She didn't move toward the door.

He waited. Three full seconds. Then his fingers curled around the zipper tab and pulled.

The sound was sharp in the dark room—a metallic rasp that seemed too loud, too final. The dress loosened across her chest, the fabric going slack as the zipper traveled down her spine, past her bra strap, past the small of her back, stopping just above the curve of her ass. Cool air touched the newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

She felt him look at her. Not touch—look. His gaze was a physical thing, hot on the bare strip of her back, and she could feel him cataloging every inch, every shadow, every place where the dress gaped and showed skin.

His fingers found the strap of her dress. It was thin, black, holding the whole thing up by a thread of fabric and a prayer. He pushed it off her shoulder, and the fabric slid an inch, baring her collarbone, the top of her breast, the edge of her bra cup.

"You're so young," he murmured. Not a judgment—an observation, something between awe and regret.

"Eighteen is legal," she said, and cringed at how defensive she sounded.

His laugh was low, a vibration through his chest into her back. "That's not what I meant." He pushed the other strap down, and the dress slid another inch, pooling at her ribs. His hands settled on her bare shoulders, his palms rough and warm, and he turned her to face him.

In the dim light from the curtains, she saw his face. The hard lines of his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the intensity of his gray eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room. He looked at her the way she'd looked at the runway lights earlier tonight—with hunger, yes, but also with something softer. Something that looked almost like reverence.

"Eighteen," he repeated, and his thumb traced her collarbone, a slow, worshipful line. "I was eighteen once. I was already a killer by then."

She didn't know what to say to that. She barely knew what to do with her hands, which hung at her sides like dead weight while he touched her. She lifted them finally, tentatively, and placed them on his chest. The fabric of his shirt was fine, expensive, and she felt the heat of him through it, the solid muscle beneath.

"You're still dressed," she said, and it came out smaller than she meant it to.

Something flickered in his eyes. "You want me undressed?"

"I want—" She stopped. Swallowed. The words felt too heavy coming out. "I don't want to be the only one who's vulnerable."

He studied her for a long moment. Then he stepped back, just one step, and reached for the buttons of his shirt. He undid them slowly, one at a time, never looking away from her face. The fabric parted to reveal the hard planes of his chest, a dusting of salt-and-pepper hair, a scar—long and pale—that ran diagonal from his ribs to his sternum. A knife wound, probably. Maybe a bullet.

He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall to the floor. In the half-dark, his body was all shadow and edge, the kind of body that had been built by violence and maintained by discipline. He was beautiful in a way that made her chest tight.

"Your turn," he said, his voice low and rough.

The dress was still hanging on her by friction alone. She reached for the fabric at her ribs and let it fall. It pooled at her feet, a black puddle around her heels, and she stood before him in her bra and underwear and heels, her skin warm despite the cool air.

His gray eyes traveled down her body, slow and thorough, the way he'd looked at her on the runway. But this was different. On the runway, she'd been a picture, a thing to admire from a distance. Here, she was real, within reach, and the heat in his gaze was a physical weight she felt in her chest, her stomach, the space between her thighs.

"Tisha." Her name in his mouth sounded different than anyone had ever said it. He stepped closer, his bare chest inches from hers, and his hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. "I'm going to touch you now. And if you want me to stop at any point, you say my name. Just my name. And I'll stop."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His hand slid from her jaw down her throat, just like on the terrace, his palm covering her pulse point. Then lower, over her collarbone, between her breasts, stopping at the clasp of her bra. He didn't undo it, just rested his fingers there, waiting.

"Pete." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"That's my name."

"Don't stop."

A sound escaped him—low, rough, almost a growl. His fingers found the clasp of her bra and unhooked it in one practiced motion. The straps slid down her arms, and she caught the fabric against her chest with her arms, suddenly shy.

He didn't rush her. His hands dropped to her waist, his thumbs tracing the curve of her hips, and he waited again. That patience, after everything—the investigation, the pursuit, the way he'd crowded her on the terrace—it undid something in her. She let her arms fall, and the bra dropped to join her dress on the floor.

The air touched her breasts, and she felt her nipples tighten. His gaze dropped, and his jaw tightened. When he looked back up, his gray eyes were darker, hungrier, and the hand at her waist tightened.

"You're beautiful," he said. The words were rough, scraped from somewhere deep. "I knew you would be. I saw it on that runway. But seeing you like this—" He shook his head, a small, almost helpless movement. "It's different."

She didn't know what to say to that. She'd been called beautiful before—by photographers, by casting directors, by boys who wanted to get in her pants. But when he said it, it felt like a fact, like gravity, like something that was true whether she believed it or not.

His hand moved from her waist to her stomach, palm flat, warm. He traced a slow path down to the waistband of her underwear, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He didn't pull. Just held, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of her lower belly.

"Tell me you want this," he said. "Not just that you're not running. Tell me you want to be here."

She looked at his face—the hard lines, the gray eyes that had pinned her from across a crowded room, the man who'd had her investigated and knew her address and kissed her like he was trying to memorize her. She should have been scared. Maybe she was. But beneath the fear was something else, something that had been there since the moment she saw him in the front row of that runway, something that had made her stomach drop and her skin prickle and her pulse go strange.

"Yes," she said. "I want to be here."

His fingers tightened on the elastic of her underwear. He pulled them down, slow, his knuckles dragging against her thighs, and she stepped out of them, her heels clicking against the floor as she did. She was naked now, completely, and the air was cool on her skin, and his eyes were everywhere, and she had never felt so exposed, so seen, so wanted in her entire life.

He didn't touch her where she ached for it. Instead, he sank to his knees before her, his hands on her hips, and pressed his mouth to her stomach. A kiss, soft, almost reverent, right below her navel. Then another, lower, at the crease of her hip. Then another, at the inside of her thigh, his lips brushing the most sensitive skin of her leg.

She trembled, her hands finding his shoulders, her fingers gripping the hard muscle as his mouth moved higher, closer, his breath warm against her. He stopped just before where she needed him most, looking up at her from his knees, and the sight of him there—this powerful, dangerous man on the floor before her, his gray eyes dark with want—made her knees weak.

"Pete," she breathed, a question and a plea.

His mouth found her. The first touch of his tongue was so soft she almost didn't feel it—then she did, a shock of heat that traveled up her spine and made her gasp. His hands tightened on her hips, holding her steady as he explored her, his tongue tracing her folds with a slowness that felt deliberate, like he was learning her by taste.

Her head fell back, her eyes closing. She gripped his shoulders harder, her nails digging in as his tongue found a spot that made her whole body clench. He lingered there, circling, pressing, and a sound escaped her—high and broken, a whimper she didn't recognize.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough against her skin. "Lie down on the bed."

She didn't ask questions. Her legs were shaking as she stepped out of the puddle of her dress, barefoot on the carpet, and made her way to the bed. The duvet was cool and smooth beneath her as she climbed onto it, lying back, her hair fanning out across the pillow. The curtains let in just enough light to see him rise from his knees, to watch him unbuckle his belt with slow, deliberate movements, to hear the rasp of his zipper as he freed himself.

He was hard. She saw the shape of him in the dim light, and her breath caught. He was larger than she'd expected, thicker, and a thread of fear wove through the heat that had pooled in her belly.

"Have you done this before?" he asked, his voice low.

The question hung in the air between them. She could lie. She could say yes, make this easier, protect the version of herself that was confident and worldly and in control. But he'd see the truth the moment he touched her, and she was tired of pretending with this man.

"No," she whispered. "I haven't."

He went very still. His hands froze on the waistband of his trousers, and his gray eyes met hers in the dim light, something shifting in their depths. Surprise. And then something heavier, something that made his jaw tighten and his breathing slow.

"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question.

She nodded, her throat tight.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, and she saw his knuckles go white where he gripped his belt. When he opened them, the hunger was still there, but it was tempered by something else—a restraint that looked like it cost him something.

"You should have told me," he said, his voice rough. "On the terrace. Before you came into this room."

"Would it have changed anything?"

He was silent for a beat. Then: "No."

He stepped out of his trousers, his boxers, and stood before her, naked and hard and—despite the darkness—vulnerable in a way that surprised her. He was not a man accustomed to vulnerability. She could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he held himself still as if bracing for a blow.

He came onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and settled beside her. His hand found her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone, her jaw, the curve of her lower lip. His eyes searched hers.

"I'll be careful," he said. The words were a promise, rough and raw. "I'll be so fucking careful with you."

She believed him. That was the strange part—she actually believed him. This man who'd had her investigated, who'd pursued her across a crowded party, who'd kissed her like he was branding her, was telling her he'd be careful, and she believed him.

He kissed her, slow and deep, while his hand traveled down her body, mapping her curves, her hollows, the places where she flinched and where she arched into his touch. His fingers found her wet—she was embarrassed by how wet she was—and he made a sound against her mouth, a low groan that vibrated through her chest.

"You're ready," he murmured against her lips. "You have no idea how ready you are."

His fingers circled her, slowly, deliberately, and she gasped into his mouth. He worked her open, one finger, then two, his thumb pressing against that spot that made her see stars behind her eyes. She gripped his shoulders, her nails raking his skin, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

"Pete—"

"I know." His voice was strained, his whole body taut with the effort of restraint. "I know. I'm going to take care of you first."

And he did. His fingers worked her, his mouth found her neck, her breasts, his tongue tracing patterns that made her arch off the bed. She came against his hand with a cry she didn't recognize, her body shuddering, her vision going white at the edges, and he held her through it, murmuring words she couldn't quite hear, his hand steady as she rode out the wave.

When she came back to herself, she was trembling, her skin slick with sweat, and he was above her, his weight braced on his forearms, his gray eyes dark and fixed on hers.

"I'm going to enter you now," he said, his voice low and rough. "It's going to hurt, just for a moment. And then it's going to be something else." He paused, his forehead touching hers. "Tell me you still want this."

She looked into his gray eyes, at this man who had crashed into her life like a wave, who had pursued her and claimed her and was now asking her permission, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. She had never been wanted like this. She had never been seen like this. And despite every alarm bell ringing in her head, despite every warning she should have been listening to, she wanted him to be the one.

"Yes," she whispered. "I still want this."

He positioned himself at her entrance, and she felt the pressure of him, the heat, the promise of what was about to happen. She held her breath, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her eyes locked on his.

He pushed inside, and the world stopped.

The pain was sharp, a burning stretch that made her gasp and clench around him. He stopped immediately, buried halfway inside her, his jaw tight, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

"Breathe," he said. "Just breathe. It'll pass."

She did, sucking in a shaky breath, then another. The pain eased, slowly, giving way to a fullness she'd never felt before, a sense of being stretched and filled and claimed in a way that was overwhelming and terrifying and exactly what she hadn't known she needed.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'm okay."

He moved, a slow, shallow thrust, and she felt every inch of him. He was watching her face, reading her reactions, adjusting his angle when she winced, slowing when her breath caught. He moved inside her with a tenderness that seemed to cost him everything, his restraint a thread stretched to breaking.

"You feel—" He stopped, his voice breaking