It's the way his presence fills the room without effort.
The way his cologne clings to the air—earthy and rich, layered with something warm and spiced that curls around my senses.
The heat from his body rolls toward me in steady, quiet waves. It isn't overt, but it sinks beneath my skin, pulling reactions from me I don't want to name.
And his strength… it doesn't scream. It doesn't need to.
It just is—undeniable, grounded, and absolute.
Somewhere in the haze of this moment, I realize the restaurant has emptied.
The staff is finishing their side work. Chairs are flipped, lights dimmed.
It's just the two of us now.
And tomorrow, I begin a new contract.
A life in a different skin for the next two weeks.
Temporary. Structured.
No room for anything messy.
Especially not the kind of distraction that smells like cedar, confidence, and recklessness wrapped in a tailored suit.
I place my wine glass down, pretending I don't notice how my fingers tremble slightly against the stem.
"Well, Mr. S… I should go," I say, keeping my voice smooth. Measured. Detached.
His eyes drift over me—slow, thoughtful, deliberate. "Mr. S?"
"Mystery," I clarify, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "You're my mystery man."
Something shifts in him.
It's subtle—the tightening of his jaw, the pause in his breath, the flex of his fingers around his glass.
Like he's thinking about something he might say.
Something he maybe shouldn't.
But instead, he just lifts his wine again, takes one last sip, and sets the glass down with the same poised grace he's worn all night.
Then he stands.
And like it's instinct, he offers his hand, helping me from the booth.
A gentleman, through and through.
Right on cue, a host steps forward with his jacket.
He nods once, receiving it without fanfare.
"Send the bill to my room."
The words are calm, casual.
He shrugs into his jacket—first one sleeve, then the other.
Fastens the front with practiced elegance.
And just like that, he's fully composed again.
Sharp lines. Clean confidence. Sin made human.
Before I can stop myself, my fingers reach out, smoothing the lapel where it's slightly twisted.
"There."
The word escapes on a whisper.
So close now, his scent is a blanket, his presence a pulse.
"Perfect."
He catches my wrist as I lower my hand.
Steps in close—closer—until there's no space between us but breath.
His hand holds mine against his chest, warm and solid beneath my palm.
"Stay with me."
Three simple words.
No frills. No push.
But there's gravity in them. Weight.
I should decline.
I need to.
But he doesn't let go.
And he doesn't pull me closer either.
He just holds me there—gentle but firm.
I glance up and meet his eyes.
And God help me.
What I see there—it isn't lust. Not just that.
It's hunger.
But not the reckless kind.
It's the kind that waits. That chooses.
He's already made his choice.
But he's giving me the power to decide.
I take a slow breath, trying to clear the fog building inside me.
"I don't—"
His thumb brushes across the inside of my wrist, a featherlight touch that stills everything.
Thoughts. Words. Sense.
"No expectations," he says, voice low and sure, cutting through me like silk and steel.
"No names."
The way he speaks—measured, calm, in control—wraps around me like velvet chains.
A man who promises nothing.
But offers everything.
Temptation incarnate.
Just like him.
His next words aren't just spoken—they're carved into the air between us.
A vow cloaked in desire.
A sin offered like salvation.
"Just pleasure."
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, feeling the last of my resolve falter.
One night.
Just one.
No strings. No tangled emotions. No morning after.
It should be simple.
I should walk away.
Turn around.
Leave this tension behind before it becomes something I can't forget.
But then what?
I go home.
Slide into cold sheets.
Lie awake, eyes on the ceiling, haunted by the way he looks at me—like I'm already undone.
By the way his hands feel against my skin—firm, knowing, like they've been here before in dreams I never admitted to.
By the sound of his voice—how it wraps around his words, thick with temptation, velvet edged in smoke and sin.
I lift my gaze again and meet his.
Ice blue.
Sharp. Focused. Unrelenting.
I already know what he wants.
And God, I want it too.
More than I should.
A breath slips out of me, slow and shaky, like my body's bracing for what my mouth might deny.
I press my lips together, willing the word no to form.
They even part—almost.
But then—
"Yes."
Of course he has a room here.
Not just any room.
The room.
The elevator glides upward in silence, broken only by the faint hum of machinery and the heavier silence stretching between us.
Then a soft chime.
The top floor.
Private suite.
The kind of place meant for kings and billionaires—powerful men who don't rent space, they own it.
The doors part, revealing a quiet hallway with a single door at the end.
His.
He pulls out a key card, presses it to the panel.
The lock clicks, soft and final, like the closing of a chapter I never intended to write.
I step inside.
The suite greets us with warm, golden light that flickers on automatically, casting soft glows across every pristine surface.
And God help me—it's stunning.
Luxury, curated to perfection.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the sprawling New York skyline, shimmering like a sea of stars.
The interior is sleek but lived-in—marble floors that gleam beneath our feet, a sunken living room dressed in deep, inviting furniture, an open fireplace painting slow-moving shadows along the walls.
This isn't just a room.
It's a throne.
For a man who rules, not asks.
I barely have time to take it in before I feel his hand—
Placed at the small of my back.
Warm.
Steady.
Guiding me with just enough pressure to remind me exactly who's leading.
"This way, Trouble."
There's a playful edge to his voice, low and satisfied, like he's savoring every step of this.
I let him guide me.
Past the kind of liquor collection people take photos of.
Past heavy drapes fluttering slightly with the breeze sneaking through a cracked window.
Past everything that should distract me but doesn't.
Not tonight.
We reach the bedroom.
It's decadent.
Designed with the kind of masculine elegance that whispers of indulgence.
Dark tones. Rich textures.
Soft light spilling across sheets that probably cost more than my rent.
The kind of bed that makes you forget what loneliness feels like.
But there's no forgetting tonight.
Not when he's here.
Not when I'm no longer alone.
There's no more talking.
No more pretending.
No more need.
We know.
His fingertips drift along my arm.
Barely there.
Like he's studying me—learning every inch before he lets go of control.
I shiver, but not from the chill.
It's him.
The heat rolling off his skin, the way his breath skims along my temple.
Then—his lips.
They brush against my shoulder.
Not a kiss.
A question.
"You're mine for the night."
His voice is close.
So close.
His mouth traces a path up my neck, slow and claiming, stopping just beneath my ear.
I breathe out—unsteady, vulnerable.
He smiles against my skin.
Then his arms circle me.
One motion.
Effortless.
Like I belong there.
His hands slide over my stomach, drawing me backward until I'm pressed to his chest.
I feel the strength in him—coiled, restrained, deliberate.
The scent of him surrounds me—
Whiskey, cedar, something darker, something uniquely him.
And I let myself breathe.
Because tonight, there's nothing else.
No name.
No past.
Just this.
Just pleasure.
Just him.